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8:16 p.m. - January 29, 2004
The music of my season is acapella
Being intimate is a triumph tempered with caution that blares fluorescent warning, an awareness like prickled skin and raised hairs signaling danger. Is it the physical proximity, the sharing of breath and sweat, or a deeper form that sounds like a klaxon blaring in my head, a rhythm of flee! Flee! before which Iím caught up amid uncertainty and indelible loneliness? In my world of generalizations and unsupported pronouncements no good things come from being vulnerable.

It was only a few weeks ago that I condemned fuck buddies and transitory attachments spanning minutes or longer on a bus-run schedule, its facetious intimacy an attempt to hold the black hounds at bay. And today I realize my hypocrisy, a sour taste of the unpalatable heaped in a bowl before my face in which I sup. Were one to query into past relationships Iíd ardently posit emotional openness as a prerequisite to the physical, a complementary pairing of quid pro quo and affection in both idealistic and pragmatic orientations. But sitting in traffic my thoughts too are bumper to bumper and this pairing is an excuse to allay that lust clawing from within, a constant cold shower, the turning away from the things I desire simply because they require too much from me. I do not want a romantic relationship with Ryan II and I fear such looming on the horizon and ripple by ripple Iím being submerged.

Iíll take the sex and leave the character at the door, take the chance my demons will reappear when Iíve closed my eyes and prepare to open up wholly to a man and climb the slide into pleasure before itís too late. And such risks those times when the bogeyman creeps into my head and the slide freezes under my feet and the character Iíve left standing outside in the wind. It is too much to be physically intimate. Being so is initiating a complex dance pattern on tired feet before a judge and jury, an invitation to fail the dyad of Ėtions: Expectations & assumptions.

I strive for sexual intimacy with men to prove to myself I can, that Iím in charge, normal, and itís a game where I play against myself though Iím not in shape. The reality is Iím not really wholly there and that makes me no better than those I judge. Sex is supposed to be fun and pleasurable, two people who want to be close and share the secret parts of their lives. It isnít a see, I told you I can competition where the partner is a pawn or bit-character in your inner monologue. It is supposed to be wonderful and healthy and make you happy to share yourself with someone you care for and trust. I am not this way with Ryan II and at this point in my life I need to realize the bad parts canít be covered up with a series of I told yous.

It is profoundly saddening to me, this realization that I have a guy interested in me with whom Iíve been sexually intimate, long upheld as a barometer or prize of having arrived at a healthy point, and Iím even more lonely than when Iím alone. Having another is like a pinch too much turning not-quite-right into bitter, jumping past savory and contentment.

I do not know what any of this means.

I am afraid to try because I donít know what Iím trying for.


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