“Wassup nigga.”
“Wassup.”
Helped that I was drunk. But it’s the perception. The 300 pound figure. The cornrows. The walk that people mistake as a pimp but is really an attempt to hide the fact my back hurts like a son of a bitch… the whole thing. I got the look of a bad motherfucker. And sometimes I am. I thought of this when reading your email. Like, “This dude thinks I’m… smarty.” I definitely think my outside by far does my inside justice. If I were to look like what I truly am I often imagine I would resemble Vera from “Alice”, or Daria, or maybe Ally McBeal.
“Wassup Pooh.”
“Wassup.”
“I’ve been searchin’ my soul tonight…”
One phrase that has been going through my head this year so far is, “a closed mouth doesn’t get fed.” Which I have interpreted as, to be in the world you have to be of the world or, if you want to ever hold a decent conversation with at least a half decent dude, you got to put yourself out there. Part of me putting that personal ad was courage, a great deal of it was desperation, “Jesus! There has got to be at least one dude out there who can hold a conversation without using the word ‘Diva’ or consumed with whether or not I’m a top or bottom.”
My journal entries are just basically about me trying to… I dunno… my last relationship just fucked me up really. More than I would honestly care to admit. I was once deeply involved with a guy who was HIV+ who has since passed away (I’m negative by the way). Since then I I’ve been in love twice. Each one... amazing struggles on my part. The last one was a doozy. It’s just hard for me to imagine, letting go… that much… again. In certain ways, I think I’m losing my faith. Thus one of the reasons I went out tonight. I’m so sick of people thinking I’m an enigma. I’m not a fucking enigma. I’m just a guy who wants to raise a family and get fucked every once in awhile. It’s very simple really. Talk, date, let me make you tea, let me make love to you, let me dance with you, meet your folks, get some kids, get closer to God, watch the sunset on our porch, simple really. It’s not a puzzle. It’s not… avante garde. But I just feel like such an anomaly sometimes. And there is one sure thing that can even the playing field… liquor.
After two shots of Cuervo and five Malibu Rums with orange juice, I stumble home having to piss like a race horse. I was so wasted I had to sit down to pee. Then it all hit me. How… alone, I guess is the word… I felt. How much I’m still in love my chicken head. How much I’m still in love my HIV+ chicken head who died. How I don’t know if there is any part left of my heart to break. And would anyone want to feed me theirs, if I ever decided to open my mouth again.
So I cried… really hard… on my toilet. And I honestly feel much better.
Heaven is a drunken temper tantrum on a toilet stool.
So I’m the dude, you’re the dude. I’ve been the bitch. I think a lot of us have and just don’t want to admit it. I mention it because I’m a borderline masochist and you know… Malibu Rum and orange juice. But then I became the man. Then as a man, I fell in love with a man. There isn’t a rum on the planet that could inebriate me as much. To love and be loved, to fuck and be fucked, as a man, by a man… it’s such a carnal thought to me, something that could never truly be captured in a sitcom or documentary or well meant parade. To put your hand behind some dude’s head, your thumb behind their ear, look into his eyes, feel his mustache on your face, see him close his eyes, you close your eyes and have one thing go through your mind, “he’s been hurt too.” This ain’t “Queer as Folk” or “B-Boy Blues”. This is your life, and it yearns for this guy, and if it’s right, Jesus… it’s like spiritual Crystal Meth. But when it’s wrong… well… when it’s wrong… months later you find yourself writing long ass passages at 4:00 a.m. about your broken heart to your cute dreadlocked friend.
-Breeze
