gorgeous black men unsettle me. I'm listening to reX's rebroadcast of his show with Kev from Kevware.com. Now, Kev has a great body—he used to dance professionally, and even stripped—and he is black, but I don't think either of those things unsettle me. Kev is like Bernard in his intensity, his sincerity, and his directness. Bernard is beautiful, and when I first met him, I could get away with flirting and grabbing, and years ago, on three rare ocassions, each seperated by months of wondering 'what if..' I unbelievably ended up right there, with Bernard.
I am treading very close to being unflattering to myself and downright disrespectful to Bernard, but there is something else here, something which American bigotry and prejudice have placed squarely in my sexual playpen, where everyone's an object. I won't love Bernard. I could. Oh, could I ever... But there's the danger, and it's very real. Sexual flirtations, innuendi, and even a few curious explorations, all keep the heart safely encased. But Bernard wants me to be his friend, and I have not known what to do about that for years now.
Bernard is a paradox for me; gorgeous, powerful, irresistible and vulnerable—he even let me touch him. He wants me to see what is really there, not just the physical and superficial Bernard. If he wanted us to be lovers.. well, I know that act inside out. But he's more sincere than that; he wants us to be close, not mutual sex-objects, and not partners of convenience, but friends. I have no clue how to do that, especially with a man so fucking gorgeous as him.
mostly, I am afraid of me. Sex is easy and a big-time escape. Sex and intimacy go together like coffee and cream, but they come from vastly different places. I prefer mine dark, go light on the intimacy, please. And there's the insult. I thought I could have just the fragment of Bernard that I wanted, his body, no soul, or heart. I fantasized I could lie close without acknowledging his hopes, I wanted to enjoy his embrace without accepting his free will. I pretended I could substitute some of mine for his, and some of his for mine, leaving out the parts I didn't want to deal with and ending up with a single perfect person in the bed—a perfect cup of joe.
But he won't let me. And he wants me close. Damn.
where did I ever get this stupid idea that I could get away with making a black man a sex object more easily than a white boy. Hmm, I wonder... Yeah, right. I know exactly where; everywhere in this Goddamn two-faced fucking country. But blaming bigotry in the US isn't going to make it any easier for me to open up my heart. I thought I could conceal my sexual bigotry amid the more overt racial injustices around us every day, and have it go unnoticed—at least unnoticed by me. But so what if I could? I'd still be alone inside my encased heart.
Do I love Bernard? Maybe not at all, or maybe more than I want to know. I just wish I knew how to be his friend.
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