Saturday, March 19, 2016

when your internal chaos goes meow

“Let me take that pussy from your crotch,” I said to Hector. The pussy in question was a 4-month-old black American short-hair beauty with round orange eyes. I had named him Lobo, Spanish for Wolf. Totally oxymoronic.
“But I like pussy on my crotch,” Hector replied. And for an instance, the bulge between my legs filled up with enough blood to semi-harden, and a rush of raw excitement nearly split my cranium.
The fantasy was too delicious but I had to let it go. Hector is not just my friend but my mentor - “sponsor” as they’re called in the rooms - and he’s a straight man I’m learning so much from. I want him in my life for a long time. So I promised: Hands off.
These days I play the cordially aloof homosexual act. And will have to for a while until my Latin boy longings subside and Hector is no longer the blank canvas onto which I display all my secretive sexy pig fantasies. Which are rather vivid but fleeting.
He is impossibly unavailable, like trying to catch a flying plane with a butterfly net. But oh fuck, how I love being addicted to the emotional drama of heartbreak. I pursue hard-to-get men just to keep the romantic intensity going and to keep my body’s love-chemicals and stress hormones humming, simmering at a slow burn.
I don’t know what the future holds for a man like Hector and a queer like me. It’s probably going to end blissfully after we’re done with the 12th step. Or the relationship will mature into something I have never quite thought possible, or once deemed unbelievable.
For now, I’ll just keep shooing my black pussycat from his crotch and focus on how unattainable he is. Yet how wonderful a friend and brother he’s turned out to be. No conquest there for the starving class.
Acceptance also leads me to this: my desperation is palpable. I just turned 44 which means Grindr will be sending me a Death Certificate in the mail soon. Such are the times we live by, that an app should have root-deep influence. And the older a queer man gets the more fantasy-ridden romance seems to become.
Unless there’s liberation in all this? The eagle does fly alone for a reason.

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