this is my 15,277th day. I have been on this planet through forty one winters (including the blizzard of '78), forty one springs and forty one falls. I am beginning my forty first summer; it seems unbelievable to me that it's July of 2000 already.
I am endlessly fascinated by celestial mechanics, and I do not mean starry-eyed car repairmen. I am fascinated by the movement of the Sun. Now, don't go jumping all over me; I know it's the Earth that moves, but Copernicus never forbade a little recreational dizziness, like children playing in a field, ...spinning, ...spinning, until they can't stand up. I haven't done that for a few thousand days.
So, allow me to employ my poetic licence (I have one, you know, it even bears an impossibly perfect photo). The Sun is moving away. The Summer Solstice marked its turning to go back to the south. It's heartbreaking, really, such an immense departure, like (excuse the crassness) the biggest cock you ever took, teasingly held almost still inside you to torment your ecstasy, its only movement from the beat of your lover's heart.
Hmm. I guess I should write for the majority, but I don't, since that analogy will hardly make sense to most people. Unless you are gay, and a bottom (occasionally anyway), and you are stuck in the immense moment, at the instant when it happened, at the instant you lost the world. It becomes your world; that kind of sex, that being used, that uninvited reception. It is so good our language distinguishes between sex and love (our individual experiences notwithstanding), because the two can be just as profoundly distinct at one extreme as they can be indistinguishable at the other.
"When did the abuse stop?" asked the gorgeous boy-doctor. I was his patient once.
"I'm not sure. Eventually you just start calling them lovers."
and it is almost too appropriate that just as we begin to open to the warmth, the source has already made plans for leaving. It is so perfectly disjoint, like the moments which I thought were the best were actually the first moments after my lover had given up on me. Is that telling, or what? As soon as he stops threatening me with intimacy, I relax and get comfortable, and start to really like myself with him. I can stop struggling, and I don't have to hate myself for being paralyzed by the immense unapproachable terror that came into me long ago. No wonder I like winter; this warm summer air like the breath of God, and these lingering twilight evenings just tear my heart apart...
The Sun has already turned his wandering gaze toward those he will love next, and this is the moment where I have been stuck for fourteen thousand days. He withdrew, but I could not live having been so deeply touched and discarded, so I pretend to keep him here, almost still, unmoving in time except for the beating of my heart.
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