I surprised myself when I allowed him to catch me, the thriller slasher ahead but we’re in the back giving it to each other. I was more aware and excited by the subtleties of his movements than whatever happened during the film. The protagonist is being stalked on the way home from school: he twists his pinky finger around mine. The protagonist’s friend is stabbed against a wall: he places his lips on my neck. The killer gets away: my underwear is left slick wet. It was terrifying and that is why we watch it; that is why we follow it, that is the only feeling there ever was: fear. Every other feeling is merely a response to it. I know it’s a crush because I am scared.
We ordered martinis and he said he liked that we were opposites, dirty and neat. But I kind of didn’t know what I was ordering. His pupils are always dilated. I don’t know why that is. I think we match. I think I can go deeper with him.
Over the moon. We planned to go to the museum. But then, he realized he was near my place, so I invited him over. I showed him my songs and we talked a lot. At some point we were naked and he was in my mouth. We laughed and it was all so nice to be vulnerable and safe. I feel I can’t contain it, even writing this or telling a friend feels degrading to the feeling I feel. I’m meeting him at the train tomorrow.
The photobooth at Empty Bottle was the best five dollars I’ve spent in a very long time.
I try to tell my friends but it doesn’t work, they can’t feel how I feel, as much as I want them to. It’s no use. It’s just for me and him.
Everytime we’re together it all becomes a little deeper, more intimate, the person he is becomes fuller. I’ve never met someone like him. He shows his affection openly to me. And I give it back. And it feels good.
Our first incompatibility is our attitudes toward fennel.
In the night I woke up screaming at the top of my lungs from a nightmare, a dead fat man summoning me. When I realized I was awake I quickly apologized and swallowed the harsh emotion. But he was so scared, so worried for me, but we were giggling together, too. You’re okay, he said. I said if it happens again I would see myself out. He held me and said I don’t want to hear that. And I turned to the wall to sleep again but saw my face collapsing as if it were made of bricks, falling from my face one by one. I sobbed then because of the care he showed me, mourning too because I was so quick to reject my evident fear, but he saw it still and accepted it completely. And all the things I can’t say yet kept coming to mind.
He said he had something to say but that he couldn't say it. I said what the fuck. He said well it's a question. I said what. He asked, do you know what it is? I said what. He said maybe it's more fun if we don’t. I said what! He said I don’t know. I said I know. I said can I be your boyfriend?
I think we spent almost every day together the last few weeks. I remember our first few meetings, but after that, a blur… Nighthawk… tiger balm… baba ghanoush… walking in the snow… This Mortal Coil… fucking. We fuck really really good.
He said he forgot what it feels like, how strong it can take you over. I’m glad to remind him.
He is in Florida on a beach. I am in my icy cavern of a bedroom. We miss each other in the fun way.
All day energized by his return. I picked him up from O’Hare and he was enthralled by the snow. We got burritos. When we lay chest to chest, it feels like our body is one.
I’ve never had a partner so sexually open. It disgusts me until I look inside and find the same filth writhing there.
We watch the awful gay hockey show and love it. We eat ramen at some place where the octopus tastes like a freezer. He tells me about Mexico City and I tell him about Tenerife.
It’s a bit like a slumber party as a child. I had asked Nick Caroll to let me know the exact moment he’d be falling asleep, so that I know when he’s left me, when I should be afraid. For so long into the night we lay like that, bravely facing the darkness together, the shadows elongating, the dogs barking louder, in moments when I’m overwhelmed calling out to him “Now?” and him responding, “No”. But soon No doesn’t come and I feel hurt and afraid. I try desperately to sleep, to meet him there on that plane, but he’s already gone, so far gone. The darkness now expanding and consuming me. I sneak to the parents’ bedroom and they call my parents and my dad brings me home.
I know you want to say it. I wish I could just keep folding this secret into my actions. But I want to tell you right now so that you’d know, you’d really know. It will happen on Sunnyside in my car. It will suddenly feel like I have no heart inside me at all because it was pressed into those words which now float to you. And you will laugh or smile or gasp or say nothing at all, I don’t know, maybe you will hug me, but no matter how you react the ground will fall away, the secret dispersing between us, and we will be closer than ever. I will keep the secret.
I jerked him off during a screening of a Japanese pink film. He thought my artist of the year being Addison Rae was a joke. In the morning I buy so much at the apothecary on his street.
I woke up masturbating from my dream, cruising in an alley and getting fucked by some hairy men passing through, passing through me, flowing by, the men becoming a stream, and then I arrive to him. And I’m kissing him, clinging to him like a rock.
The future is coming, slowly, and I’ve decided it is very forgiving actually, because it kneels to the hand of Now.
We exchanged birthday gifts.
Memories are illusory. The mind is incapable of accurately distinguishing between true and false.
It’s nearing midnight and I’d like to be with you to celebrate. I hope you are feeling free tonight. And right now I wish I could tell you that all that loving I gave to you was straight from my heart. It flowed naturally from me to you and still does. I did not give it because I was afraid of losing you, or wished to contain you, limit you in any way. I remember how you make me feel when we are together and I just want a little more. I’m greedy and stupid, but I’m a believer. I know it was a lot and I know where I crossed the line but I just wanted you to stay. And you felt it and you were overwhelmed and I understand. If we come together again I will not be a perfect boyfriend ever again. I will be me, just me. I like shifting through the days with you, exploring together, talking, because the air around my head feels warm and carefree when we are together. I know it got a little too surreal and I’m sorry for encouraging that. But I still have so much to tell you. I wonder if you’d want to hear it? I don’t know. I know that the mind is incapable of forming a thought that is innately true: it’s a thought. So I won’t try to guess. I have to be glad now that we had all that time together. Often you’re the you I talk to in my head. I don’t know what that means, but I know that I love you. And too that word comes with chains, so, imagine the word as a bird in the sky that maybe you notice or maybe you don’t. What I mean is, I’m indifferent to how you would react. It is inside me though and it can’t go unmentioned forever. It’d be nice if you loved me too, but I don’t know what that would mean either. I recognized myself in you so intimately. Doesn’t happen often. I got eager and prideful and afraid and it kind of fell apart, but the feeling is still there. Is it still there for you, too? Well, all I can do now is offer my appreciation to you and the time we had together. So intoxicatingly special. I’m grateful to know you and to have been known by you, there is nothing more special than that, than knowing. I think I know you, or some part of you, but I would really like to keep knowing you. And I want to know what you think about that. I hope your book is feeling alive to you, that you are giving it all the time it deserves. Happy birthday.
I wonder what he will say, and when he’ll say it, and if he will at all.
We went to a scenic view of the lake up north, the water freezing and melting against the sunlight everyday in new forms, crashing and grinding into ergonomic lily pads, undulating in tessellations when the light shines right.
All this writing and I know I’ve failed to capture the essence of our love. But I’m happy.
I tried oysters for the first time. Etiquette suggests minimizing the use of the teeth, to accept without hesitation, but I liked swishing the briney slimy body around my mouth, tasting it all. When he goes to the bathroom the girl at the bar to my right asked: is this a first date? No, I said, we are together. Oh, it's just that I heard you talking about hometowns and recent history. Oh, I guess when you get obsessed with someone you can forget the basic stuff, I said. She smiled then, but her eyes flashed concern for me.
In the audience are sets of older gay couples and I realize I could be gay in the way they are, we are, watching this. She sings under a spotlight about tinned fish and hopelessness. She wears wigs and screams things. She cuts an onion in half and applies it to her eyes.
In the morning I wake with fantasies and I take him with my mouth. I ask him to take pictures of me. He coats my face in himself.
When I start to say goodbye his face tightens up like an orgasm or sneeze, but I know this means he is about to cry. But I will always say hello again, I tell him, you know.
He invites me to try the words on with him. He gives me permission to be what I’ve suspected I am: a faggot.
A pressure so intense that I can’t focus my mind anywhere else except deeper into his lap. The only relief is deeper, and from this constriction soon arrives the expansive sense that I am alive. The experience of my body, which I cannot usually comprehend, suddenly becoming unified and aligned with him, with his guidance.
The essential oils made my orifices icy hot and I had to keep rubbing my eyes. Warm like summer tomatoes, skin breathing deep, we looked young in the belly of that little white room which sweats from above and hisses air through a blow hole. I tell him everything nowadays. My meals, suspicions, half-baked desires, lingering dusty manifestoes and past lives. I attempt to press my mind up to him like the men press their bodies onto the frosted glass which regretfully divides them. I know all he can really see is the shapes, shadows, and colors of my mind, but the container is working. I used to fear that I’d run out of things to say. But it turns out that my mind marches forward without me, regurgitating things and creating new. And he receives them all with warmth, in tandem with the addiction of his own marching mind, often so effortlessly intertwining that I can feel him holding me despite the glass between us. It feels like summer, a summer of our relationship. He said today, I’m glad we’ve still been finding lots to do together despite the time of year. It’s not really got a lot to do with the world outside that our love marches forward, I think. It’s that I remain transfixed by the shapes, shadows, and colors of his mind. With the sweltering summer comes also its errant, incomprehensible passage of time. If I’m forgetful about what he puts on his daily sandwich or the name of his friend with the Chicagoan accent, he rolls his eyes. I, too, am frustrated with the frosted glass between us. Why couldn’t they have made them transparent, or removed them entirely? We want full access. But then what would we see? More shapes, shadows, colors. Oh, perhaps the glass interfacing is essential, the mystery between us divine.
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