269.69

andy p, johnson, penn —

i bedded him once — now i only had a code a la mode —

how i managed to swallow the tips of the ears of tall dark with king’s ransom:

class had ended, it was remarkable again, i stood at the upstart, with my green j.crew v-neck, underneath a bonobos plaid in green (but not quite “glen plaid”), i wore grey corduroys which make me look ordinary yet unapproachable, and i sported my j.crew special edition new balance, the classics, in green and orange; my watch with maroon stripe, my tortoise and yellow eyeglasses from see eyewear, and my hair is now golden for the season, you might say: tossed salad is the hair-do — and what i look like at the age of 37 is: a sexy 44 yo. it is stunning to be me, perhaps on wellbutrin, certainly on lithium, maybe on lamictal, already popped my doxylamin, and here’s to: hoping that wellbutrin keeps from floating off toward the basement, the loose rat, and a noose to keep the washer and dryer company in this barren fall without birds, bees, or trees.

we walked together, in my south boston community college, he and andy, i was a gap ahead of him at first, he seemed to be weighted down by a torn leather bag, light brown, messenger, with strap. what is interesting about jacques is: he always looks minorly confused; perhaps it is that he might be french or german, perhaps he is new to this neck of the woods of springfield simpsonville, perhaps he just doesn’t know how to get on yet, and perhaps, rightly and sexily, he doesn’t bother to pretend like his other student colleagues: as yet, they don’t know a gay mosquito from a diabetic bee. such is med school these days!

i have never heard his voice, and i am committed to the idea that i cannot hear sexiness. i can only see sexiness. i am — one might say — a male homosexual scopophilic monster, and i am not the only one, perhaps jacques is, too. (jacques is not his real name, his real name begins with an: s, and i will not reveal it). i am ahead, a gap, he is wearing various hipster materials, but with a kind of european vintage, i see that either he is poor or very wealthy, the look on the streets is the same mind you, and then he says: “professor pink.” i am stoned, like they would do in saudi arabia (or equivalent) to a homosexual like me and him, i stopped.

i can only see sexy. i can only hear justice. i have never seen justice. but i can hear it, mostly in music, while dancing, i always hear justice. i cannot for the most part hear sexy. i cannot decide what is more important to me — sex or justice (or love) — but today i am inclined to think love, only because s is behind me, dainty footed, plodding, but masculine, tired of pretending he doesn’t love, it cannot be purchased at the urban outfitters in paris or pikachu or berlin. should he be a european jew!

i hear justice only, i cannot see it. perhaps this is the reason that as a trained art historian from a generalized europia i have always found painting so dull. how to depict sexy in painting — an icon of such sorts can never substitute for the real thing, though i will say that the image (film, photography) is mostly sexier than the human fleshly reality. what i mean to say is: tactility does nothing for me, and even if you could touch the ups and downs of the oils on a renaissance painting, you would ruin it, making sex with oil — desire with pain — a murder, prosecution by the museum guards.

the important points: justice can only be heard in song. sexiness can only be seen in vision. love is not of the senses.

jacques and i quickly arrived — he had said, but i did not need his ears, to be close to his chest, adjacent to his chest, beside his side, and so on — i hoped our walk would continue for miles and weeks but we quickly arrived at my flat, turned in. and then, to hopefully never end until the index —

and it took him hours and months to remove his clothes, article by article, sock by sock, at first, and then to spend sinewy decades and long minutes with his boxers, he would never get them off, i would refuse to take my jeans off, i would keep it all on, to entice his tactile-scopophilic desires, i wait.

it was several light years before the nanosecond of the move, when the jeans were ripped of their zipper, would it were buttons — would it have taken half the time to arrive at purgatory, gustatory, my sense could only be scopophilic, i posited myself properly, glasses on, to fuck with glasses on, to be able to bounce and down with eyewear — see eyewear, mind you, tortoise and yellow, would i slip on, exchange and contrast and compare, to the blacks, the blues, the dior, the raybans, i will have them all — but would he struggle with the zipper, i froze, could not possibly help, he would caress the metals, the zip of the zipper, the interlocked crevices which we could only hope would not be caught with his skivvies, what dirty pair of underwear, of simply hugged briefs, of a generic brand or even a thrift store theft, but to catch used dirtied underwear in the teeth of the zipper of these mangled jeans — long seconds, to forget minutes, days and weeks and months, from 2014 to 2069 — how old will this boy be, then? — just right, perfectly young, 22 from europe, properly educated, knowing all that i know, mirroring back to me my own history of mirroring — what is the point: how could i possibly describe my disgust at his uncircumcised penis?

such is: the story of how tall dark and foreign returned to my bedroom with jeans, a leather bag, and few words.

dx:

Bipolar 1 with Psychotic Features and Erotic Fixation (269.69)

i will have more for you later, but, as i suggested, it will take a week for him to finally unzip his zipper to reveal an uncircumcised penis of which i can only mumble with disgust, “dirty european.” if i wanted an uncircumcised penis in my mouth, would i not simply watch european porn and eat the screen?

it is an interesting thought: is the money-shot heftier while watching porn than while imagining oneself in the third person during a scene of penetration, of sodomy, in some form?

i will carry on about jacques later, tomorrow, when i have recovered — perhaps with the wellbutrin — to notice a difference, such will keep my mind from wandering toward his whiskers and ample package to be cast aside in favor, probably and simply, to balls and their perforations.

i do mind, and thanks for asking —

andy