I get jealous sometimes at how very little some people need from this world. At how easily they are satisfied, and how their thoughts never linger on the .001 percent of epic mundane-ities that constantly cross my mind. Like what about the substance of soul or the consequence of Judas? Or what is it with the color red, and why do some people not see it? Why do I think the way that I do, and you think the way you do; and are there more choices than just our two? If God is Love, and God is Good, then all Love is Good . . . right? But what about obsessive love, like the way my dad loved my mom; with fist and split lips, is that good too? Or is that not love? But if some loves are not love, then why do they feel the same? And why can't I find either anymore?
I see them laughing with their perfect teeth, their perfect bodies, and their perfect matching partners, and I covet what they have. I want to steal their joy. I want to be them someday. Even though their sex is bad, they do not speak, and one of them is destined for suicide, they've made it work. They look the part; with their matching rings, frosted tips, and three hundred dollar shoes; they are public royalty, and I want that… I want the condescending smile. I want the impressive bank account. I want to think that that's enough.
I sometimes on occasion wish that I was more quickly pleased by their pretty words and promises. I wish that every once in a while dark skinned brown eyed Persian men with breathy names and beat up pick up trucks made me lose my senses and ignore the fact that sexuality is more than just behavior; and that their heterosexuality will never make them mine, but only lead to my demise. I wish that beautiful bald German men wielding diminutive statures and masculine ways who kissed like perfect dancers; all Rond de jambes and Pliés; Pirouettes and jetés, and with bodies rippled like chiseled pale pearl marble (but who are only here for three weeks), made me forget the meaning of time and not care about the day after. On my weaker days I just want to give head to the cable guy; I just wanna get fucked for fun. But most often then not, I don't know what to do when strangers ask for favors that only lovers are meant to give. I freeze; I laugh in their faces, and become a moral prude. I think I too quickly call them whores, too quickly judge their character by what they do with their flesh. Because you see I use to be them, I use to play the game better than most; using my sex to ease my loneliness, and hoping that standing on one night would be enough. That price charming would find me after fucking me on the backroom floor, and finally love me the way I had always hoped.
But they find it; those boys who hold hands down the blvd, and tell stories over martinis. They know a freedom I have yet to find, and live a life so full that I wonder if I am actually living at all. So what if they're not happy or hate the contents of their soul? It would be worth it to have them look at me that way: as if I'm perfect and beautiful, and something to be devoured. I want to see hunger in their eyes, and taste despair upon their lips; fettered and rank, until it smells of desperation, and the aroma of our passion makes us sick with repetition, and we feed on one another until there is nothing left to give; nothing sacred left to save, and we are nothing but social politics gone awry. I'm jealous of those forty somethings who can wake up on satin sheets with a dead body by their side; kiss it gently on the lips, caress its phallus one last time, and quickly flee the scene because they can't recall its name. I want to be that body; oiled and well used, open to what will come; not hung up on the details of who, what, when, and why, but willing to be broken, burned, and offered as free food for the flies.
I see them laughing with their perfect teeth, their perfect bodies, and their perfect matching partners, and I covet what they have. I want to steal their joy. I want to be them someday. Even though their sex is bad, they do not speak, and one of them is destined for suicide, they've made it work. They look the part; with their matching rings, frosted tips, and three hundred dollar shoes; they are public royalty, and I want that… I want the condescending smile. I want the impressive bank account. I want to think that that's enough.
I sometimes on occasion wish that I was more quickly pleased by their pretty words and promises. I wish that every once in a while dark skinned brown eyed Persian men with breathy names and beat up pick up trucks made me lose my senses and ignore the fact that sexuality is more than just behavior; and that their heterosexuality will never make them mine, but only lead to my demise. I wish that beautiful bald German men wielding diminutive statures and masculine ways who kissed like perfect dancers; all Rond de jambes and Pliés; Pirouettes and jetés, and with bodies rippled like chiseled pale pearl marble (but who are only here for three weeks), made me forget the meaning of time and not care about the day after. On my weaker days I just want to give head to the cable guy; I just wanna get fucked for fun. But most often then not, I don't know what to do when strangers ask for favors that only lovers are meant to give. I freeze; I laugh in their faces, and become a moral prude. I think I too quickly call them whores, too quickly judge their character by what they do with their flesh. Because you see I use to be them, I use to play the game better than most; using my sex to ease my loneliness, and hoping that standing on one night would be enough. That price charming would find me after fucking me on the backroom floor, and finally love me the way I had always hoped.
But they find it; those boys who hold hands down the blvd, and tell stories over martinis. They know a freedom I have yet to find, and live a life so full that I wonder if I am actually living at all. So what if they're not happy or hate the contents of their soul? It would be worth it to have them look at me that way: as if I'm perfect and beautiful, and something to be devoured. I want to see hunger in their eyes, and taste despair upon their lips; fettered and rank, until it smells of desperation, and the aroma of our passion makes us sick with repetition, and we feed on one another until there is nothing left to give; nothing sacred left to save, and we are nothing but social politics gone awry. I'm jealous of those forty somethings who can wake up on satin sheets with a dead body by their side; kiss it gently on the lips, caress its phallus one last time, and quickly flee the scene because they can't recall its name. I want to be that body; oiled and well used, open to what will come; not hung up on the details of who, what, when, and why, but willing to be broken, burned, and offered as free food for the flies.
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