quick notes/(re: 'paper' architexts) 3/4/2013
quick notes Diary Entry Wednesday april 3rd 2013
Condoms: No (or somewhat not)
Will and I were meant to go on a date on Friday- he cancelled due to food poisoning, this is after prolonged cat-&-mouse, of me pursuing, him evading/being busy, but not seeming unkeen, being the initial proposer of our meeting up. We have re-scheduled for the following Wednesday.
Today I wake up to a text message saying āWorkās gonna take Ā me in longer than expected. Will call later and see whatās what.ā
I worry. Beyond whether he likes me or not, beyond whether I like him- it hasnāt felt like we resonate on some fundamental level. But the dread, the feeling of being lied to, of being brushed off without that rejection being communicated, has, over the course of many years furrowed a deep reeking well of resentment. I have been burnt. It manifests as a strong paranoia. This comes, rational or no, from my long interaction with queer men in London and Brighton, being one myself. As a culture, we permit ourselves grievous misuse and mistrust of each other. Consistently, a game of indirect signs and gestures must be read alongside people's words, which are never little indication, nurtured as we are so thoroughly on being polite. It is positively courtly.
The crystallisation of the idea of this attitude came when I was 18, and I was friends with Rua, a petulant and sexually predatory young Aesthete and Anglophile, recently moved to London from Dublin.
One week, after having been on a date with and fucking a boy, call him Boy A, Rua decided that Boy A was far too keen, while Rua himself wasn't. Fair enough. But rather than be straightforward with him, Rua deflected the barrage of telephonic hails by way of insisting that yes yes, he was still interested, but was too tired and far too busy at the moment. Boy A persisted. Rua confided to me: "Why does he not just get that I'm not into him?" I as-diplomatically-as-Iācan-muster posited that he ought to tell the boy he was uninterested- which was well-met with a series of reasons on why that was not the done thing.
The following weekend he fucked a man, Boy B, with whom he was immediately striken. Boy B offered positive enough retaliation of affection while present. The following week Rua launched a volley of texts and calls from himself to Boy B. Boy B, tho, replied to none of this, to which Rua demanded- "jesus! why can't he justĀ have the common decency to let me know!? It wouldn't bother me and I could rest in peace, if only he said something." I was unsympathetic to his woe.
We want simultaneously to be treated with earnestness, honesty and respect when in the position of the being rejected,Ā while not having the courage to offer the same generosity to those we want to reject. Occasionally, we narrativise this as a kindness, pretend we do not want to be harsh, but it is in fact a cowardice.
So many of these encounters has left me skeptical of all ambiguous signs of affection, interpreting every delayed meet-up as a coded fuck-you.
So the Fear. Is this postponement as simple as stated, or a indirect polite brush-off, in a series of polite brush-offs?
Hours tick by without him updating. I pass my day reading and studying, but partly waiting on him. Soon it is close to the time we were meant to have met, 7pm, and still he says nothing. Then a text: āstill working- battery on 4%, turning phone off for awhile.ā My heart sinks. Bunnyhappy I not. I suggest my setting off now, to get to him, as it will take me over an hr anyway. I get ready and set off. He in the meantime realises how far I have to travel to get to his work place, and asks if thereās any way I could get there quicker. Then he messages:
āIf youāre still at home letās reschedule, nowheres going to do food after half 10 and I live in angel.ā
A feeling of predicted rejected and wasted night waiting on the phone. Defeat. Quickly, I call. āHey pal, Iām already coming up to the tube station, and itās easy enough for me to get to Angel,ā I lie. He agrees to have me over. This clearly re-aligns the terms of a date from casual dinner, to probable fucking.
His house is huge- inordinately so for a single 20-something man in London. It is constructed of more angles and dimensions than Ā my simple working-class eyes can take in, immediately. Wider and brighter than what I had previous reckoned was possible, in Zone 2.We discuss, among other things, Architexts and Asterios Polyp. Conversation is mostly stilted, each silence is immeasurable distance. I tease his hole with the tip of my cock, dripping with pre-cum. Twin motors whirr in opposition, bring these bodies to a tension. As I tease him I tease myself, feel the thrust of biology and desire, barely resistible; the counter pull of the taunter and policeman in my head: how much pressure is not penetration, how far can this play be safe? My dick stands on the precipice, on the door of the death- semi-conscious, the possibility of my own annihilation hovers there, in that moment- a two-fold annihilation: the possibility of infinite orgasm, boundless raw flesh, dripping with cum, to fill in/ contra the possibility that this one causal thrust is the one that gives me, God-like in essence and action, the disease Mortal. He moans against the push of my cock, widens spread legs with practiced skill.
I plunge in and he lets out a holla, head rolls back, and he shunts his arsehole hard against my pubic bone. Instantly, I shake off the kun, pull out, and we roll around and kiss. A moment has passed. When we come back round to him suggesting I fuck him, and tentatively whipping out the condoms, it is mechanical and geometrical, all angles and bodily abstraction with no presence. I wish I'd fucked him raw. Pounding away, I don't cum, and know I won't. When I pull out and the condom is covered in shit, it serves as good opportunity to change tact. He showers for 7 or so minutes.
He has me lay with my back on the bed, has me open my mouth wide, then fucks my face.
I sputter, choke- not only does his thick cock go ways to stuffing my throat, his balls block my nose, so when he is most of the way inside my mouth
This is panic-inducing, nauseating, slightly, but the pure delight he gets out of it -particularly when I suffer the most- makes my balls tighten for him. I want to make him happy. This continues
He promises at some point in the future to teach me how to deep throat. Making plans on first dates, like what our house will look like, or what our offspring will be named, has become first-date trope for me. This maybe is the least ridiculous of forward-plannings I've made on a first date. Or possibly the most.
We cuddle and wrestle and bite each other's necks, like puppies. I think, for me, this instance is actually what I want from all sexual relationships. This honesty and freedom in play, post-coital, loving each other briefly, like brothers.
I don't sleep, but he has work in the AM. I stay over. Hold him in my arms. I feel his muscles twitch, systematically, last minute checks of a worn out consciousness and he falls to dreaming as his breathing levels.
