Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold?
Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
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.
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.
I went too far this time. Vile beyond description. Going quietly insane here. Not so quietly. Very publicly insane. Somebody wrote to me imploring me to get help. I don’t really know how. The feelings are so overwhelming. This has nothing to do with anyone currently in my life or recently out of it. I was reading over my blog pre January and it’s like reading a different person. I have become madder than the maddest man in madland. Totally unhinged.
You can read what he/she said at the end of the DEAD WEIGHT blog. For some odd reason it cut through everything and made sense. I took notice. 8.43pm on Monday night I am taking notice. I dread the morning when the fear sets in. The fear and loathing.
You have to believe me I am battling with terrible demons at dawn. Lost and empty.
Trying to juggle everything so I can get back to London and go to hospital. Perhaps it’s just time to let the balls fall where they may and leave.
What he/she said about Jennie and the big dog was accurate. I make myself vulnerable and then I punish those about me who see it.
Listen, I’m not trying to excuse myself. Today there are no excuses for my behaviour.
I’m just trying to work it out. Trying to navigate my way back to sanity.
There is no therapist. I just have to accept what is happening and go home. It’s time..but I’ve said that a million times. It’s time to buy goats or leave a situation or..well..there are millions of examples of just how I say I want to do something then I never do it.
Rather flagellate him I flagellate myself. This wasn’t how it was before. I can read the difference between me then and me now.
I would really like to cry but I can’t. Too many tears shed for nothing.
It’s amazing that in less than three weeks I will be celebrating a sobriety birthday. Huh. Perhaps I should just say I have one day.
The pain in my balls and back is getting worse but I think that this might just be in my head.
What would it mean if I just took one drink? If I could drown these terrible feelings of loathing (and self loathing) I am overcome by?
A day off. I want a day off from Duncan Roy.