Friday, July 26, 2002


Last night, again? Yes, again. Last night is the story of my life, always where it all begins, where things, mistakes, things that were not mistakes, aroused cocks, and ripped pants can be traced back to someplace temporal, the always-already last night. Julie Andrews knew it - we'll follow her advice and start at the very beginning, a very good place to start: Last night, I missed out on the free concert at the Terrace because Nora called, and I lost myself in an insanely long phone conversation with her, talking about things, the types of things we talk about, sitting in the hall on a stack of telephone books loving her, myself, and life, wrapping the cord around my finger for no reason whatsoever, the perfect reason. By the time I got off the phone with her, it was close to midnight, and so, I just decided to head off to the Rainbow Room where things are usually entertaining since I was in a good mood, a glorious mood, and wanted to spend my time amongst people, human fucking beings doing their human fucking things, to hear indiscernible chatter, a multitude of voices sounding lovely, a symphony of blah blah blahs, the soundtrack of any bar. Bonnie had gone to some PIRG party and pointedly not invited me so I had to go off in search of fun by myself. And, I'll foreshadow just a little bit, and say that Yes, my friends, Yes, my comrades, I did indeed find it, this thing called fun.

I talked to the same people I talk to every week there, my Norm, Cliff, Woody, Diane and Sam - I talked to Des'ree, to Tommy, to the bartender, to the dj girl, and to Suki, the girl that likes to dance real fun. I was one of the voices contributing to the hum, to the feeling of life occuring right here, right there. I danced for a long while by myself, danced real wild because I was in the best of spirits and just had a rocking good time, because what other way would you want to spend your time, what other way should you spend it besides having a rocking good time because you can, because are fucking young, as young as you're ever going to fucking get, because your heart is strong, your skin is tight, and your joy is the only thing you've got, the thing you can shake, your so called moneymaker. Eventually, I ran into Jason (an ex-PIRGer) who was going to the Shamrock Bar with Anka, and told me I should come with them. First though, I wanted to point out my obsession to Jason to see if he knew anything about this boy, this dark-skinned beautiful boy that looked like he was Indian or something, and who I had been staring at, sort of stalking around the bars for the past couple weeks. Jason didn't know anything about him, but agreed he was hot. An understatement, surely. This boy was so red hot, he was up there on Justin level of intimidating hotness and so of course I did not talk to him. Once outside the Rainbow Room, I kept on talking about how cute he was and how much I wanted to talk to him, and Jason being the either wonderful or the drunk person that he is/was, encouraged me to go, to go fucking talk to him, and to meet them in the Shamrock. So, I went back into the Rainbow Room, saw him, and decided that I would pee first and then maybe, maybe try to talk to him. I peed. I came out of the bathroom, and Super Hot Boy was nowhere to be found. Sadly, I left, went to the Sharmrock, sat around listening to bar talk, to the buzz of life that now sounded like the forced imitation of life, like going through the motions of what it is you think fun, happy people do, the buzz of an obnoxious fly, a pathatic bunch of people sitting around talking, blah blah blahing when they all should be fuck fuck fucking.

I giddily told Jason that I was going to go check out the Rainbow Room one last time to try to talk to Super Hot Boy, and Jason, again being wonderful, gave me the affirmations I needed to be boy-crazy, told me to fucking go for it. And so, determined to talk to Super Hot Boy, rejection be damned, just to try at least, I left, perhaps flew out of the Shamrock, and the second I stepped out the door, I lost a bit of my determination, by balls had run for the hills - there he was by himself, on an emty street, a mere two doors down, getting ready to go back into the Rainbow Room. I picked up my determination that was starting to fall around my ankles, held it up with my hands, and quickly went up to him before he could go back into the Rainbow Room. I blurted Hi at him, got a why-are-you-talking-to-me-exactly confused Hi back from him, and then in a quick breath, an exhaltion of my boy-craziness, I told him how I had wanted to say hi to him all night, and now I did, and now I was a happy boy. And then to my shock, to my utter delight, he did not say Okay, did not smile and make his way back into the bar, but instead said, "Can we kiss?" And we did. And then to my again utter shock, he asked me if I wanted to come home with him. And of course, I said Yes, maybe even Hell yes, and kissed him some more. During this kiss, the door to the Rainbow Room opened and Jenna, her boyfriend, and Rebecca came out of the Rainbow Room, and told me to come to the Paradise with them. I told them that I couldn't. They started saying how I had to, how it was Jenna's last night here in Madison (she moved to Boston this morning), and that I should come. Super Hot Boy told me that it was okay, I could go with my friends, and was about to make his way back into the bar, and I saw my opportunity to sleep with one of my obsessions quickly fading because of these cock-blocking PIRGers. I was not about to let this stand, I told him to fucking stay, that we were going to his house, said good-bye to Jenna, recieved a you-are-a -big-fat-ho look from Rebecca and made off with this boy I met a short two minutes ago towards his house, to have sex with him, to fuck.

Not even a block away, we landed into a bench somehow, made out, gropped each other, got a little dose of sexual satisfaction to hold us over until his house and then continued on our walk. I found out that his name was not actually Super Hot Boy, but was perhaps something even better, even more appropriate, more sexy, Giancarlo - that he was not in fact Indian, that he was just a dark Italian. A beautiful one, skinner than me, my height, and a lovely head of dark, scruffy hair. There was another stop, another rest stop, in someone's front lawn where he demanded that I take my shirt off, which I did, where he literally ripped my pants off of me, and where he then proceeded to try to give me head while there were two people sitting on their stoop about five houses down. I felt so rude to these people, made him stop, which was not easy, since he is much more aggresive than me. I held my pants together and finally we made it to his house, to his bedroom, where immeaditly he stripped naked looking so so beautiful, I stared and stared and eventually kissed and kissed and did other things and did other things.

The stretching, the tensing of his foot, of his toes into the ball of my foot, curling up into the place that was meant for them. Scissors somehow making an appearance, him talking about how he trims his pubes and how I needed to trim mine, how he would do it, not to worry. Snip Snip Snip, scissors perilously close to my genitilia being held by some drunken, sexually agressive boy until someone, some roommate burst into his room. Thankfully, that little project was forgotten. Water being brought to me, Gian standing in the doorway, light filtering in behind him, a beautiful, partially-visible naked silhouette holding a cup of water. It was such a beautiful image. A night of continous ones, beautiful images, I mean - a slide show where eyes are closed, things are dark, things are sucked, kissed, fondled, pinched, and then there's the brief shutter opening of the eyes, the physical world makes an appearance into this half-dream state for a brief second, a partial second even, just long enough for the light to expose an image, always a beautiful one, seeing cute smiles exchanged during breaks from kissing. Getting head in his kitchen when we went for water, opening my eyes to see his kitchen cabinets, his fucking cabinets and his dark hair over my cock, and did I mention the ktichen cabinets - they were lovely. His dark skin being touched, glazed over by my dark skin, the feeling was something so close to heavenly to lick someone my own color, to abandon whatever the fuck bullshit I've said about being beyond idenity politics, that there was something wonderfully affirming about seeing someone hot my own complexion, someone I liked, their skin reflecting against mine. The symmetry of man, of the world, of life - looking up from his dick for a second, seeing his chest that could easily be sliced down the middle, too easily, so fragile, all of us, and the two pieces would look exactly alike, a mirror image, save for probably the gruesome blood stains. This means something, I know it does, I'm not exactly sure what but I do know that it is something wonderful, something about us, about all of us. That to lie with my chin rested in the slope of someone's back, to hear someone say "hold me" sincerely - that all this means something good. That today, I woke up in a damn good mood, that I had not experienced this feeling in over a year, that I like waking up singing Beach Boys songs, feeling wonderfully exhausted, nipples still hurting, thinking that my asshole is still moist, that I want to do it again, to run back around to the front of the line as soon as getting off the Rebel Yell, to race through those barricades, running through the line with a friend, criss-crossing through the rows of lines, those metal fencey barriers that you walk back and forth through like a fucking lab rat, running my hands over the chains of these lines, letting my skin grace something else. To do it again, to scream, to feel that high of urgent living.

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