sometimes, I wish I wrote every day, faithfully. Sometimes I'm glad I don't. What story would I tell, and with which words; of sight restored, of paralysis healed, or of deafness' barrier breached? Of a heart filled with love to bursting? And breaking? I might become another... someone I am not. Again. Just to say I can.
Sometimes I wish I had more faith, and other times, more skepticism. Often, I am grateful to have neither, and let the floods and rip-tides of life come and go as they please, unjudged, while I sun myself comfortably distant from their turbulences. But I always wish I had more love; for me, for you, for life. For now. I rage and flail and blaspheme the Source for giving not enough, or giving what I do not want. I feel like a child when I am that way. When I feel proud for having contained the tantrum, and yet do nothing more, I am a child.
sex has been my tantrum for about thirty-eight years. Childishly, I want praise for the times I could have taken sex to extremes, but did not, and did nothing instead. Like the time in the park when the sinewy jogger, with the big cock and the tiny silk shorts, waited, even though he was standing between my thighs as I laid back on the warm stone of a big boulder that put mine exactly in-line with his—still, he waited. And I waited. Even though it was obvious, he required that I tell him what I wanted. He was here from Washington, D.C., on a brief visit, and would have—for this and many other features—been an ideal partner for a cheap, unemotional sexual encounter. But I didn't ask, I didn't tell him what I wanted him to do. I did nothing at all. And so it remains only a near-penetration, an incomplete ecstasy and, as such, more powerful than all the finished ones.
I have occasionally shied away from the luscious drug of my lasciviousness, but every time have remained as focused on it—even more so—than if I had gone through with the act. I did not indulge a surrender to my own lust, nor provide consummation of another's lust, but I might as well have, for the purpose of my addiction was overwhelmingly achieved nonetheless. My obsession with arousal insulates me from directly touching reality. As a result, the darting light-speed bolts of laser-searing pain, as yet eternally trapped within the refractive ruby of my mind, are now taken into this child's tender hands, and controlled.
Control. My addiction gives me control over that most significant of conditions; pain. And it does it with a touch of irony, as well; every artificial joy is, finally, destructive. Even in the case of the teasing jogger; our tryst would appear to constitute 'safer-sex', yet it has the potential—exactly the way it happened—to be far more damaging than any drunken, bareback, multiple-partner session. Pharmaceutical companies certainly disagree, but this flesh, and its duration on this earth, are not the paramount targets in the assaults we encounter in this life. My jogger has taken me far afield of where my spirit needs me to be—he probably will again, later on tonight—and it is that spiritual abandonment which will destroy me as surely as if I dove beneath a tractor-trailer on the Mass Pike.
bobby was a very cute boy. He had blond hair beyond his shoulders, full lips, enormous water-blue innocent eyes, and a beautiful body; he could have certainly gained entre to circles of at least minor influence, and if artfully employed, these attributes would have helped Bobby gather significant assistance to achieving the kind of life we consider successful in this world.
I remember first seeing him in the walk-in at the package store where he worked, and he was gorgeous. But more than that, he was staring at me like I was the last man on earth—and attractive, too. I dreamed of it in fevers of lust, and believed the realization of it less likely than walking on the moon, but before long, I knew the length of more than just his hair.
Bobby never spoke much, and to be honest, our encounters were brief and few. But I gather a lot through observation, since I too communicate with great difficulty. "Hi, I'm Joe," I said once. "I'm (pause) Dave," Bobby replied. He didn't know I knew his name. He was nervous, every time we met; in a vacant lot under a bridge, in the railway yard next to the gay bar, and in any isolated, seedy place he felt safe. I tried to not make it worse.
We were comic in our passions. He was long and always rock-hard, but he always wanted me to fuck him. Only, that's what I wanted him to do to me. He would not. Besides, Bobby was breathtakingly beautiful, especially his ass—smooth and round, soft and wanting—but I was only beginning to come-out, and anxiety was a problem. For example, we'd be half-naked in an alley, his beauty and taste would get me hard as I could be, and then he'd turn that gorgeous ass toward me. In the glare of expectation, my little one's stiff self-confidence fled like wine from a fallen cup.
But I did learn how to touch Bobby. And Bobby learned how to let me.
the tractor-trailer driver said he saw Bobby climb over the guard-rail and stand in the breakdown lane, only two seconds away. Just as the driver thought he'd gotten past him, safely, he felt a thud; he knew. He snapped his head to the mirror on the right just in time to catch the horrific sight of a twenty year-old's broken body tumbling a-flail, and then, twisted weirdly, skid to its final rest.
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