“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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