I believe in angels, angels of our better nature; I believe in demons, demons of our worse disposition.
It's Friday; the last work day of the week and a glorious pay day as well. Yet within me the demons are out to play in full force. With each tick I feel the cold fingers of gloom grappling me, pulling me down; with every tock I emanate pulsating negativity so dark, the angels flee, and I am truly afraid...for myself.
What was the trigger? Most likely, it was something so innocuous it's hardly worth remembering.
Damn it! I blame the drug!
I believe in community and solitude; I believe in cliques and loneliness.
It's 4:30 in the afternoon; I take a long, hard, and final drag on the stub of already my fifth cigarette of the day. A few minutes before stepping outside for a quick head rush, I've IMed my go-to friend, wanting to find out if she'd like to hangout. I’ve kept our chat casual, kept it light; but really, it is a distress call, an S.O.S., because I need to hear something else other than my own voice, because more and more I feel like…
…I’m naked. Alone. In an empty space. In front of me stands a tall mirror wall reflecting my image. The man across from me—the body distorted, the face contorted, all grotesque—this monster leers at me. I turn away, afraid he’d break the glass boundary that separates us and terrified he’d jump me into a humiliating submission; I run.
It’s around 10:00 in this nippy evening; my friend treads down the subway station, as I look on from a sidewalk of Lower East Side. I’m left to my own devices yet again, but I’m not ready to go home. I don’t want to waste this temporary joie de vivre, this flushed red warmth fueled by some good banters and fruity cocktails. I stumble down to the Slide and pay $15 for the all you can drink deal, which also gets me a yellow glow-stick wristband. I order the gin and tonic at the bar, sit myself down in the corner, which happens to be my favorite spot anywhere I go, and wonder why the guy who took the $15 asked me the most inappropriate question: “Are you a top, bottom, versatile, or do you not want to comment?” With a shrug, I chug my favorite poison down, and up I go again to the bar to order the same. On my way back, I notice the establishment’s clientele wearing their glow-stick wristbands, yet these are different from mine: a couple of gossiping friends sitting across from me wore blue bands, a gang of jolly revelers who just entered the bar had on red, blue, and green bands. Yet, I am the only one stuck with the yellow! As I am about to sit in my corner, a poster on a wall catches my eyes. It reads, “Red=Top; Blue=Bottom; Green=Versatile; Yellow=No Comment.” Oh my God, my quick reactionary quip to the question at the door has made me yellow (every pun intended). I don’t know what is worse: learning just way too much about people I hardly know or showcasing my lack of openness and experience to all these guys! I chug my drink down again, fast. I again go for another. With the cup in hand, I back away from the bar. My red, hot face is the source of this August in December; my spinning head needs support from the sturdy wall I’ve found to lean against. But the few seconds of respite is greeted by an older gentleman standing on my right, with an alarmed voice, yelping, “Your hair is on fire!” Indeed, I’ve managed to lean my head next to a candle. A cute guy on my left with the red wristband jumps into action, patting my burning hair, helping me extinguish the fire. Once my shock attenuates a bit, I mumble a word of thanks to the man on my right, and quip about the situation to the cute guy on my left. But alas, they both walk off, leaving me to stroke my head feeling the little, thankfully, very little gaping bald spot. Then quickly I gather my belongings and head for the door; I run.
I believe in celebration of life’s little practical jokes; I believe in desperation of life’s little practical jokes. (A caveat: I’ll celebrate it on you; I’ll despair it on me; until security finds me impervious.)
It’s 1:00ish in the afternoon. The unsatisfying experience the night before sets ablaze the negative aura of my constitution. I’m sluggish, but I pretty myself up somewhat to go out to meet a friend from L.A. who’s in town for a visit. How do I keep from her this gnawing feeling? The one that I’ve been having, the one where…
…I’m running. Away from the mirror wall. Suddenly the ground trembles; crack, the ground splits, from the divide rises another great mirror wall. I turn away and run again. From the corner of my eyes, I see the two mirror walls closing in on me, the monsters following suit. Then the heavens thunder; crash, up from the vast sky falls another mirror. I slide to avoid a collision into the wall. I crawl back up. I have to run, run away. Yet in front of me, a gale force wind blows over me; boom, the fourth mirror speeds toward me. Now, I’m surrounded by mirrors, and all around me are gruesome monsters ogling, mocking, taunting me. A mirror ceiling appears, causing me to look down to the only surface where there are no monsters. But I am not so lucky, because the ground disappears; I fall into the abyss. Breaking my fall is a mirror platform, which takes me back up, enclosing me in a box of mirrors. I yell. Terrified. My voice echoing inside the chamber, growing louder, as each sound wave bounces off, as if all the monsters inside the mirrors are yelling. From afar, the lights go off, the darkness rushing towards me like a tsunami. Then, all is black.
I believe in the throb, the pull, the urge.
He comes to me from behind. He taps my shoulder and I turn to look at him. A flash of recognition, a pang of hunger, we embrace and kiss. His hand gently travels down my chest, my abdomen, finding its way to the outline of the bulge inside my jeans. He cups it, whispering in my ear how good it feels in his hand. He unbuttons my jeans and slips his hand inside, kneading the hardening growth. A groan, a murmur of satisfaction leaves my mouth. He turns and slides into my hard-on, rubbing me, heating me. He reaches over and slides down my jeans and I do the same. His two voluptuous mounds spread open and within the crevasse my dick slides up and down gushing pre-cum. He turns his head and locks his piercing chestnut eyes into mine, and he implores, “Fuck me.” His hole puckers, ready to kiss my head. I push in. The head disappears. He moans; I groan. My hands run up and down his torso, his arms, feeling them tremble in anticipation. I run my hands up his tensing and relaxing thighs. His tight, clenching hole loosens up, his sweat trickles down to my pole, allowing me to enter him a little bit more. He arms rest against the wall for support. My hands busily explore every part of his body that can be explored. Slowly and surely, we undulate; we undulate to the rhythm of our creation, dancing in ecstatic frenzy.
Suddenly my cell phone rings. The lights in my hotel room return. It’s 6:45 on a rainy Sunday early evening in Atlanta. I’ve been sitting in front of my laptop. The exploratory search of gay night life around my hotel has turned into something unexpected; it has turn into my very first cyber-sexual encounter with a total stranger. The phone call from my boss has deflated the inflation, reprieving me from la petite mort.
I believe in the expected; I believe in the unexpected.
A few hours after and just right before I lay myself down, I stand in front of a mirror and look at myself, my body still vibrating and tingling, refreshed from the sheer senuality of the moment. For the first time in a long while, I don’t see the monster. In front of me stands a man with a biggest, goofiest smile. Perhaps I have to stop looking at myself with such a critical eye. Why is it that I needed a different perspective from a different set of eyes to tell me that I’m interesting, that I’m desirable? Change is definitely what I need; change is what I am working on.
I believe in me.
Take a listen to this: In the Waiting Line by Zero 7
(Addendum 12/13/05 3:15AM: Finally, I posted the weekend recap.)
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