Saturday mornings are slept through. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Everydays are slept through also, but still there is something pleasurable about sleeping away weekend mornings. There isn't the guilt that accompanies sleeping away a Wednesday morning. This makes no sense, I know, since I don't have a job and really there should be no reason for me to privilege weekends in this way, where it is okay to sleep in on them and not on weekdays, but today, I can say that I had no problem with myself not taking a shower until two. It felt right, like what should be done on Saturdays, groggily coming to after a hard Friday night.
The sky wasn't too bright today, all day there was the looming threat of rain that never materialized. I knew it wouldn't come. Someone that dresses tough but you know they are a big softie and would never ever throw a punch, so I didn't even bring an umbrella as I walked all over Williamsburg and Greenpoint this afternoon, hitting up the bank, Radio Shack, the video store, and the bagel shop. In between the trip to Radio Shack and the video store, I ran into Matt, who also seemed like he was shaking off a hangover and I talked to him happy on Bedford, people passing, and really, nothing was said, and there probably really wasn't any mutual sexual tension. It was probably only my own perception of it existing there as he smiled and asked me what I was doing, and I smiled back and in that pause before I answered, there seemed to be this threat of something happening, that I could maybe ask him to do something, and he might say yes, and I might get to kiss him, and he might be wrapped in a sheet curled to the side of my bed. Today, the clouds had that potential to rain, but it was just a tease, a conversation with sly smiles with a former sex partner. The occasional sprinkle hitting your forehead, but that was it. The rain never came.
The rest of the walk home, I thought about boys, cute ones, and ugly men. I started to gag when I thought about that man I had sex with yesterday, really grossed out by his largeness, his smell of cheap cologne, his soft dick, and his inability to give a decent blowjob. The Princeton Review starts back up again March 3, and I am so happy that I can soon quit seeing ugly naked old men. I think I might try to just continue pissing on people until then and that is it. This man wanted me to twist his nipples and pull on them hard, and I felt like that prostitute that visits Bill Murray in Lost in Translation, feigning interest in the whole thing, it all a hammed up travesty of how sexual relations should take place. And I thought to Matt's body, not then, dear no, but today when I was walking home and the burned in memory of this gross man popped up into my head and would not leave - thought about Matt perhaps in the hope of erasing the thoughts of this guy. Even though Matt did not look too attractive today, hungover, unshaven, facial hair only growing in patches, he was heaven in comparison.
Valentine's Day is two days away and perhaps aware of that too, I was excited to see Matt, enjoyed talking to him today because it was some (close to) normal relation with a boy that I have had and it allows me to feel like less a freak when the afterimage of that man continues to glow red even five minutes after looking up to the sun. I really want it to rain hard. I want to dance to loud music, to track #5 on Tigermilk.
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