Tonight
alone
this dark place is lit
with the deep fire of
my longing
lay on my back
and all i dream
is your round ass
smelling of the earth
riding me
Tonight
alone
this dark place is lit
with the deep fire of
my longing
lay on my back
and all i dream
is your round ass
smelling of the earth
riding me
I’ve started writing again. It always seems like you never will again when you aren’t for a while. Last weekend I was addled with the inability to write. I burnt incense for it. I prayed and spelled for it. I prayed to God the Father and to gods and goddesses, every spirit for it. I prayed to the spirits of the characters to come whisper to me and tell me their stories.
When a story is going to work you just know it. It just comes and unweaves itself to you. When it isn’t unweaving it is whispering, beckoning to you.
When you came to me it was after
we had talked on the phone all day
long and I felt like I knew you then,
felt like I was kissing you and I was
like abishag in the house of myrrh
and you were Solomon and, man,
when you came into the house you
bent down like some giant, I reached
up for the fruit on the tree and you
kissed me, thick and wet and lay across
my bed, stretched out like the rod
between my thighs saying
‘you can undress me’
and I did and I said I will taste you
and you let me, let me kiss your mouth,
your eyes, your nipples. We lay together,
you stroked my cock that night,
marveling at darkness,
wondering at brownness and I at your bigness,
at the beautifulness of your thighs,
the hang of balls, the walls of muscle on your marvelous body,
the tear in the corner of your eye,
how I made you cry, how your cock wept,
leapt, pleading with the salty tear of semen
at its fragile tip,
slip, slip
into love
that night
For fun and for nausea I flip through the gay personals . They are for the most part a study in insecurity. I love the ones where a man declares, “I am straight acting looking for someone straight acting.” Sometimes they add “No Femmes”. Sometimes they add a long list of demands. No one writes them. Sometimes I write them: “Stop hating yourself. Have a nice day.” Or: “Good luck, asshole.” And I have no idea what it means, “I am straight acting.” No one who wasn’t straight really fooled anyone for long except for people who didn’t’ care, or who simply wanted to be fooled. It must mean the same thing as me saying, “I am white acting, seeking another black person who is white acting.” It must mean I hate what I am and don’t wish to be reminded of it. Many a queer man hates being queer and so gets married, has children, moves on. Or seeks his pleasure n parks and bathroom stalls. Fills his life with self loathing. Even more pitiful is the gay man who calls himself straight acting, who resigns himself—and it is resignation rather than embracing, to being gay, but wants to be like a straight person, have a straight boyfriend who, I assume would be like a best friend. Actually, I’m not sure where the rationale goes in this or how it can turn out happily, but I connect it to my unsuccessful and, in the end, wearying relationship with someone who wished he was straight and couldn’t have been gayer if he wanted to be.
And he didn’t want to be.
I didn’t like the movie called in English, And Your Mama, Too, not because there was no truth to it, but because there was too much of what we have known as truth, too much of what we call machismo. The two teenage characters start out fucking their girlfriends. Then one or maybe both—I can’t remember—fuck their older female companion. They masturbate together. They’re always talking about sex. Finally they just have sex with each other. Some people would say this is the story of boys in general, this endless flirtation with sexuality, the chaste pulling back though we know the whispers about good best friends who occasionally go further than boys are supposed to. Some of us dream about, many of us know it happens a lot more than we are prepared to think.
At any rate, in the film, after the two boys come together and make love—well, have sex—one of them wakes up, looks at the other and stumbles out of the room to vomit. And this is linked to the personals I read, linked to infidelity of the boy in my past. Possibly this tumbling away from another man and vomiting is linked to anything I am about to write. For if we are going to address any problem that characterizes the lives of men Black and white, gay straight, brown, polka dot or striped it is that while Germaine Greer reconstituted Virginia Woolf to make her famous quote—most women have no idea how much men hate them—I would say most men have no idea how much they hate themselves and each other. How much men hate manhood. In fact, how much that self hatred characterizes that pitiful thing called masculinity.
