what the hell have I been doing? It's my second day off and I have accomplished nothing. No laundry, no exercise, no venturing out of the house, even. But I have noticed a bit of a spring in the step of our days, the cadence of life has picked-up.
I dreamt of kissing a reluctant adolescent. He was, of course, me; I am still far too cowardly to threaten anyone but myself. Not that that is my goal, but that is the only view I've ever had of a man. Actually, in my dream, I was a damn sight nicer to the boy than the man was to me when I was a boy. And the boy in my dream liked it, kinda. He was at least trying real hard to convince himself he liked it. He really is me.
Eventually you just start to call them lovers—the dicks up your ass who don't know you from a hole in the wall. Like the drunk boy who latched onto you in the bar one night, and it took you eighteen months to finally say what you knew right from the start; "No." Except by then you had to say it differently: "I really hate to say this," (that part at least was true), "but I really, you know, kinda can't really, you know, see us continuing on, you know, like me and you, blah blah blah..." It's been eighteen months of 'fake it til you make it'—hell, it's been your whole life!—and every minute you knew what you were doing was bullshit, you knew you weren't making it. You just kept on reciting the lines of a character you knew wasn't real, but it got real hard to follow the script. You were getting real sick of saying everything except the one thing you have always wished you had said in the first place; just no, without explanation or apology. It is still just no, but you've been keeping it bottled up, caught down in your throat somewhere like a kernal of corn that won't come loose. It's been stuck so long, it wouldn't make sense anymore if it did finally come out.
just like thirty or forty other Saturday mornings, you quietly get out of his bed, go to the bakery, and get the danish and the coffee's—yours; dark with milk, not cream, and no sugar, and his; dark, with cream, and extra sugar. You bring them back and set them on the bedroom bureau, and you sit next to his sleeping body on the bed, just like all the other Saturdays, and he wakes up and smiles at you. You look at him and say, "No."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"No," you repeat. "I don't want to go home with you. No. I don't want this life I have lived, attaching myself to every cock that wasn't covered. No. I never wanted to be a whore, or a bottom, or a top. No! I don't want a lover, I don't want to BE in love! And, no, I'm not the person you thought I was, I'm not even the person I thought I was! I want to know what the hell I want, instead of always wanting whatever the hell I think I'm supposed to want!"
You've been sleeping with him for over a year, but still he thinks you've suddenly gone nuts. He doesn't really know you, outside of your butt-cheeks. He rolled you onto your belly last night, just like you both thought you wanted, just like every night. He certainly is competent in bed, but neither one of you is a competent human being, and he is terrified at the sight of a little bit of genuine emotion. But you continue.
"I don't want to play anymore! This is not a fucking game! 'Wear the right clothes, say the right things, have the right opinions, go to the right places, know the right people. Be the right person.' I am sick of it! I have no clue what else to be; I have been phoney so long, I don't know how to be real. And you know what really sucks? Huh, do you? I don't know if I have EVER been real!"
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