4:03 p.m. - July 24, 2004
Lard asses and tubs of white, emolient lard
Last night I had a terrific conversation with a man named Jeff. We covered books - classics, especially the Greek - movies, politics, music, the physical properties of the brain affected by different types of music. A great conversation, as my online discourse tends to be. And towards the end he broached a no-expectations meeting, a logical assumption that face-to-face conversations will at least be one step better, more enriched, than the anonymous and flat-affect of an IM box.
Was thinking earlier, while working on more fingerspelling, that I should meet with him if we arrange a rendez-vous, rather than excusing myself because I'm unattractive. There's something ponderous about my automatic recusal of sorts when these things come up. What is it that makes me feel I'm ugly enough that I need to hide away and wait the passing of the end? Ryan and Jon have never said anything - well, Ryan has intimated, but never said anything outright - so what if I'm not as ugly as I feel I am? What if I were to adopt that perspective?
The horror of sitting at a cafe waiting for someone to show up, and entertaining the possibility he wouldn't approach after having seen me and gulped. Or seeing the disappointment, as if all gay men are supposed to be beautiful, hot, and lithe. Or something.
I'm none of those things. I am short, squat, dumpy, malformed, unstriking. Ambulatory blubber. Obese. Overweight. A tub of lard. A lard-ass. Bulky. Bloated. Stout. Portly. Rotund. Corpulent. A fatty, the one turned away from no fats and no murderers signs.
If I weren't, I wouldn't have reason to hide away, to be invisible. I think that frightens me, being unable to be invisible. Being wanted, while it appeals upstairs, evokes unpleasant frissons. Being pursued as it is makes me turn around and run, not that there are legions wanting to court. It would be fun for a day but the trick, the poison pill, is being okay with myself every day.
How I'd like to be intimate and not be afraid, of loving my body and relishing touch. Touch. It's a simple thing, one that eludes me.
So Jeff from Palo Alto, a nice guy, won't meet me. Pep talks aside, I don't want to meet me either.
Do something about it then. Do something.
