All I know is exactly what I feel now and also that I’m changeable. It’s not a lot but it is the foundation piled into the bedrock which anchors the skyscraper through hurricanes and earthquakes and tornadoes and though the building sways it is meant to sway. The dampers in the design allow movement to dispel the blows of external forces (wind, water, tectonic activity); tremendous engineering is meant to be invisible. At least and at most I know that much and that much doesn’t change. The course of Everyday is an unnavigable stretch of mist and storm and shade and the details of mood, under rocks and ‘round corners, are cataclysmically variable.
Two days ago I roused, sweat on my pillow and Binky in my arm’s crook. Binky is my blankie and we’ve been together since the beginning. He is gnarled and knotted and every day the oils on my hands deteriorate the integrity of his knots as I hold him on the couch and in bed. I woke up wanting to cut off my belly with kitchen shears and jump off a bridge, whichever was closest, but because I know I am changeable I can at least search for perspective and because I search for perspective I got out of bed and made coffee and understood fantasy is fueled by being desired. Bellies are hot, my belly is me, but the accumulation from craving sweetness has enlarged the great chasm between body and soul, between embodiment and estrangement. My mother always said “this too shall pass” as I paced and panicked. I am 10 and washing my hands until my knuckles bleed. I’m 13 and trying to tear my hair out. I’m 30 and beating my chest. My mom approaches me, arms outstretched, and rocks me to her rhythm. She whispers “you’re okay” over and over and eventually I believe her. She is right, God is right, and it takes digging down, boring deep into the bedrock, to believe it. If you hit an aquifer, you’ve gone too far.
I had tickets to a movie that night but I missed it because I didn’t also met on the web in some corner away from it all and he asked me if his many face piercings intimidated me. I said no, which was true, “I hardly notice them”, which wasn’t true. When we kissed outside my subway stop he pushed me back on the heels of my feet, shredding the rubber of my soles and telling me he was navigating these waters with a current stronger than mine. I am physically larger and stronger than him and I beat him in an arm wrestle earlier in the night. I laughed and he turned red and fell silent but then he had a daiquiri and grabbed my hand and called me Daddy; here on this street, next to that pile of trash and the Rat King holding court serving cunt calling us faggots, I was swept in his current willingly, consciously. I grew hard and he groaned and rubbed my dick through my pants, in that median on that busy street in that busy part of manhattan and he commented on how big I felt through my dusty black jeans. I’ve been telling friends or anyone I can corner that recently I’ve discovered I have a big dick. It’s not huge but it is thick and it pulses when touched. I don’t understand how it works or when it works or why it doesn’t what it doesn’t but it displaces nothingness with somethingness and that isn’t nothing.
We crossed the median and approached two priests outside a t want to go. I buy tickets to movies in advance, a seat on the aisle separate from others, and accept that I am changeable; half the time I don’t make it. I think yes, okay, this is wasteful but also it is hopeful; I show up half the time and forgiveness prevents self-flagellation and that’s proof the foundations are strong.
I was invited out that night after work by a man from the internet and I took a car to a place far from where I was and where I live. I’d been delaying meeting him because I can barely look at myself in the mirror; the gaze of a foreign painter wearing leather pants bearing neck tattoos sent shudders of terror and desire up and down my neck, my back, my pussy, and my crack. His eyes are wild and kind, wide and winking, and he told me he likes sweetness and touch. I stood up and declared in our world a dearth of humility and he asked me what dearth meant. I told him it meant a great lack and we gazed at each other — no YOU blink first! no YOU gIgGLe first!!! — and he offered me ketamine. I told him I was afraid, this was my first time, but I wanted it so bad so bad and he told me all we have is our desires. I felt the blood rushing to the vesicles in my cock, engorging and pulsing from a tributary of the same desire. He stayed over and we fucked and he fell asleep before I did.
A few weeks back I went on a date with a professional Dom. Wchurch up over there on that next corner. They were dressed in long black robes buttoned neck to waist; waist down, all pleats and movement and verve which covered round little bellies quite daintily, like devotional Degas’. My date led us across the street and my eyes asked him why and he said if he walked by them he’d probably burst into flame. I laughed and said I’d probably burst into tears. I asked him how he differentiates his work from his dating life and he said he prioritizes the men he dates over the men he Doms which made me smile, flutter, and coo. He separates the two by walking on the other side of the street. I’d rather stay the course and walk by and tip my hat like Papa does every time he drives past a church, but I always think I’ve got the answer. I’d say hi and flash a wry smile as I head home to my little mysteries and proclivities. He is sweet and kind and I’d like to see him again.
It’s yesterday and you’re at work past midnight and having a drink at the bar with coworkers. The restaurant has a long marble bar with old slanted floors, warm weathered walls, and when Things Fall Apart we tell guests it’s charming. At the end of a long service you share a Shift Drink with others just as embattled and horny and lost. You sit there, back twinging and stomach grumbling and eyes roving, and you swallow a handful of wine and a thimble of tequila and swear you’ll never work another day in service, knowing you’ll be back tomorrow at three-thirty to sanitize the tables and settle in for eight-hours-which-doesn’t-make-a-day. You mock difficult guests with accurate impersonations and decry their tacky outfits, their narrow worldviews. You imagine their pitiful lives in houses with no soul and you lament those with money and no taste. You tell yourself by telling others, out loud at the bar after midnight, you’ve no interest in their world of competition and lies and you discuss class systems and movies and boys and play deep cut pop bangers as you polish the last remaining glasses at the bar. You dance and wave the polishing rag over your head hoping a coworker will record so you can repost it to your insta story.
This morning you wake and there’s a ring of sweat on your pillow so you flip it over to dry land and your heart is pounding and the last dregs of the nightmare are draining into the sea and you’re sure you’ll never get through another shift. You have a boner and can’t catch your breath and your sheets smell of mildew and sweat though you washed them the day before last. You reply “lol” to the painter’s insta story and he tells you he’s bartending that night and suggests you stop by. It’s in the village near work and open very late. You tell him you’ll be there and you jerk off quickly, imagining an amalgamation of all your digital crushes. His arms and that one’s lower back hair and this one’s taut legs and the other one’s curly bush. His shapely ass and his plush lips and his wonky smile. You piss but your dick is slick with cum and it’s hard to steady your aim. It slips from between your lube-logged fingers and you spray the ground like a trebuchet in battle. The piss soaks the grout between tiles and you’re at the end of the last roll of TP. You brush your teeth and spit out the suds and there is a fleck of blood in the thick Sensodyne foam.
At least you're not the closing server tonight — you’ll take your small reliefs. You picture the painter behind his bar, in leather pants that retain his body heat, and think about kissing his boots. You smile and say hello to your excitement. He is wild and fun and the two of you, last you met, exalted sweetness, praised it as cool and radical and hot, just before bed, his sweaty body dozing next to yours.