- 1. cars outside
- 2. full of empty
- 3. seltzer cans
- 3a. Ciara - 1, 2 Step (Official Video) ft. Missy Elliott - YouTube.mp3
- 4. bitter cold
- 5. empty
get myself in bad situation
i like
bad situation
a spider weaves a web in the window sill
i'm gonna make you mine...
each situation's more than one situation
wish they could be just one situation
am i me
or am i
just another
cheap
imitation?
The interwoven sine waves of 'Breathe', by Telepopmusik, ringing like 2-dimensional church bells, gives way to Sia intoning 'Breathe Me' over a tepid house beat -- an endless act of recycling I thought had ended 15 years ago. As she intones 'I am nowhere to be found,' the bottom who lives around the corner from me puts two fingers inside himself, effectively stroking both sides of my dick, also inside him, until he uses them to feel it pulse as I cum. He looks up at me with a frozen, awe struck expression -- "I've never done that before." 30 minutes later he texts me "That was awesome," along with whatever other tepid shit people say to strangers they've just had sex with & think they want to fuck again.
I'm an inverted hole, it's spiritual.
When I left [ ]'s apartment for the last time, I walked down [ ] to [ ]'s studio in a daze. The sleep-deprived, slightly delirious quality of my interior was mirrored by the golden fog spilling over from the Canadian wildfires. Parked in the middle of a line of traffic, a beautiful woman in a plastic hairnet with long, sharp nail decals was blasting 'No Air' by Chris Brown with the windows down, notably one of [ ]'s favorite songs. She was smiling big and dancing with her hands, a contented child sitting in the back seat of the car quietly sucking in the imported wildfire smoke. Then I walked by a live meat market, doors open, full of loudly bleating sheep in cages.
We're driving to a club in the industrial part of [ ] to see some DJs and a singer. [ ]'s got one hand on my thigh while he's driving. I'm leaving [ ] in two days to go back to [ ]. Lenny Kravitz is blasting over the radio. Everyone in the car screams 'I WONDER IF I / WILL EVER SEE YOU AGAIN.'
After meeting [ ] I had dreams every night in which we parted ways in definitive fashion, only for me to go to a party and find him still in whichever city I was in, after he claimed to be leaving, awkwardly avoiding me or ignoring me altogether.
Almost two months later, meeting in [ ] to part ways in real life, I had a dream that he wasn't in -- I was walking down the street with my friend [ ] holding a plastic deli bag full of lightbulbs, which I was snacking on like candy. The texture of the bulbs was delicate, crystalline, gorgeous. Eventually, I became aware that I was crushing actual glass between my teeth, and I forced myself to stop eating, in reality I probably just had gas while I was sleeping.
Three days later, high up on a ferris wheel, overlooking the sunset distributing itself across the surface of the [ ] sea, a few tears started rolling down his face while he tried to tell me that my problem is that I don't believe that anyone could ever want me.
June -- I'm scaling the periphery of the large cemetery that veers up one of [ ]'s large, steep hills. It reminds of [ ] but redone to look like the roadside liminal spaces of [ ]. I'm almost at the bottom and see a keyless piano outside a row of houses, facing the street, next to an unmanned car periodically honking, seemingly of its own accord.
When I get to the bottom of the hill I go into a bathroom and notice that my dead grandmother's chain I've been wearing somehow fell off my neck and is gone.
That night, [ ] and I go out to a carpeted bar lined with several flat screens playing the same baseball game. A few feet from the entrance there's a steep staircase leading up to a thin strip of bar+booths. There're 5 people in the bar minus the bartender, a sort of slumpy gay man with a sunken disposition and sinking gut wearing a Yoshitomo Nara shirt. Sitting at the bar there's two men in blazers with poor posture talking animatedly, and a woman in business-casual attire sitting by herself smoking. [ ] orders a shot of whiskey, which comes as a full glass, and a tall boy; I order a beer. I exchange brief moments of eye contact with one of the blazer guys, a sort of corny looking dude with a mustache wearing a culty looking chain around his neck that makes easy space for hollow, quasi-ironic references to judeo-christian spirituality and its ties to the working class, immigrant history of the surrounding cityscape. He hones in on [ ] and compliments his shirt before abruptly walking around him and planting himself next to me at the bar. I chain smoke [ ]'s Chinese cigarettes for the next hour or so while the guy in the blazer talks at me about his purportedly lucrative art career making homoerotic paintings, his wife and daughter, and how he knows his art will sell because patriarchy is the only form of order he believes hasn't failed global society.
As we go deeper into the "conversation," I start taking his American Spirits from the pack sitting on the bar, instead of [ ]'s cigarettes, and telling him "I'm going to take one of these," while looking him in the eye. He tells me that the guys who pose for his paintings always wear chain necklaces, and they refuse to take them off when he asks them to, despite being fully nude. I ask him about his chain and he opens up the quasi-ironic historico-religious space with a seemingly characteristic lack of depth, and I remember the disappearance of my grandmother's chain from my neck earlier in the afternoon. I ask him if he's ever had sex with a man, and he says 'No,' which he admits 'is crazy,' but that he's smart enough to make work that he knows is always going to sell, which he's arguably not wrong about. I tell him it sounds like he's just a pussy, and he says 'Yea,' then continues his missive on how all Real American Art Stars are men, and attempts to stick by it after I run through a sprawling list of inescapably ubiquitous female artists. He leaves some time after I ask him to name his gallery in New York, which he claims had closed sometime over the last couple years, pack of American Spirits still sitting on the bar.
I wake up the next day feeling like total shit despite my remarkably clean urine stream. I walk by the church sign that says 'Life is like tennis, he who serves the most wins,' again. A guy on Grindr messages me a list of moderately violent kinks that starts with 'pain play' and concludes with 'fag bashing,' quietly raising questions about the explicit taxonomical difference between the rest of the listed fetishes, in context, and the final one, and proposes that his husband can join us if I think that would be hot. I ask what he has in mind and he says, 'I'm just happy as long as I'm being used.'
