A few years ago I responded to an internet personal ad that went something like "Bi-curious guy looking for..." and, well, you get the idea.
Through emails, telephone numbers were exchanged and in a phone conversation, personal information was relayed. A thick German accent told me he was 21, a student at IU, had never done "anything like this" before and was uncircumcised ("Iz zat a problem fuh you?"). I told him I was 22, had never done "anything like this" either and was circumcised.
I don't know what the hell I was thinking. I was extremely lonely, horny and desperate for something, anything to make me feel real, alive and wanted, regardless of the means.
A date was set. The details regarding blow jobs, hand jobs, etc. weren't discussed during the brief, stilted and awkward conversation.
That afternoon, on the day of our empty liaison, I was frantic. Spinning out of my head. I cleaned my room. Sucked the dirt and dust up and away. I meticulously thought about what I would wear. Should I have something playing on the stereo? If so, what? What do bi-curious German males enjoy listening to?
As the moment of his arrival rapidly approached, I paced back and forth, shaking my head in disbelief. Confusion. Pity.
The phrase "What the fuck am I doing?" was repeated numerous times that afternoon. Not once was I able to provide a justifiable response, an answer. Rhetorical questions are like that -- the answer lies in the question itself.
And then --
KNOCK - KNOCK - KNOCK
I'm limp and I'm thinking, Oh, fuck. Shit. Jesus. Is this happening? I mean, there's no why I can do this. What the fuck was I thinking?
KNOCK - KNOCK - KNOCK
The door rattles. My eyes are darting. I'm thinking, Okay, maybe sucking another guy's cock will make me forget who I am. Maybe banging some hot chick will make me feel perfect, or at least refined. Wanted. But no. And no.
Maybe we're all trapped. In ourselves. Trapped with our imperfections. Our cancers. Our blank spaces. Our reflection. Our issues.
Me and my issues: Fear of intimacy with women, body image, masculinity/femininity, junk from childhood, a mother who loved her son too much, a father who did the best that he could do. Trapped. All of us.
Maybe being inside a girl or wrapped around a man's cock for a few moments provides some with a temporary escape. A taste of freedom. A hope that the fucking will be so intense, so powerful that we'll eclipse ourselves and everything inside and catch a glimpse (a flash) of life through the eyes, the soul of another. A hope that our neurons will fuse and entwine and we'll know what it's like to live as another, as someone else, to be in another's skin -- but only for a flash.
KNOCK - KNOCK - KNOCK
Okay, maybe I'm not that lonely. Maybe I'm not that desperate. Maybe I feel real enough, alive enough. Maybe I've been neglecting myself. Forgetting about myself. Maybe we shouldn't look to our fellow man, or to our gods, or to our drugs for affirmation. Maybe the sweetest benediction lies in the ugly parts. The ugly parts in us, and in our past -- and our future, all around us, inside us.
Maybe it's time to throw my arms up, shrug my shoulders, give up and say, "I'm all that I have." The memories. The trauma. The defects. All of these pieces -- are me. Simply components...No more, no less. I am them. They are me.
And there was no more knocking on the front door.
Like a weary peasant walking on broken glass, I carefully crept from my room and made my way to the door. No one was there.
Cautiously, I peered through a curtain and walking down the street and away from the house was he.
And I was brimming with relief. An ejaculation. A benediction. Pure freedom.
mc
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