I was slowing down.
I wasn’t sure if I was living life.
They told me, don’t treat life like a classroom. There’s nothing to learn. There’s nothing there.
I’m not sure how much I like that advice. It feels confusing and problematic. Untrue. Jaded.
But it doesn’t matter right now. Right now, I’ve slowed down. And I’m not sure why. Because I took speed?
I’ve probably seen enough dick photos to last a lifetime, just in the past little whlie. It’s more than I’d like to see. It’s more than I’d like to understand. Fucking Grindr, man, those dating sites. Talk about getting laid …
It’s like taking speed. It’s like taking pure, unadulterated quickness in drug form. It’s a little bit more than I can handle. Like taking pills, like self-destructing.
I’ve witnessed the world, and the world has witnessed me. The world has told the truth, and so have I.
I have always known that I have a lot to figure out, though. I’ve always known that I have a lot to work through, because my life has always been complex. My life has always been confusing, too.
Thinking through these things, I walked. I walked, not knowing where I was going, and knowing exactly where I was going: vertigo. On the train, moving forward, moving where I needed to go, in order to figure out the truth. In order to figure out, what truth is.
The train like rain was moving slowly. It wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t good. I wanted it to hurry up because I was meeting up with a gay boy. Someone stocky, someone a little, not like my type, but technically, my first date, and perhaps my first lover, meaning, I should take it seriously. So, I stayed on the train, not knowing what to experience or expect, not knowing how I could experience, how I could experience life.
I knew I was disappointed. Though I couldn’t explain why. Was I disappointed with myself, or just disappointed in general?
I didn’t know, but it didn’t stop me from purchasing the train ticket to go and meet up with someone, in the first place.
It was all like taking speed: Slowing me down just for the moment. Forcing me to figure it out, figure it out now.
I knew in the moment that doing this was basically, as real as taking drugs. As real as cutting myself to relieve the pain and suffering, let the blood flow. As real as admitting to myself that I’m not suicidal, just suicidal. That I’m alone.
The train moved, quicker and quicker, speedier and speedier, until it finally arrived, pulled in at the station. I stepped out of the train, not knowing what to expect, not knowing what to expect at all. Just knowing I was about to meet a guy, a gay guy, whatever that is and was supposed to mean.
He walked toward me, after we scuffled on the phone for a little bit, trying to find each other, and it all seemed misleading. He asked me what I thought of him in person. I told him … I couldn’t think of the word to describe him, but that I would try. I would try because it was the least I could do.
Granted, he wasn’t how I thought he would be. Granted, he wasn’t who I thought he would be. It was like entering a suicide squad or something. Being a patsy for the rich folk.
I wondered if I would hire a rent boy if I got desperate enough.
Kinky sex and all that fun stuff.
He had a snake with him. The snake looked peaceful, though, but also confusing. The snake was named after the queen in Snow White, the evil queen. Was this a metaphor for Alice stepping through the looking glass? I couldn’t say in the moment, and I still can’t say. It just felt like I’d stepped into an alternate dimension.
The scene jump cut to sex. But not before we cuddled, not before he touched my nipples, not before we watched YouTube videos about unrequited love and broken hearts, miscellanea and between the buried and me, thoughts and feelings, astral projection and burning worlds in fire. It was all confusing. I decided in the moment that I wasn’t a hedonist (nor was I a Christian …), I just wanted to experience life.
Jump cut past the philosophy: He began to suck me. It felt weird, because I wasn’t used to it. I told him he was too rough, multiple times, because he was rough, as he masturbated me and sucked me, but it felt good nonetheless, somehow. I couldn’t explain what was happening to me, but I babbled about philosophy, asking what the meaning of life was, said that it was just language, all of it was just language, meaning it was all just talk, I was just talk, and he continued to suck, and I didn’t know if he was enjoying it. Who could actually enjoy sucking, I wondered. But nonetheless, I found the experience pleasurable. I found the experience pleasurable because it was … different. As Hume observed in one of his books: The mind shuts off during sex, and it’s only of the only times that it does. I was finally putting down the books and living.
But was the experience worth it? I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure if I would ever know.
It was all so new to me, it was all so confusing. I couldn’t say one way or the other.
I knew I wasn’t attracted to the guy, but I liked him, at least a little bit. Because he was good at sucking. He deserved credit for that. My mind roamed, wondered, as I got sucked, and I wondered why had decided to do this. I tried to keep it slow, to keep my clothes, to not let myself be punished by greedy church institutions decrying homosexuality as Skinner might have implied in one of his books, maybe his book about human freedom and dignity: But I ended up taking off my shirt, a strip tease, and I should have thrown the shirt at the guy, just to prove a point.
Whilst thinking of the conversations before, of how much Footlocker ripped me off in the past with their scam and the bad shoes, their capitalist show (fuck money), about how Nietzsche was my hero, about how I bought the guy a Blizzard from Dairy Queen because I wanted to do something nice, because I wanted to be a kind-hearted person and care, love. Look after someone else, even, if that’s even a thing.
I wondered in the meantime what it meant to be gay. Could being gay actually be a good thing? I wasn’t sure. In our society, isn’t the ideal man such a myth, pleasure by proxy, the ideal sexual encounter something reserved for Greek mythology and the Greek Gods (fucking Zeus …)?
And I continued to get sucked. It was pleasurable, it felt good, but the problem was that I wasn’t aroused on an emotional level.
When the experience was done (that was it? that wasn’t it …), I began to wonder even harder, what this meant. My mother would have been so disappointed, but fuck that. It wasn’t as if I ever understood anything outside of dysfunction, especially when it came to family.
Back rubbing, and the kids stumbled in. What the hell? I knew that would happen.
What does it mean to live? What does it mean to be homo?
So many dead lines: He told me, he wouldn’t give me gaybies because I was already homo. He said he wouldn’t mind sucking Medusa’s head if it was a head full of dicks. It was … too much: too fucking much. But I knew in that moment I was maturing, because I didn’t have a choice anymore. The virgin was far from being deflowered. But the virgin was at least starting to pick the flowers to give to others, play in the garden, understand.
I offered to hold the guy’s hand when we were done, but he didn’t answer. He said, PDA wasn’t really, that awesome, that people would think we were together and that wasn’t true. One of the paradoxes of the gay lifestyle, it seemed, and it was pissing me off.
I still wasn’t any closer to finding my meaning of life, or leaving the closet, for that matter. I still wasn’t any closer to figuring out what I wanted from life, what I wanted to get out of life. And yet, I was, because I understood, it was raw, what I had done, it was true, and even though it was weird, it was strange, it was also: okay. All right. I couldn’t complain. I couldn’t complain about what I experienced. And the kissing was good, so that counted for something.
It seemed to me in the moment that we always want to escape, but can we?
Positive reinforcement? Definitely not HIV positive reinforcement …
I wondered, what happened now? The kissing was good. The kissing was worth the sucking off and nakedness alone.
I thought of someone who asked me what I liked to do with guys, just a little bit before that. I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I left the question blank.
Because really, what can these things mean?
After, I talked to a friend. A martial arts guy. He told me that I had done the right thing, or at least, implied it. And I suppose, I had done the right thing. I had done the right thing because I’d let myself be, something I rarely let myself do. But what that meant, I wasn’t sure, I could only agonize (about it). And yet I felt so fucking good. And I couldn’t explain why. It wasn’t great sex, it was just sex. But I knew this was a game changer, it wasn’t mere hedonism, it was going to determine what happened now, what happened next.
Safety. Did safe sex actually exist?
I didn’t know, but I wondered. What happened now? Now that I had finally done a rite of passage. Which went horribly because I had to take my Valium and that sped me up a little bit?
I didn’t know, I just knew that I’d slowed down some. I’d slowed down some, and it wasn’t like taking speed, it was more like taking … a psychiatric medication.
Which I supposed, was going to have to be okay, as I paced, quick, full of speed …