I was born to do this: To walk past the vertigo in my life and surface on the other side of the silvery swirls of barely walking.
And in only a few short moments you will crawl from my bed, find your clothes and disappear, back into the murky memories of expectation and red wine want.
If you look through the peephole of life’s labyrinth of doors, you will see the darkened, naked room on the other side. In all challenge there is phototropic metaphor, seeking light.
And so it is, here I am again standing at yet another door, knowing that somewhere in the dark room, there you are.
Monster. Lover. Stranger. The eternal disappearance and reemergence of me.
There is part pulling at me, to walk through. So I do.
But you are not there, the room is still a void and there is time before the door shuts behind me, sealing me inside. Time to escape.
Instead, I sit to wait. To contemplate how much I do not want to fuck you. Because I do not know what this means anymore.
When we get to your car, after drinks, I unzip my pants in front of the symphonies of sound coming from your dashboard. You look down, then up. Take me inside your cup of hands. And we both drink it in.
You begin sliding up and down on me, the fattened lips of snow kissing your windshield, sliding past our sense of infinity.
And then, in only a few short moments you will crawl from my bed and walk back out the doors of my life.
The purple purses of our winding walk are slung over our shoulder, but when you arrive, there is nothing in your hands. Nothing behind your back.
You have swum in these darkened seas and expanded them with your light.
My empty cups of hand are open before you. I want to receive this gift. I want to learn about the mysteries and glow with their pride. Blush with my perseverance.
I have done this before. I was born to do this.
To stand before you as I have done with so many others. Those figurative, those sentient and responsive, and also those vacant eyes of the undead.
I have walked into the homes of strangers and stripped myself of all shields of fabric. I have stood at the feet of so many beds and the outstretched arms of lovers. Momentary friends and foes alike. The doors always behind me, always closing their tired eyes as though they have seen this so many times before.
But the sound of the lock clicking shut this time has sworn to be my perfunctory call. My windy push forward.
I do not want to fuck you and I will not.
On the drive to my bed the nerves are calm. This when the ultimate end to our night was to always involve a bed, like so many of my nights before and after this. But I am calm, driving forward toward it all.
In all challenge is a sea of metaphor aching for life.
I open the door, you walk through, and then I follow.
With chivalry’s hands, I slowly begin to unpeel you. And in only a couple of sophisticated moments your clothing is strewn around my bed. Then, we lock: Face to face. Body to body. Life to life.
You have told the world around you about your heat. About your sex and your need for impassioned dominance and submission and the leathery ropes of letting go. As a result you now walk unafraid with vulnerability strangled dead in your wake.
I have told the world around me about my desire. My heat. My passion and my blindness alike. Still, I am perpetually beneath my Golden Gate Bridge, having leapt from it and survived. Swimming, I am, waiting for rescue near the rocks. Wanting only to save myself and curse the rest.
We are not far apart when you take my sex inside your aching mouth. You tell me that it has been forever. A long leap since the last time. You crawl up and over my rocks and moan in delight of the ancient waters dripping from your chin.
And where there was once the internal pressure of diving so deep, I have surfaced to lay naked beneath you. In resuscitation, beneath your breath.
And for a couple of hours we swim around one another in symphonic elegance. I, unafraid of the doors that open but never close before and behind me. The ease of the lighter waters and easier currents take me into your sail and we ride on in a symbiotic intimacy that has been known for ages.
My death is in this rebirth. Of this kind of naked intimacy. Of no expectation, but supreme gain. You are laying on my chest and we are simply talking. Sharing. Listening to music and tracing the lines of our bodies. For a few short hours I am comforted in your hands not shaking, your voice not quivering and the surprise of all this…
I will not forget this and I will not settle for a swim. I will only aim for the currents down those streams of all my life’s doors where I feel serendipity and whim. Only aching for this antithesis: The lifestyle of living for the strong swim.
Challenge me with ribbons and I will walk through these glass doors.
I was born to do this.