I kept saying that I loved him, and Marcos and David, one or both of them, would tell me that, no, I did not love him, that, rather, this was lust. And, yes, I do not know what love is. As many people have commented on over the centuries, the feeling is so remarkable for its lack of a precise description. And stick a feather in your cap and call it macaroni because what I felt last evening watching this go-go boy was a feeling I wish I could be suspended in forever, this longing that makes my insides collapse. And, yes, it was lust, the classical description of it. I was totally overcome with sexual desire for this go-go boy in a way that I have not felt in such a long time.
Those feelings last night were so powerful because in that moment I was reliving every other moment when I have been so sexually attracted to someone who I could just look at, never have. That moment last night was a reliving of eighth grade gym class, having a locker across from Travis Ralston and watching him in his boxer shorts and socks everyday, putting on deodorant, changing into or out of gym clothes. He and this go-go boy and so many other of these boys, all one last night up there dancing, so effortlessly comfortable in their skin, none of that awkwardness, that nervousness, that insecurity that resides in my own self. And really, the watching of these boys is some erotic form of envy – a longing for something totally unattainable, and which in most moments I would regard the pursuit of as folly at best and immoral and assimilationist in its worse readings.
He was this tough looking Latino boy with these crazy designs in his cropped hair and this perfect body. David gave me a dollar to put in his briefs and so I did, touching his body, so thrilled, even more thrilled that he gave me this really tough stare while it was happening as if he was so bored. There was a two hour open bar last night at the Cock, where this scene is taking place, and so I was quite drunk and I was with these two older men, David and Marcos, who had taken Gabriel, Ben, and I out to dinner and a play earlier in the evening. I was totally obsessed with this go-go boy and David and Marcos kept on forcing dollars in my hand and telling me to go touch the go-go boy some more. I only felt mildly silly about this at first, but after a couple of interactions, I was totally loving this ability to put a dollar in someone’s pants and to be able to touch them and to feel something in yourself, some pleasure that is predicated on the fact that you know you can never fully have the pleasure you want and that this is a tease, the best you’ll ever get – a grief felt bodily, but that is somehow tied to this immense erotic pleasure from touching his sweaty ass, feeling his cock, his legs, chest.
At some point, losing myself to this pleasure, I started licking my hands after touching his sweaty body, trying to get as much out of this as possible. And really, this was a small part of the evening on a timeline of the night, but it overshadows everything else, perhaps for good reason. We had dinner at Gobo and the food was quite excellent, and then we went to go see Spring Awakening, a musical with music by Duncan Sheik. It was ugly, a total mess. I am really curious to read the reviews of it when it officially opens. I don’t understand how this is being mounted on Broadway as is, because though there are a couple of nice songs, the story is a mess, all over the place, and dealing with issues that perhaps are supposed to be edgy or emotional, but in such a trite, sentimental manner.
But I have never really enjoyed any theater performance. There is always something overly sentimental about it, along with that unnatural stage acting, and it never hits me. This boy, though, nameless boy, him on his stage, small dark stage poorly lit in the back of a bar, hit me though, moved me, and sparked so many things in me, things which I thought about last evening as I got home and jacked off to thoughts of him, and which I thought about this morning, waking up with a boner, jacking off again to thoughts of him, the details of his body already fading. I played with my dick, trying to hold on to these memories of his body, him slowly blurring. I know I am going to die sometime and this is all frenzied masturbation, my living, like trying to hold on to the details of his body in my mind before they totally fade. I already can’t remember what shoes he was wearing, soon it will be his eyes, his broader face, and then eventually, probably within a couple days, the entire memory, at least in its distinct form, will be lost, and that is everything, trying to hold on, to get off as many times to the memory while it exists, to live before I die.