Me and Mr. Jones

Look both ways, I’m getting better at that. However, the guy in front of me at the intersection forgot. We all forget sometimes. Red light, though, so he should be okay.

WAIT! Stop car! It’s a red light! Car forgot what that means. Car didn’t stop. Guy in front of me who was walking is now lying face down on car’s hood.

Thud. Guy in car rolls down his window and yells, “Hey fucker! Get off my car!” Walking guy gets off car and says, “Sorry.” He then continues to cross street. Looks like a limp, but a small one. Car backs up behind white line.

Green light. Car leaves. I turn around and go back home.

Last night, walking home from school, I tripped.

Crossing the tracks of the public transportation train I caught my foot and fell. Gloriously. Almost bouncing, I tried to steady myself on my hands but the arms behind them buckled and I stumbled and crashed to the ground. Upon landing I was a few feet from the open doors of the newly arrived train. However, instead of rising, I was floored by the two men who stepped over my body and leapt into the doors–neither stopping to see if I was okay. So I just lay there stunned and let the train leave me behind.

Several hours later, asleep and spooning, I dreamt that I had been stabbed.

This morning, pouring coffee, the pot slipped from its handle and crashed to the counter–spilling the brown liquid all over the white counter.

My Tony, my Tony–why hast thou forsaken me?

Not that I can really relate to this, but my sister is getting married. Tonight. She and my new “brother-in-law” are eloping to Vegas. In a chapel. There may be an Elvis, I’m not sure about that.

Tony and I went to a casino last week. We lost $200 dollars. Spent hours at the slot machines waiting for the waitresses to bring us free whiskey. Tony smoked cigars. I fought with the old ladies who were trying to use more than one machine at a time.

A chapel is not like a casino. Well, that’s my impression anyway. I’ll bet my sister is having more luck than I did. And you know she is far prettier than anyone you’d find camped out at the casino. Hell, she’s far prettier than anyone you would find anywhere.

Congratulations sister! Make me proud. And make some love, I think that is called for at times like this. Just no babies yet, please. I’m not ready for that.

By the power vested in me I now pronounce you…

Bizarre love triangle.

She actually had me convinced that all it would take was one time and he’d be cured. Mix that with the fact that I was really eager to finally do it and there was no turning back.

Big man with a gun.

Sometimes I feel like I missed some opportunity in the past. That first night I kissed him it was so I could remember how it felt to kiss a boy. I also hoped it would set him free. He lay me on my back and kissed me between my legs. I kept on coming back for more.

Bang a gong (get it on).

When we met it was always late and his parents were asleep or on vacation. He kept wine and pot below his bed so we could relax before our turgid kisses.

Blood sugar sex magic.

The first time was in his parent’s waterbed, but I don’t really remember much about it because we ended up stacked one on top of the other in the bathtub. Melting sadness as he remembered his abuse and the pain of a forced touch.

Boys don’t cry. He did.

Some nights we didn’t fuck or even make love. We just lay next to one another and touched in our sleep. He didn’t come and the next morning I left.

Bye bye love.

These days it means something entirely different. There is no bittersweet. Comfort comes from being close to the boy that I love. The boy that I love is new, a man, and my love is all grown up. Pain is only around when he is not.

Back in baby’s arms.

Tony met this girl over the internet. Ever since he graduated from his $60 “school” he’s been trying to diversify his love life. This basically means I have to help him read all the e-mail he now receives from the women he talks to on dating sites. Normally this annoys me and I make him perform certain favors in order to make it worth my while. But that was before he met Lua.

Lua is from Arkansas. She has an accent. And this girl likes sex. A lot.

She moved to the city to become a librarian. At least, she currently attends library school. From what I can tell, she really moved to the city to get laid. An admirable goal for sure, but one she’s achieved numerous times already.

Tony doesn’t know, but I’ve actually been hanging out with Lua for some time. We corresponded after she answered Tony’s personals ad. After I explained to her that I was gay she immediately took a liking to me and we’ve since become fast friends. For a girl who likes sex as much as she claims, she spends a hell of a lot of time with gay men. At school, at home, out in the world. Forget the concept of fag-hag: the girl is a fag-mag(net).

“When I was young, before I had a vibrator, I used a cucumber once. But, it was too thick. I should have taken a potato peeler to it or something, but I wasn’t that industrious.”

Her exterior is so meek. Demure. She’s got the soft, clear complexion of an innocent. Her smile invites your comfort. Mix all this together with the glasses and cardigan sweater and you could place her behind any circulation desk in any public library in the world.

“I think that anything too long would probably hurt. But width is definitely important. I don’t want a small dick. I mean, I don’t want a pencil eraser up in me.”

She lost her virginity when she was 14 years old. She has since been with 17 different men. And one girl, but girls make her shy. She feels that she wouldn’t know what to do with a woman, how to please her. Lua is afraid that all lesbians are confident in their caresses. And besides, she admits freely that in her heart of hearts: “I really like the cock.”

Since she moved to the city she spends a lot of time setting up dates with men over the internet. Most of these men don’t fit her vision of a well-dressed, tattooed, pierced, handsome man with a good job. At times when the internet dating doesn’t bring her satisfaction she falls back on trips home and sex with old friends. Going home also allows her to get free birth control. And hang out with her mom.

Lua’s other passions are Scrabble, boxes of wine, and copy-editing. She can’t stand split infinitives but will occasionally include one in her papers to see if her professors notice. Her resume also includes sleeping until late afternoon and eating inordinate amounts of sushi. And she knows all about the secret garden.

Whenever I think about Lua inside a library I am at ease. Who better to guard the passions of literature? To answer your curious questions? To point you to the juvenile non-fiction collection? She makes me proud to join the profession. Yeah, she is one dirty librarian, but she’s a god-damned good one. Good for circulation. I’m so glad Tony checked her out.

Whoever thinks christianity has nothing to offer needs simply to flip through the bible. Specifically, they should read the old testament and search for the wonderful stories of vengeance and regret. My current favorite is the tale of Uzzah.

2 Samuel 6 tells the story of King David who, along with 30,000 other men, makes his way to the house of Abinadab in Gibeah to retrieve the Ark of the Covenant and return it to Jerusalem. The Ark has been in the care of Abinadab and his two sons, Uzzah and Ahio, for some 20 years by the time of David’s arrival. After some festivities, the group takes off for Jerusalem with Ahio and Uzzah driving the cart. The oxen hauling the cart stumble, causing Uzzah to reach out to the Ark with his hands to prevent the Ark from falling over. Great is the anger of Yahweh over Uzzah’s sacrilegious action that Yahweh strikes Uzzah down on the spot and kills him.

It’s pretty clear why Uzzah was unmercifully killed by his god; he had touched the Ark with his hands to keep the Ark from tipping over and in the process had disobeyed a direct commandment from Yahweh. From Numbers 4-15: “And when Aaron and his sons have made an end of covering the sanctuary, and all the vessels of the sanctuary, as the camp is to set forward; after that, the sons of Kohath shall come to bear it: but they shall not touch any holy thing, lest they die. These things are the burden of the sons of Kohath in the tabernacle of the congregation.”

I love stories like this because they are not governed by logic. You touch it, you die. Even if your intentions are good. You die. And he did. Action and reaction. Tit for tat.

My other favorite biblical story is about Noah getting drunk and passing out naked. One of his sons (Ham) sees him, feels embarrassed, and covers him with a blanket. When Noah wakes up he is wicked-mad for having been seen (small penis anyone?) and says: “Cursed be Canaan! The lowest of the slaves will he be to his brothers!” Now you might be asking who Canaan is, or more importantly why he is now mixed up in this business of shame. Good question. Canaan is Ham’s son, Noah’s grandson, and he was cursed just because he was. We all must bare the burden of our parents.

Dear reader, I’m telling you all this for no reason whatsoever. Just like Yahweh before me, I like to hear myself speak. Go in peace and joy to love and serve the Lord, eat your vegetables, and let’s get it crunk. We don’t need no hateration.

Don’t it always seem to go that we don’t know what we got till it’s gone?

My body has adjusted itself to the crazy pills. No more headaches, no more dizzy spells, and no more seeking out arousing situations to make sure I still have a large libido. Well, large in comparison to some people. (Not Tony, of course. He gets turned on when I sneeze.) All that’s left for me to do now is look for signs that I’m no longer crazy. And drink.

So, as my life has leveled out a bit, Tony’s has exploded with opportunity. He recently graduated from the Handsome Boy Modeling School, some $60 course he took to learn about his own beauty and how to flaunt it. And to get laid. He claims they taught him the intricacies of etiquette and how to treat the ladies. But all I see him do is have lots of “the sex.” Or buy shoes.

As he explains, “It’s like taking a car, adding little things. An exhaust pipe, to make it a little quicker. Maybe work on the cam. It’s a nice vehicle, but you want to take it to the next level. That’s what they do at the Handsome Boy Modeling School.”

Oh well. I guess I’m mostly jealous. He has such a fabulous life, and I’m striving for ordinary. My few moments of daily bliss are limited to a cup of coffee and getting the apex of my hair to stand just right. If only Tony hadn’t stolen my last $60 dollars…

Wow. I really like to talk about “crazy pills” don’t I? Partly it comes from the acute case of hypochondria that plagues me. Oh, to live a life of stress and obsession. So there’s excuse number one: anything slightly askew in my day to day bodily functioning really freaks me out. However, there is another reason that I think I should explore further: I really like drugs.

Or rather, I really like the idea of them. I am past the time in my life when I feel like indulging in illegal substances, but that doesn’t mean I’m not sympathetic with those who still do. It comes from the same place that causes me to think smoking looks cool and drinking makes things more interesting. It isn’t escapism. Definitely not peer-pressure. Just some wide-eyed, childhood fascination that has never faded. Probably the reason Tony amuses me so, come to think of it.

It all started when I was 15 and trying to find something to write about for the school paper. I chose to write an expose on student drug use and interviewed my cousin Casey, who was the local dealer, and my friend Will. Will was the counter-culture kid who exposed me to all sorts of interesting things like Nine Inch Nails and transparent plastic shoes. I used anonymous names to hide their identity. My teacher loved the article, thought it was “thought provoking.” I did, too. It made me want to smoke pot.

So after the article was published (the day of, actually) I contacted Casey to make the deal. She didn’t charge me since we were family. Then I contacted Will for an “Idiot’s Guide to…” session on what to do. He loaned me a pipe and explained all about inhaling, coughing, and munchies. Then my friend Carrie and I got together some music, snack food, and lots of water bottles and went for a hike in the country to find the perfect place to light up. That place turned out to be a seldom-used barn with a hay loft. So, while listening to the Smashing Pumpkins’ song “Starla”, we packed the pipe, puffed the smoke, and played at getting high.

It was a fun and memorable afternoon, and started my 6 year adventure of experimentation just for the sake of experimentation. It was intermittent in frequency and inspired by nothing but infinite curiosity to experience the more interesting aspects of growing up. And the irony was that no one, especially adults, suspected this was going on. Both my mother and the mothers of my girlfriends assumed I was sexually active and busy getting busy. Which I wasn’t. But for some reason they always characterized me as the good boy who stayed away from drugs. Go figure.

So, today, as I swallow the latest in mind-altering substances, I am still a bit intrigued by the possibilities and super-conscious of its effects. Unfortunately the only thing I’m noticing so far is my undeterred headaches and sleepiness. And at the average cost of $4 a pill, it is definitely the most expensive drug I’ve every used. But what I find most interesting about these things is that I am now taking them with the hope they will diminish my sensuality, not expand it. “Crazy pills” aren’t meant to provide me with a high, rather, I am taking them to find a plateau.

Tony, on the other hand, is a mountain-climber. He’ll swallow anything. Everything. His only goal is to live to take one more. Tony keeps me balanced.