gay grooving — to a T — and types

andy pink, roanoke, va —

hit the snowboard skis bust your knelt knees —

andy here, i've plied my groove back from the soils of the grave and rediscovered my self in physical riff to my dance pop electronica music this morning at the orange line downtown stop — at six-thirty on my way to mike at hoodlo in charlestown — move to soothe — the shoe tap and hip hunt have been absent of late, tired, sunken in, hibernating like phil frackstone, the last twinkie who fucked me, dick in mouth, and there i was — watch see watch see — playing it and kicking it and making out with it — to 'false alarm,' which i haven't listened to in a while, with arms extended, tight, shaken, hop, hit, bop, smack, kick, twist, arms sextended — a one-eighty from my griggs pose — sunken and tired, brooding and seething, this morning's mourn — patrick, if in the vicinity this morning, must have wondered, aghast: 'what's happened to my ex-boyfriend?' — and then the gaze of the other, at the orange line, at downtown crossing, at six-thirty this morning — how to summarize? — the gaze catches sight of the happiest, smartest, funniest — sexiest — boy at park street — the gaze, hurried, catches me briefly, looks away, mildly angered, veiled by generalized busyness and repetitious boredom: 'an old american fag who doesn't look fat' — me too! these frustrated eyes are isomorphic to the other gaze at the gays that i have written about here: 'how did you get to be gay?' — straight, queered by his own look — the angered eyes torn ligaments — 'how did he get to dance in the public sphere?' — 'and with such luminous talent?' he murmurs to himself, beyond the ears of his asian girlfriend, from across the starbucks, outside of the sirens of the fire trucks and clad boys, from the spilled coffee grounds and homo avoided gropes — 'how did he get to be gay?'

in july, amidst my hiatus from this site, from the viewer mail, and from tweaks and links to web design, i considered, briefly, relocating to davis square, for a variety of reasons, which have since passed. in the end, i decided against davis, the top ten reasons, these:

10. the dykes

09. the hike

08. the newly bred bohemian bourgeois atmosphere

07. johnny's is gone

06. the starbucks stain

05. ross lives there

04. smells like teen spirit 03. i was insurance redlined out of rent control

02. i'm banned from the dunkin donuts on market street 01. didn't like living there the first time

all told, i will be staying in allston for at least another yr, and i am ok with that, i am fixing up the apt, with a plethora of new accoutrements, most recent of which is the yamaha keyboard 88-key, it is lovely, and i've taken to it well, with the 10 yrs of classical training i have, it's come right back, and i'm on the sheet music i've purchased, and am playing, singing (speaking) lyrics, and have plans to rewrite pop song lyrics with philosophy lyrics and then perform the words and post them to this site as addendum to the 'video professor' (not yet posted, recorded) sections on the site.

i realized that trevor — who was the man i fell in love with in boston, after eric, wonder boy, from montreal, after the 7 month inpatient stay at the jewish general hospital — is very much the progenitor for patrick: both — tall (patrick probably an inch shorter, both around 6'2-3) blond (trevor darker), lanky, thin, no ass, yoga, bicycle, narrow faces. mike, of hoodlo, is the heir to jason: both — pudgy, beautiful face, short, pasty, indie, music, funny. we have: mike-jason and patrick-trevor — two of whom i have had and loved and lost (jason and trevor) and two of whom i have not had and have still loved (mike and patrick) and one of whom i have lost (though who still feels present, at times) and one of whom i have yet to lose and i sense i will not, though i also wager that i will never have him, to lose. so, if we set aside jeremy, blond and short, perfectly chiseled, including his pearly teeth, who may very well be the love of my life, from a distance, despite having turned out to be an economist rather than a marxist, i think i have two types: the mike-jason — pudgy, beautiful face, short, pasty, indie, music, funny — and the patrick-trevor — tall, blond, lanky, thin, no ass, yoga, bicycle, narrow face. i would say that mike, jason, and patrick are all unconventionally attractive, and that jason and mike could be deemed outright ordinary looking, and that patrick might well be considered simply avg looking; i would say that trevor is above avg and might well be considered hot, though he insists that most women do not find him sexually magnetic. this information may prove useful for the future, take notes.

the sun is unrelenting, but the depressive grays have moved in this morning and they have momentarily brightened my day — the obverse of the adage that april is the cruelest month, which i can attest: it was, this year, 2016, for me.

about eric, wonder boy:

in many ways, i think, eric was in love with me, this was only latent at the time, he was 22 and i was 31, 2008, only out of the hospital after 7 months of torturous inpatient treatment for acute psychosis after a series of manic breakdowns at university that culminated in running naked in the winter streets outside of my flat on sherbrooke est in montreal — and, i believe, i was probably the first man that eric was in love with, the first man he had sex with (that i know), and i think possibly the first man that he ever kissed; in our relationship, which was all of 8 months, i spent much of my time with my face buried in his ass — which was enhanced by silicone butt implants, which are illegal in the states though somehow legal in canada, not sure how, and i'd be surprised if it were covered by their national health service, but his parents had money, and i think the butt implants were a kind of compensation for a smaller member that i suppose could only be traced backward to a paternal lineage that was less than massive (or less than mine).

speaking of: the reason that my face spent so much time in eric's ass is that he near sequestered his penis from me for most our our 8 month relationship, i had very little access to it, some oral sex (never anal), and most of our sex life was my making out with him, licking his ass, his chest, and his blowing me, and some, but not enough, of my enjoying 69 with him.

but i do think he was in love with me, an older man type love, the type i wanted to cultivate with both trevor and patrick to some degree — i'm probably 10 years older than patrick, and i'm about 6 years older than trevor — i'm at equal with jason (he is in fact a year older than me); jeremy was a year older; and i think that mike, here at hoodlo cafe in charlestown, where he has yet to show this morning, is probably a decade less than me, probably about patrick's age, younger than trevor, i would bet.

in any event, wonder boy had a lovely ass, but i can say with some certainty that i was never in love with eric, if only because he was simply too young and he hadn't suffered enough of the world to be able to look me in the eye and understand my aesthetic. and, even if i'm certain that mike could look me in the eye and intuit my sensibility, having suffered enough of the world on his own, i am wary of this quick judgement, of mike, ever since the patrick misfired misreading: anyone who could return such a charming courtship as the museum of science website date invitation with a threatening 141 clearly hasn't suffered the world — at least properly — and couldn't possibly stare me down and discern my sensitivity. patrick deserves the playpen, building blocks and my little pony, one day he might graduate to board games and collecting scratch n sniff stickers.

i'll write about jere tomorrow.

andy p.