Tuesday, December 30, 2003

I rode the subway home with my head on Peter's shoulder, drunk, tired, and sad, terribly sad, while Joe and Peter were having some discussion that I really did not care too much about. I might have some other time, but tonight I just wanted to mope. I went out to the Cock (yes, again), and so many of my crushes were in attendence. Josh. Who I talked to, and who is not interested in me. Jonathon's friend, who I talked to about Jonathon and his 32 year old boyfriend. Jonathon's friend may have liked me I think, but I just wanted to talk to him about Jonathon.

And then David was there. I slept with David at the beginning of the summer, and was obsessed with him before then, and still am. He is into queer theory, sex work, and works for Routledge. I think he is so fucking cool. Tonight, I found myself talking with him about this Judith Butler essay I am reading, "Global Violence, Sexual Politics," about 9-11. I think he thinks I am an interesting person because he sincerely complimented me, saying he was glad that I read this stuff, and that I let things affect me. He was actually really nice to talk to. But I do not think he is into me in a physical sense. But it is nice, really nice, to get that impressed look from someone's eyes, where you can tell they think you are a neat person.

Later, after exchanging glances with this one boy all night, I finally started dancing with him, and he did not touch me, he did not grab me, did not pull me toward him, did not desire me. I found myself touching him, and wanted so badly for him to grab me back, to touch me. It did not happen. We danced more, he talked to me, asked me the what's your name and what do you do questions, and then I ran away, ran to Joe and Peter, ditched the boy because he either he did not desire me or was too shy to act on it - and either way, I would not have been satisfied. And really, this all relates back to this Butler essay, because in it, she goes on and on about the vulnerability of bodies, a really beautiful essay, and it had me thinking about my own vulnerable body, and I just want to be touched. I want someone to desire me.

"The body implies mortality, vulnerability, agency: the skin and flesh expose us to the gaze of others, but also to touch, and to violence; the body can be the agency and instrument of all these as well." (185)

"I also suggested that the way in which the body figures in gender and sexuality studies, and in the struggles for a less oppresive world for the otherwise gendered and for sexual minorities of all kinds, is precisely to underscore the value of being beside oneself, or being a porous boundary, given over to others, finding oneself in a trajectory of desire that takes one out of oneself, resituates one irreversibly in the field of others. The particular sociality thtat belongs to bodily life, to sexual life, and to becoming gendered (which is always, to a certain extent, becoming gendered for others) establishes a field of ethical enmeshment with others." (189)

And I wasn't touched. My body was left vulerable. I was terribly sad, and rested my head on Peter's shoulder. Tomorrow, Beki is coming. The next day, Rebecca. My room is a shithole with used tissues all over the floor from when I was sick and too lazy to throw my snot rags away. Also, I am pretty sure that I do not have one towel that has not been used to clean up cum. Oh well, I doubt that I will wake up early enough to do laundry tomorrow morning.

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