The past few weeks in his arms.
This morning we woke up next to each other one last time before I leave. The dog needed walking so I headed over to Grumpy on 20th St and ordered the Guatemalan special. I drank mine there then limped back to the apartment. I forgot to wear my ankle brace.
He was waiting in bed, tangled in the sheets. His monochrome tattoos: insects and art nouveau chrysanthemums. He is agile and muscular like a wild beast. His wiry beard and jet black, beady eyes. Yesterday he did standing push ups against the wall.
It never occurs to me that he would want the same of me. Super fit, super defined. I am neither.
We watched Harold and Maud in bed last night. The old woman and the young boy.
He is a man, 32 years old, not a boy. Half Italian…half black…he has lived all over the world, indulging his wander lust. Taking refuge in the roads. He speaks Italian, spends time at an Indian ashram, collects art, makes art, cooks me dinner and today we are kayaking on the Hudson. He has already seen Visconti’s Rocco and his Brothers.
In bed, we take turns with who plays the aggressor. He kisses me, feeding me his spit, his cum, his ass. I stand over him, telling him what to do. He holds me down and pounds me. He holds up his ass and I push my cock in him…holding it there, relishing the connection. The first time he came he shot his load under my arm pit.
I don’t make the same mistakes. When I feel that loving feeling rush over me. No travel fantasies, no ownership, no LA visits or career help. No promises, no name dropping. Nothing I can do to make him love me.
We lay together or walk together. He bikes over the Manhattan bridge, he hates the Brooklyn bridge, he says that there are too many tourists walking in the bike lane.
He wants to show me a picture of an old lady torn to pieces on the subway, the picture he sold to the newspapers for $300. Her hand stretched out, trying to stop the train ripping her head in two. I don’t want to see it. Imagining it is enough. Do you want to see?
Last night he took me to Washington Square Park. Hundreds of young, nerdy kids fighting each other with light sabres. A forest of drawn weapons. Some had arrived just with their sabre, others with friends, a routine and rehearsed lines from Star Wars.
(He is doing a hundred push ups.)
As we were leaving the park a young girl indignantly told her friends, “I don’t need to see Star Wars to play with a silly stick.”
He cooked dinner. It’s Midday on Sunday and we are getting up again. I am boiling some eggs. He likes them soft.
