"BE OUT. Someone, somewhere, will refrain from putting a bullet through their head because they see you living a reasonably happy life with the kink that they think makes them worthless."
-Raven Kaldera
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Under the Spreading Chestnut Tree
He and I are curled up like a double spiral, our faces almost touching but upside down to each other. We're on an unused wooden stage tucked away at the back of the Dragon's Den courtyard. We're breathing in concert, my breath in and his out, and I know that our breath is the same force, being pulled back and forth between our lungs in perfect harmony. Together, the curl of our bodies forms a great seashell. He exclaims, "I understand you, I understand you!" I giggle with relief, noticing for the first time that I have never really wanted to be loved. I have only wanted to be understood.
David lopes over to the door of my truck. He arrived yesterday from Atlanta. He looked cleaner, better dressed and clean-shaven, more aloof than before. I had missed him and now he is here, but he isn't part of me anymore. I ache for the emptiness he has left. I know he's leaving again tonight, after only a day in town. "I can't be here. My life is going nowhere," he tells me as we drove over the Claiborne bridge, past the perverse cityscape of neon pink boxes littering the lower ninth. I am silent and dry inside, but back at the house, I weep over the balcony, but he doesn't hear that I'm crying. He walks away.
I slide over and David gets into the truck with Charles and I. "I'm leaving tonight for Atlanta and I'm joining the Air Force," he tells us. His voice has a distant, grating, medicinal quality.
"That's fucked up." I tell him. I'm looking at distant building, not at him. I feel very tiny and far away.
"I know." he says.
We talk for a while, and for a minute, he almost changes his mind when Charles tells him about Greenpeace and their boot camp. "You could be traveling all over the world and fighting the real war, Yo."
He almost jumps on it, but he's off it just as quickly.
"This is just something I need to do for myself. To better myself. There are opportunities I can't get anywhere else but in the military." He sounds like he's reciting something he doesn't particularly like.
I give him every bitter, pointed response I can. I try to counter his argument at every turn, to convey the deep disgust I feel.
"I don't want you to think less of me, Brandon, because of this choice. Do you?"
I don't answer that question. "I'm going to love you for the rest of my life, just because that's the way it works."
He's quiet. "I still think you're cool, David." says Charles.
We are in the warm pitch dark of a hotel bathroom in the early morning, hot water splashing on us in the jacuzzi tub. It's just the sound of his breath, this memory, the feel of his foot on the edge of the tub. I pull myself out of the bath when my phone rings, and the ceiling light makes everything deeply white. He looks at me from behind the parted curtain, hair plastered to his forehead and his eyes wet, desirous. My mouth tastes like the center of him and my blood feels like it's running with grated metal, that stabbed feeling I always have when I touch him, mixed with the dizziness of arousal and hunger. I dress and leave, the early morning light on me on the balcony, a coworker's truck, a meeting.
You shift in the driver's seat of my truck and tell us you'll be back to say goodbye, and unceremoniously get out and shut the door. I sob against the steering wheel with no attempt to hide my face. "Go ahead, and cry, Yo. This is worth crying for." Charles says.
The army general in charge of procurement is preparing for at least fifteen more years of protracted struggle on multiple fronts.
"Wanna get in the back?"
Charles and I get in the back of the truck, under the camper-top. We curl up under his sleeping bags and I lean back on him, tired.
"I remember you told me that you used to cry and your parents would cover you up with blankets," he says.
I giggle, and then giggle more. I've thought of something.
"What?" he says.
I try to refrain from telling him, but eventually I do.
"Imagine that it's summer now, and not winter, and Murphy and David are driving away with their windows down, and I'm never going to see him again. I'll poke my head out of the back of the truck and yell, 'HEY DAVID! Remember that time I ate your ass out in the jacuzzi at that hotel? That was fucking awwwesome!"
David lopes over to the door of my truck. He arrived yesterday from Atlanta. He looked cleaner, better dressed and clean-shaven, more aloof than before. I had missed him and now he is here, but he isn't part of me anymore. I ache for the emptiness he has left. I know he's leaving again tonight, after only a day in town. "I can't be here. My life is going nowhere," he tells me as we drove over the Claiborne bridge, past the perverse cityscape of neon pink boxes littering the lower ninth. I am silent and dry inside, but back at the house, I weep over the balcony, but he doesn't hear that I'm crying. He walks away.
I slide over and David gets into the truck with Charles and I. "I'm leaving tonight for Atlanta and I'm joining the Air Force," he tells us. His voice has a distant, grating, medicinal quality.
"That's fucked up." I tell him. I'm looking at distant building, not at him. I feel very tiny and far away.
"I know." he says.
We talk for a while, and for a minute, he almost changes his mind when Charles tells him about Greenpeace and their boot camp. "You could be traveling all over the world and fighting the real war, Yo."
He almost jumps on it, but he's off it just as quickly.
"This is just something I need to do for myself. To better myself. There are opportunities I can't get anywhere else but in the military." He sounds like he's reciting something he doesn't particularly like.
I give him every bitter, pointed response I can. I try to counter his argument at every turn, to convey the deep disgust I feel.
"I don't want you to think less of me, Brandon, because of this choice. Do you?"
I don't answer that question. "I'm going to love you for the rest of my life, just because that's the way it works."
He's quiet. "I still think you're cool, David." says Charles.
We are in the warm pitch dark of a hotel bathroom in the early morning, hot water splashing on us in the jacuzzi tub. It's just the sound of his breath, this memory, the feel of his foot on the edge of the tub. I pull myself out of the bath when my phone rings, and the ceiling light makes everything deeply white. He looks at me from behind the parted curtain, hair plastered to his forehead and his eyes wet, desirous. My mouth tastes like the center of him and my blood feels like it's running with grated metal, that stabbed feeling I always have when I touch him, mixed with the dizziness of arousal and hunger. I dress and leave, the early morning light on me on the balcony, a coworker's truck, a meeting.
You shift in the driver's seat of my truck and tell us you'll be back to say goodbye, and unceremoniously get out and shut the door. I sob against the steering wheel with no attempt to hide my face. "Go ahead, and cry, Yo. This is worth crying for." Charles says.
The army general in charge of procurement is preparing for at least fifteen more years of protracted struggle on multiple fronts.
"Wanna get in the back?"
Charles and I get in the back of the truck, under the camper-top. We curl up under his sleeping bags and I lean back on him, tired.
"I remember you told me that you used to cry and your parents would cover you up with blankets," he says.
I giggle, and then giggle more. I've thought of something.
"What?" he says.
I try to refrain from telling him, but eventually I do.
"Imagine that it's summer now, and not winter, and Murphy and David are driving away with their windows down, and I'm never going to see him again. I'll poke my head out of the back of the truck and yell, 'HEY DAVID! Remember that time I ate your ass out in the jacuzzi at that hotel? That was fucking awwwesome!"
Monday, December 3, 2007
Ginger Sunset Expired
Sometimes I don't want sex and violence together. Sometimes I just want violence.
A psychological need? A sexual one?
I can only laugh with myself about the straight men who crush on me, thinking I don't want them, that I'm withholding sex from them. If they only knew the type of ache I feel. If their desire stretches over rivers, mine stretches oceans. The sharp and unbearable beauty of their skin, their faces, the pale and twisted roads I could wander over their bodies. Sometimes I feel like an enormous wave, held in place and shivering.
I, asexual white girl. I, delirious boy, who could worship your feet for hours. Would suck your cock, tongue your nipples, anything for the pleasure of feeling your hands defining my body, for the feel of the spread of my wings.
A psychological need? A sexual one?
I can only laugh with myself about the straight men who crush on me, thinking I don't want them, that I'm withholding sex from them. If they only knew the type of ache I feel. If their desire stretches over rivers, mine stretches oceans. The sharp and unbearable beauty of their skin, their faces, the pale and twisted roads I could wander over their bodies. Sometimes I feel like an enormous wave, held in place and shivering.
I, asexual white girl. I, delirious boy, who could worship your feet for hours. Would suck your cock, tongue your nipples, anything for the pleasure of feeling your hands defining my body, for the feel of the spread of my wings.
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