Friday, January 09, 2009

That's all him because of me when he loses it that’s me

What I mean when I say that desire is so situational for me is that here I am at the Nob Hill Theatre, not because I’m horny but just because it’s somewhere to go late at night for a few minutes to get out of the house and then get home, there must be somewhere better to go but yes I’m drifting back to my old routine I haven’t figured anything else out yet, okay? Anyway, there’s one guy who comes in right after me and rushes to the bathroom, gaunt face under big hooded sweatshirt, maybe he’s shooting some speed is what I’m thinking, and then other than that there’s no one else except two guys in neighboring booths with the doors locked, the booths in the corner with a glory hole, and I’m trying to see through the crack. Eventually I can see this guy’s cock, striped sweater, stomach bulging a bit, up to his face, stubble, short hair, kind of cute I’m trying to study the details of his face maybe he’s Asian why am I noting race through a crack in a doorway maybe that’s how cracks in doorways work is he looking at me maybe he’s looking at me, soft eyes. But then when I look again he’s looking down towards the glory hole and I tap on the door softly he doesn’t respond and then there I am in the hallway on my knees so I can get a better look, when before I didn’t even know if I was horny, which I guess meant I wasn’t horny, but now I’m staring at his cock sticking practically straight out not large or small I guess he’s teasing the guy next door but when I look up at his eyes again I do think he’s teasing me, what do I have to lose, I tap harder on the door, still no response, and then I say let me in so I can watch, as if I’m not watching already, and then I stand when I hear the door unlock, pull it open and he reaches right for my head so he can kiss me, loose lips and liquor I mean usually when people say loose lips they mean talking but these are really loose I mean they feel rubbery.

I’m rubbing his belly right above cock and he pulls away with it, maybe his hand is on my neck or maybe that’s later but anyway I’m down to my knees that familiar place and he’s pumping fast, yes, and then the guy next door yells what the fuck? What the fuck? Like an angry straight guy the threat of violence but I kind of feel like I’m to blame, really it’s the space that’s to blame because he’s on the other side of a wall if he was just here with us what would matter we could take turns, although then he’s turning the doorknob and I’m kind of glad it’s locked except then I’m worried he’s going to take out a gun and shoot me through the glory hole or maybe a knife it’s true that this was what I wanted, not the gun or knife just this guy pumping my throat what I was craving, which meant not in this other guy’s throat, at least in this particular situation but now someone has joined the other guy and he’s calmer, sounds like they’re watching and I start to choke, not on the guy’s cock it’s ‘cause there’s too much saliva my own saliva so I pull away and look up, actually I’m already looking up it’s more fun that way and he starts jerking in my face, pushing my head smoky fingers to his balls, shaved and prickly, not exactly what I want but I go there anyway but then I say I want to eat your come I can’t help giving in to the pornography of that particular statement and the way it holds my desire not quite hostage but maybe. And then he’s fucking my face again I’m reaching up underneath his sweater for chest and armpits and neck and he’s moaning I’m going slow then fast, doing that thing where I’m just pulling on head and looking up, then all the way down even though I’m thinking I’m going to pay this time for what the fuck, pay for taking this guy’s cock away from what the fuck like this guy is just his cock this is what gay culture makes us. Even though this guy with the cock is the one who made the decision, his decision to make I’m thinking this will be the time when I’ll get an STD at least he didn’t shoot me. The way all this can exist in my head even while eye contact with desire hoping hoping for yes his come yes his come what is it about his come it’s not the liquid it’s that feeling that goes through his body into mine that desperate drive that moment from groan to grunt that shake and hold shiver quiver that connection that’s all him because of me when he loses it that’s me I’m there because of him and then it happens, I was hoping for down my throat but he pulls back just at the moment into my mouth, that’s usually where the sore throat starts but I swallow and then hold my mouth around his dick until he pulls back.

Up to give him a hug, kiss, and then I’m sitting down on the chair, pants down to show off my dick in my hand, the moment when it looks huge almost like something I’m holding, where did that come from? Next door what the fuck has pushed through a Giants jacket, bright orange I wouldn’t know that meant Giants except Randy says something about his jacket orange with black stripes at the collar and old women say is that? Just because of the collar, the rest is vintage fabric gray pink. Before I was thinking I would give our neighbors a show, my come right through the glory hole and this guy is kind of pointing to the jacket, he doesn’t say what the fuck he shrugs his shoulders, says they were watching the whole time. I wonder what they look like, but mostly I wonder if this guy is going to stay with me until I come he’s still here now, rubbing the back of my head so softly it’s the most beautiful gesture I can imagine in this moment although I can’t quite say why, my dick still in my hand I’m pulling in both directions and then spit, jerk a bit faster and there’s my come he says wow that’s a lot of come and I look down, it is a lot of come, it’s because I wait so long. I pull my pants back so it doesn’t get on my belt, this one’s fabric not plastic and then I stand up, kiss those liquor lips not as loose now maybe, he says why do they make these rooms so small? Only one person, I say—and they need a paper towel dispenser. He says want me to get you a paper towel – I’m dressed. That’s okay, I say – I’ll just wipe it on my thighs, and that’s what I start to do but don’t want to get it all over and then I remember there’s tissue in the front pockets of this jacket and I pull some out with a flourish, it’s actually a big soft rectangular tissue not toilet paper like I expected, where did I get this big soft tissue?

In the hall we hug goodbye, he says thanks, and then I check my hair in the bathroom mirror but head out quickly so I don’t run into what the fuck, distracted now anyway and maybe he’s even having a better time. Somehow I imagine he doesn’t know exactly what I look like, even though he was staring right at me and the lights were on and when I go outside I wonder why we can’t have spaces I’m just in my body again forgetting about the danger and anger and awkwardness just right now wanting more spaces like this with 40 people at once, 40 people crowded around each other in every combination of madness, spaces where everyone is ready to get off or get each other off or just hug I’m just wondering about the density, so lonely when it’s only two or three or four people of course 40 can be lonely too but I wonder if soon these places will disappear, even the sudden moments of excitement or connection within the larger lack, and then there will just be that lack.

6 comments:

ohthehorror! said...

I've read this post about 10 times. Maybe it's just the fucking insomnia but there are certain passages that make me cry really hard. I don't mean that in a "chalk it up to the insomnia and not the writing" kind of way. Your writing is always powerful, but you know how insomnia can eviscerate you, just flay you wide open? And then how those implicit associations you have worked so hard to keep at bay (and speaking of keeping things at bay, how is San Francisco treating you?) are exposed? Well, anyways, I was already in that space where insomnia cycles really fast from brilliant psychosis to catharsis and collapse in the span of 10 minutes and then I read this post.

Which leads to my questions (somehow): When you write, are you intentionally creating a Rorschach inkblot or is that just my insomnia? There are so many streams (but NOT stream of consciousness) flowing through this post and each stream has these rocks that jut up from the water, some of which feel intentionally obvious and others that I sail over and don't even realize I've hit them until I start sinking. Are you doing that on purpose or am I seeing things?

Well, it's beautiful regardless. And it makes me sad when I think how so many non-queers (especially the white gay male what the fucks and that one fool I heard refer to himself as an "American dude of African ancestry who happens to have a homosexual orientation") will never, ever be able to see it. I guess what I'm saying is that I wonder if *any* non-queers can read your work and be transformed by it. I hope the answer is yes, because you tell the story they need to hear about us (the voice is all you but there is so much of all of us in it, by us I mean queers) but instead they fill it with Will and Grace reruns.

Anyhow...also thank you for the earlier post where you said "What fascinates me is the way that Obama continues to move to the right without pressure from the right – and people on the left keep clapping their hands with all the audacity they can muster." I don't know who the Tony poster is and I haven't read all of her posts but it sounds like he's coming around and she's young and bright and look what you did! :)

mattilda bernstein sycamore said...

Ohthehorror, "that space where insomnia cycles really fast from brilliant psychosis to catharsis and collapse in the span of 10 minutes" -- oh that space, I know that space well!

Hmm, I wouldn't call it a Rorschach test but I do like to create layers of experience and comfortable/uncomfortable juxtapositions and vulnerability and things like that...

Sometimes I wonder about non-queers too, in particular in relationship to my writing about sex and yes I hope/see it resonates but then I think of a particular subset of non-queers, gay men that is, and that's when I really wonder.

And thanks for saying it's beautiful, and for all your engagement...

love --
mattilda

stephen said...

i'm back till friday, then leave town for three days to go to a hot springs spa.. then back again.. what is your schedule

Oli said...

"what is it about his come it’s not the liquid it’s that feeling that goes through his body into mine..."

reading this was amazing, somehow. (I don't mean 'somehow' to put you down. I just mean that it was simple, and a familiar topic in your writing, but this particular instantiation pulled out + elaborated new layers of stuff really nicely.)

oh, and I hope you got that zine I sent you!
-Oli

mattilda bernstein sycamore said...

Stephen, oh a hot springs -- that sounds nice... I'm a disaster so maybe after you return, but call me call me call me and we'll figure it out...

Oli, yay I'm so glad -- sometimes I wonder, visiting these particular topics over and over, I wonder whether I'm saying what I want I mean I know that it feels crucial to write and I'm so glad it means something once it's written...

But wait -- I don't know if I did get your zine, let me look through my mail and see... you sent it while I was on tour, right? Or just before... Either way, it should be in this pile here, but I don't see it.

Love --

Oli said...

oh no, hm! I need to print a few more copies up anyway and I will send another yr way. Yr address is 537 #3152, yes?