but I am still here.
"You know, Joe, I'm 53. Daddy died when he was 62. We're not going to be around forever."
Scott O'Hara died when he was 36. I was already 39 then.
He discouraged sterile sex, and promoted these things: Passion. Thinking for one's self. And life—above all else, he did live. He would have had no patience for one like me, and therefore, he is my ideal.
The boy who I think gave it to me—painfully thin, painfully tall, and with a tiny dick—offered to pull out before he came. From the purely sensual perspective, having him in didn't really do much for me. Leaving him in did everything. The moment was ecstatically erotic; I reached back, put my hand on his butt and held him close as he let it go.
I am religiously late for work. It is a game, in which I pretend to prove something about the world—about 'them'. They have never complained. But it's a tedious exercize of 'I'm going to do it this way, just 'cuz I want to', or something. And I need to be reminded that I can do anything I really want...
...even have a mature relationship, like Eric and Matt, like John and Paul, like Rage and Lance.
I do my best to prove that I cannot do anything at all. I tell myself my ship came and went already. I look at those who have things I wish I had and do things I wish I did, and convince myself they are (and always have been) younger than me; that I have passed that magic confluence of events which fulfills all the sweet hopes of those who are ready. Bullshit. I know it is bullshit, but I am so good at lamenting that I can't wait til misery's contradictions finally go, when there are no more chances, no more opportunities for change; and when troublesome hope is gone.
but, I am still here.
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