i have been meaninged to tell you this for quite some time now. yes, you. you who never believed me when i say I am doomed, for it seems like forever now, to always be drawn towards the freaks.
there. into first paragraph yet and i already ruined the tone of this letter.
this is why I have been procrastinating for too long now. i just can't read my compass to get on with this story with generosity. with enough affection, in fact.
it looks like i am bound to ruin it anyhow with just a slipshod drop of an ill thought of word. you know, like freaks.
remember, i spoke to you before last year ended about this one harrowing weekend? nasty cold spell? grievous saturday night where even bad tv i couldn't get?
actually, I had sumthing, sumthing with someone who looked like you-know-who. the caramel complexion. hell, even the artsy glass frames.
i first saw him while plodding through murakami's latest in the great reading room of the main library at 42nd. he was poring over the recently published selected prose of the famously difficult poet john ashberry.
it was eerily easy. no little deaths before we got it on. from the library, we were off to this coffee place by bryant park that, surprise, served decent reds. then, a painless train ride to his digs at williamsburg. just like that.
first, he wanted us to shower together. cool. so he dug for an extra towel and robe in his sparse closet.
on the top rack, where a lady a century ago might have reserved for her millinery, were two stark black lacquered boxes.
i asked him if they were japanese. i thought being asian gave me the prerogative to go there.
he said no, while handing me a dark blue towel, a store label still wrapped around one of its selvages.
then as he dropped his denims slightly fraying at the seat, his crisp boxers, he told me they were urns of his parents.
i first didn't get him. urns for like what? i sort of got him while asking him this. then after telling me to undress myself, he told me his family, well, they don't inter, rather they cremate.
i begged off from showering. he went in alone. whistling the william tell overture, he rubbed himself so hard after the bath that red splotches bloomed all over his pliant torso.
when he came on to me on the bed, i first thought of asking him to close his closet. but i thought that would be too inapt. i just shut my eyes tightly. that, not enough, i turned my face away from the gaping closet doors.
and his cold hands touched me where i always desired to be touched. then his warm breaths came where there was cold before.
then he started to moan. his butch groans felt like they ricocheted against the severe headboard of his bed and found resonance against the clangy sides of his parents' urns.
normally frisky, i just found myself rooted to the damp mattress, all the time waiting for that long coming wetness in both our groins like warm tears.