i'm in love with a guy I saw in National Geographic. He's not in some exotic locale, naked, pierced and stretched. Nor is he a popular star allowing the world a glimpse into the tedium and secrets backstage. He doesn't have some of the things I take for granted, like feet for example. But he's mine.
He's 25, and very cute. He has a swimmer's body, a champion swimmer's body. My first glimpse of him was that picture in National Geographic; he's standing on his stumps beside an Olympic-size pool. His torso is as remarkable for its perfection as are his legs for their deformity. I use 'deformity' here with reservation, for perfection is a relative thing, and in the accomplishment of his goals, Jason employs every part of his body perfectly.
jason Wening, I hope you don't mind if I talk about you in my journal. You may be 'mine,' in my delusions, but in reality I am quite sure our trajectories have passed as close as they ever will—though I suppose anything is possible. At first, I felt drawn to your beautiful body, because in my arrogant fantasy it seemed to be emotionally near to me—lonely and inadequate. Yet, so perfected. I imagined convincing you of this in tender encounters, with our clothes on. I am not beautiful, not like you. Truth is a touchstone for my flights of fantasy in this regard. In my dream, you are drawn to me by my sensitive compassion and kindheartedness, just as powerfully as I am drawn to you by your athletic accomplishments and beauty. We enjoy comic endeavors together, and I become significant in your life. You begin to enjoy your significance in my life.
Silly, I know. But such are the affairs I imagine, based upon a single image. A single image of a beautiful young serene-faced man, a 6' god drawn down to an accessible 4' something, yet bearing all the world with the ease of a giant.
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