Spell the Fifth
1. A question of proportion: because it used to be that I was 973 trillion parts horny and only 826 trillion parts scared out of my goddamned mind. Whereas now I am just 797 trillion parts randy versus 902 trillion parts terrified. That’s still A LOT of horny -- several trillion times more than is conducive to sensible living -- but panic now edges out spunk by a small but decisive margin. Which is one reason I can’t quit it with the mouthwash, for example.
2. Should I call it a novel? Because who is ever going to read a miscellany? The word grimoire may be be unfamiliar, or mislead the Harry Potter crowd, or, worst of all, encourage the I’m not religious I’m spiritual fakers I abhor. As a person with several purely decorative degrees, I am well-qualified to assure you that you can put two thick slices of avocado on whole-grain and call it a novel.
3. Short of grievous injury and loss of life, wearing shorts at the gay beach is pretty much the scariest thing I can imagine and here I am doing it. I’m good once I get in the water. Not that I can swim much but, you know, image-wise. Still, sooner or later I must climb out of the waves and then here is my withered hairy peg stick leg with its little hoof at the end. Thus, I never know if I should flirt while I’m out in the waves. Just now, while in over my head, a tremendous bodybuilder began making eyes at me. He was one of those men so dense he doesn’t float. Like a cute rock. He said he had a place right here on the beach, but once I climbed out of the water he never looked in my direction again. In the past a few guys have acted like I’d scammed them once I took off my pants. Big arms should mean big legs too, big everything. But is it actually my fault if I do not have all the parts that they imagine?
4. Went to Reception to pay for another week’s hotel. They only smile of course -- but how could I not be a joke to them? I am a joke to me. Paying for the two rooms, Dad’s and mine, a week, faking my father’s signature with his consent, more money than I live on in six months. Meanwhile: stained t-shirt, buzzcut, and torn jeans. The built-up part of my left boot has come unglued so that it snaps like a plastic flip-flop when I walk. Buck teeth, one mad jug ear, face like an accordion. It’s obvious that I am a person who has not been properly maintained. For better or for worse, I was left out in the elements. How ridiculous I am now, residing temporarily in luxury, the personal attendant to my mad old father. He isn’t actually rich you know, he just spends money that way, it’s one of his symptoms, like calling himself ‘we’. And I am what’s left of his lop-sided queer son. “Jonathan is a WRITER.” Oh god. Oh fuck. Of course he is.
5. Maybe it’s hard to understand why it’s so much easier to be bareassed naked than to wear shorts. It’d be easy to explain if I were hung like a mule. Sadly, that’s not the reason -- grateful as I am to the Italian who referred to me as girthy. The shorts, I guess, seem like a frame around it, a neon arrow: here it is, the crippled leg. Naked is easier. Naked has its own rules. There’s A LOT one can do to run interference, provide distractions. The truth is it’s just much less difficult if guys see all of me at once. Then at least there’s nothing I might warn about, nothing I have to explain.
6. Only very rarely will someone ask. Almost never. They act as if it isn’t there. Same as I do. But the very first guy I had sex with in Mexico, after I’d been in the country about 8 minutes, was a sturdy muscle daddy, bearded, stocky, gruff-looking. An answered prayer, in other words, and it was all I could do to not collapse in an avalanche of thanksgiving. Abject gratitude was unavoidable -- I just didn’t want to actually cry. He tugged off his towel, then mine, and we started in on each other and right then, in the middle of everything, he said, “What happened to your leg?”
7. And, before I could say anything, he said, “It’s totally OK. I just wanted to know if I should be more gentle.”
8. He actually said that. That is an actual honest-to-god quote.
9. As you must know, there are whole batches of Protestants who believe that signing on the ideological line for a single moment is all that is required. Just Jesus is my personal Lord and savior -- and you’re done. This seems dull and bureaucratic to me but, on the other hand, if I were in charge of the universe, I think it appropriate that a soul might be redeemed by a single moment of perfect kindness.
10. If the bearded Mexican muscle daddy never did anything else right in his life -- it shouldn’t matter. This ought to be enough. Not because I am important. Because perfect kindness and attention are important. In other words, that bearded Mexican muscle daddy deserves to be beatified. (Note: beatification is not sainthood. Beatification is the first step. Sainthood requires actual miracles. We must now pray to the bearded Mexican muscle daddy and see if he intercedes. Let us pray.)
11. Beatification, as any good Catholic can tell you, is “establishment in Heaven”. Your presence in Heaven has been verified. Direct to paradise for the muscle daddy, wings, harp, drum kit, cigar, whatever daddy wants. All right, he does have to be naked. His holiness is non-inclusive of underpants. For such is the glory of the Lord.
12. In the meantime, may he know no suffering, not even arthritis or headaches, no bounced checks or hemorrhoids, just excellent muscle tone and vigorous erections until his entirely harmless death, at ease, free of pain, and held in the arms of beloveds. Nothing less is sufficient for the bearded Mexican muscle daddy. This is what his perfect kindness deserves, has earned.
13. It’s totally OK. I just wanted to know if I should be more gentle.
A Single Moment of Perfect Kindness
Or, for the beatification of bearded Mexican muscle daddies
1. A question of proportion: because it used to be that I was 973 trillion parts horny and only 826 trillion parts scared out of my goddamned mind. Whereas now I am just 797 trillion parts randy versus 902 trillion parts terrified. That’s still A LOT of horny -- several trillion times more than is conducive to sensible living -- but panic now edges out spunk by a small but decisive margin. Which is one reason I can’t quit it with the mouthwash, for example.
2. Should I call it a novel? Because who is ever going to read a miscellany? The word grimoire may be be unfamiliar, or mislead the Harry Potter crowd, or, worst of all, encourage the I’m not religious I’m spiritual fakers I abhor. As a person with several purely decorative degrees, I am well-qualified to assure you that you can put two thick slices of avocado on whole-grain and call it a novel.
3. Short of grievous injury and loss of life, wearing shorts at the gay beach is pretty much the scariest thing I can imagine and here I am doing it. I’m good once I get in the water. Not that I can swim much but, you know, image-wise. Still, sooner or later I must climb out of the waves and then here is my withered hairy peg stick leg with its little hoof at the end. Thus, I never know if I should flirt while I’m out in the waves. Just now, while in over my head, a tremendous bodybuilder began making eyes at me. He was one of those men so dense he doesn’t float. Like a cute rock. He said he had a place right here on the beach, but once I climbed out of the water he never looked in my direction again. In the past a few guys have acted like I’d scammed them once I took off my pants. Big arms should mean big legs too, big everything. But is it actually my fault if I do not have all the parts that they imagine?
4. Went to Reception to pay for another week’s hotel. They only smile of course -- but how could I not be a joke to them? I am a joke to me. Paying for the two rooms, Dad’s and mine, a week, faking my father’s signature with his consent, more money than I live on in six months. Meanwhile: stained t-shirt, buzzcut, and torn jeans. The built-up part of my left boot has come unglued so that it snaps like a plastic flip-flop when I walk. Buck teeth, one mad jug ear, face like an accordion. It’s obvious that I am a person who has not been properly maintained. For better or for worse, I was left out in the elements. How ridiculous I am now, residing temporarily in luxury, the personal attendant to my mad old father. He isn’t actually rich you know, he just spends money that way, it’s one of his symptoms, like calling himself ‘we’. And I am what’s left of his lop-sided queer son. “Jonathan is a WRITER.” Oh god. Oh fuck. Of course he is.
5. Maybe it’s hard to understand why it’s so much easier to be bareassed naked than to wear shorts. It’d be easy to explain if I were hung like a mule. Sadly, that’s not the reason -- grateful as I am to the Italian who referred to me as girthy. The shorts, I guess, seem like a frame around it, a neon arrow: here it is, the crippled leg. Naked is easier. Naked has its own rules. There’s A LOT one can do to run interference, provide distractions. The truth is it’s just much less difficult if guys see all of me at once. Then at least there’s nothing I might warn about, nothing I have to explain.
6. Only very rarely will someone ask. Almost never. They act as if it isn’t there. Same as I do. But the very first guy I had sex with in Mexico, after I’d been in the country about 8 minutes, was a sturdy muscle daddy, bearded, stocky, gruff-looking. An answered prayer, in other words, and it was all I could do to not collapse in an avalanche of thanksgiving. Abject gratitude was unavoidable -- I just didn’t want to actually cry. He tugged off his towel, then mine, and we started in on each other and right then, in the middle of everything, he said, “What happened to your leg?”
7. And, before I could say anything, he said, “It’s totally OK. I just wanted to know if I should be more gentle.”
8. He actually said that. That is an actual honest-to-god quote.
9. As you must know, there are whole batches of Protestants who believe that signing on the ideological line for a single moment is all that is required. Just Jesus is my personal Lord and savior -- and you’re done. This seems dull and bureaucratic to me but, on the other hand, if I were in charge of the universe, I think it appropriate that a soul might be redeemed by a single moment of perfect kindness.
10. If the bearded Mexican muscle daddy never did anything else right in his life -- it shouldn’t matter. This ought to be enough. Not because I am important. Because perfect kindness and attention are important. In other words, that bearded Mexican muscle daddy deserves to be beatified. (Note: beatification is not sainthood. Beatification is the first step. Sainthood requires actual miracles. We must now pray to the bearded Mexican muscle daddy and see if he intercedes. Let us pray.)
11. Beatification, as any good Catholic can tell you, is “establishment in Heaven”. Your presence in Heaven has been verified. Direct to paradise for the muscle daddy, wings, harp, drum kit, cigar, whatever daddy wants. All right, he does have to be naked. His holiness is non-inclusive of underpants. For such is the glory of the Lord.
12. In the meantime, may he know no suffering, not even arthritis or headaches, no bounced checks or hemorrhoids, just excellent muscle tone and vigorous erections until his entirely harmless death, at ease, free of pain, and held in the arms of beloveds. Nothing less is sufficient for the bearded Mexican muscle daddy. This is what his perfect kindness deserves, has earned.
13. It’s totally OK. I just wanted to know if I should be more gentle.
1 comment:
Why is the Spring so non-negotiable?
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