6:19 p.m. - May 25, 2003
I do not feel comfortable divulging the ďgay stuffĒ to my best friend; she has long held that Spec took advantage of me and to animorphize, reeled me in on an emotional line to abate his own loneliness. Her blinders are protective of me but overall in this regard, she has not been truly supportive. She listens, or more aptly is willing to listen, but I donít share because I know where she comes from and I have enough guilt as it is.
On the other end is Bathsheba who, like A[deleted]a, is someone I consider my best friend in many regards. She too is a Christian and at one point I asked her to stop reading Non-Descript because I would rather she be in the dark when it comes to the politics of my sexual identity/ies; I felt judged and again, I didnít want that. And lately, she has peppered her emails with references and inquiries Have you met any cute guys? that make me feel uncomfortable with her comfort. Does that make any sense? I donít want her or anybody else to be comfortable with the topic any more than I really want to be comfortable myself. Give me the turmoil as a salve rather than abate the turmoil; I prefer to wallow and be sad and angry and upset and disappointed and confused, yes, the blessed state of indecision, rather than look in the mirror and say Iím gay and thatís okay because to me, it isnít. Not at all.
I feel giving up / giving in is an archetypal symbol of failure and itís fruitless to rail with lofty proclamations and rusty equipment against the invaders when one has been sacked and burned already. To struggle is to be stubborn or noble depending on perspective and I like mine fine just as it is. That is a lie, of course.
Last night I was horny and decided I was going to do something different Ė aha! Something different plays havoc Ė and in a few minutes began chatting with one guy who seemed as genuine as a five-minute conversation can parlay via immediacy; spoke on the phone Ė must have a manís voice, no equivocations about it Ė and before long I was on the highway. No thought, self-criticism, condemnation, nothing. Just as inconsequential as breathing, eh? I thought about Erikaís and Ozís comments, decided to play, whatever that means. It wasnít until he put his hand on my knee and said I was very attractive that I asked myself, What the fuck am I doing? paired with Maybe Iím not as hideous as I think I am. Every word this man said was line after line and maybe I do have a nice bulge, maybe I do have nice eyes and eyelashes and a gorgeous smile but the insincerity and eager fantasy-compliments left me dick-down turned off. Who cares about my eyes and hair and eyelashes? I am no gay manís wet dream. The Guy, as in the one who gives me head when I ask, isnít into me as a person; heís said as much once a while ago. My claim to fame as it were is somewhere among having huge balls, a thick cock and being able to cum at least twice, three times, sometimes more in quick succession. It isnít in the non-gym body, or my brain or my smile. And damn it, Iím more than that. An exercise in absurdism to think something other than a cock would be validated when two men are self-admittedly horny and seeking egress and perhaps itís just me looking in the wrong places for something more substantial than Plaster of Paris. He began giving me head and I was somewhat rough with this guy and this time I reciprocated Ė do I have to say it? Ė and if I was turned off before, I was turned off even more. I couldnít do it; note that I am not saying I didnít want to do it, or that it was repugnant or a visceral horrific reaction, but I couldnít do it. In the moment when pheromones and desires collude I asked myself, Why the hell are you doing this? and I had no reply.
Why am I doing this? Ostensibly, to gain experience and confidence, but thatís only half the story. The other half that I realized last night is that Iím trying to prove to myself that I am gay and engaging in homosexual acts is a likely indication of oneís inclinations, eh? However, thereís something missing in my equation: Mentally, I donít want it. Physically, maybe Ė but my cockís like a hydraulic bridge as it is, no matter whoís working on it Ė but I think that spark of surety lies in the nesting of the physical want meshing and merging with the mental and emotional, something that is clear-cut and obvious, This is what I want, I like this, and I like this want. I donít have these parts. What I do have is a Spec complex; Iím trying to save or resurrect our relationship by becoming more comfortable with the physical aspects of male sex. I, we, take your pick, had the emotional and the mental, but I struggled with the physical. We had a one-way, one-desire set up where I subjugated my own needs and desires not because I thought or felt less of them but because I couldnít recognize what they were. And I still canít. Were I to enmesh myself further, would I be a top or bottom? Versatile? None of the above? Celibate not from circumstance or choice but by default?
Last night I kept thinking These people are not for me, I am not one of them as though this guy represents every gay individual out there. My attitude and inclination parallels apathy and disinterest. I didnít feel nasty or interested; I was bored and I yawned. Why am I doing this? I am less convinced it is for me, for Jason, and more convinced it is for Spec and that is long over. So if I think this now, what are the ramifications? Beginning to think again that sex with men is best left mental and with my hands and I feel this is a pathetic cop out, especially coming after a dissatisfying sexual encounter. But if youíre me and trying, trying, trying and ďitĒ hasnít clicked yet, and clarity hasnít come your way like a triple-base home run, at what point do you re-evaluate and say This isnít for me without being reductionist and silly? At what point does the concrete Yea or Nay materialize?
All this to say, Bathsheba, donít be more comfortable than I am. Iím not there and there is no yet appended.