Sunday, September 6, 2009

Get Up (Boy, You Must Be Dreaming)

So a blog post instead of hanging out with J., which was what we had made plans to do. Something rather irksome about this, actually.

Somehow "I'm all yours" carried with it an unspoken ellipses: "I'm all yours... as soon as I'm done hanging out with my straight friends who I am closeted to (which prevents you from staying the night when they are around), and my drug-dealer... I'm all yours around 2am--maybe--even though I've known you've been done with work for 5 hours, even though I know you're exhausted after a sleeplessness night of writing... I'm all yours so long as you will wait for me to be ready... All yours, except when I'm not all yours, except when someone or something else comes along... Yours, J."

The second time, now, that I've been blown off by him in as many days so that he can hang out with his straight band mates. Forget that I wanted him to meet and spend an evening with my friends. No, that might be too damning in their presence: my gay friends, of course: and then the jig is up...

In moments like this I begin to wonder whether or not I am simply deluded. If, in fact, I called it those two months ago (which seem to contain more time in them than two months would allow) when to the German I said, "I know this is simply a summer-time distraction..." Maybe when I said that I wasn't speaking so much about myself, but rather of J. Perhaps then I intuitively gleaned what is becoming abundantly clear: the boy is simply still a boy: he doesn't take anything seriously because he takes everything too seriously: everything, still, is too close and he doesn't yet know how to assert himself in the face of so many demands, most especially, in the face of those demands that issue from his own desires. And, though I thought at the time that the Vegan was being self-protecting, maybe he was right to say that these younger men have no clue. This, still, despite their best intentions.

I'm 25, an ambitious-as-fuck PhD student about to embark on the training that will sharpen and hone me into an intellectual capable of taking the world by storm, I'm rather good-looking (though one is never pleased on this front, are they?), and I'm very fucking attuned to my sexuality, my desires, and the socio-psychical challenges entailed therein. That is, there is absolutely no reason why I should be happy to be dicked around.

I said to DeMilo this evening that no more than 6 months ago I viewed with distain queers who remain closeted. As a phenomenon it struck me as cowardly, self-serving, and yet, paradoxically, totally self-denying. What happened to that refusal to compromise on such a principled position of mine? Is it that I'm gaining nuance and attending to the complexity of a situation that I had been inclined to view in black and white terms? Or is it that I was slowly drifting away from myself as I drifted towards J.? And, if the latter, what was the quality of such "drifting"? Was it escapism--the "distraction" I thought this would prove to be little more than--or was it something like allowing myself to open-up to the perspective of another I was growing to respect, and love?

And of course my pride begs me to say the latter--to deny that I imported more into a relationship with a 20 y/o, a sophistication and depth that wasn't really there; to deny the charge so many of my "acquaintances" have hurled at me: can't handle a "real man," huh? And if I can't? Which is not to say I think there is something every remotely resembling "a real man". I suppose I would measure a "real man" by their capacity to floor me with a sentence that curls like a plume of smoke, nimble and subtle, but which seeps into the very blood of who I am. Someone who can hold their own and then some with me in intellectual conversation--who will never say, "You're just smarter than me" as if to belittle themselves. Someone who can make me cum with my whole body, who can make me laugh, and, I suppose, who can make me cry. Does that sound "real" enough? Because I know plenty of 40 y/o men who can't read their way out of a paper bag, who see "Project Runway" as high culture, who are miserably unhappy people. I know plenty of my peers who are lonely, unable to articulate their desires, or who "lack the courage for what they know" (as Nietzsche once beautifully put it), who can only stand to be seen by other men as sexual when drunk or doped up.

I'm done with this writing... I'm pissed and this is going nowhere. What am I even trying to say? This much is clear: I'm fucking pissed. I'm doubly pissed because to say I'm pissed seems to pose a referendum on our relationship: am I over-reacting? am I placing too much stress on a foundation that cannot hold under its weight? But what weight is this anyway?! Nothing more than his own promise! And maybe that says more than I want it to.

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