(no subject)
Thursday night. Half-peeled moon. Don walked into the living room she’ll be home late. And in almost the same breath want to smoke a little before bed? I nodded, followed him down the hall, into the bathroom. Along the bottom of the door, he placed a wet, rolled-up towel. Opened the window. With no room to turn or sit, we leaned against the back wall, shoulder to shoulder, almost touching but not. With the utmost care, he lit the joint, rolling it between his lips. No breeze. Sweat through our jeans. The frank scent of his body. 6’6 and thick-not fat-big. When he leaned over, ashed out the window, I backed away without knowing why. Knocking his elbow against the sill, he laughed; leaned closer, and closer, still: you make me nervous.
When the window slammed shut, we propped it open again with a jumbo roll of toilet paper. Don re-lit the joint, said you remind me of Susan except. It wasn’t that I disliked him. When he entered a room, I simply tensed; however, I felt appeal. You’re not like Anthony either in that-. It didn’t matter what was said in-between, he ended with I understand.
In truth, I had tried to find Don erotic. At night, when I laid down on the couch, I tried to envisage a scene between us but couldn’t. For years I masturbated without real fantasies: the sex acts were never between myself and another. Mostly I came to the image of land. Of standing in the center of an empty field, body obliterated by the space. I knew I could never sleep with Don. Not only because he was Susan’s lover. No matter. Don’s version of ‘sleeping around’ seemed like a kind of manifest destiny: god-given right to fuck towards the wider pacific. Don dealt exclusively within the realm of pleasure because he knew it was his. My style of promiscuity concerned connection. The desire to feel it, in the same instant, with another for however many minutes.
Handing me the withered joint, Don shut the window she’ll be home any minute. I took the last ashy hit then flushed it down the toilet. Already past midnight, I laid down on the brown couch, listened to Susan park her car, shuffle across the front porch, unlock the door. Without so much as a glance towards the couch, she headed to the bedroom. Through the walls: Don asked how was-? Their voices lowered. The whole house stilled. To sleep is to reach an abrupt ending, without looking back. But there was something inevitable about the sleep that followed smoking where rest was no longer a great and painful finite but the inevitable act of the body slowing like dust settling.
When the window slammed shut, we propped it open again with a jumbo roll of toilet paper. Don re-lit the joint, said you remind me of Susan except. It wasn’t that I disliked him. When he entered a room, I simply tensed; however, I felt appeal. You’re not like Anthony either in that-. It didn’t matter what was said in-between, he ended with I understand.
In truth, I had tried to find Don erotic. At night, when I laid down on the couch, I tried to envisage a scene between us but couldn’t. For years I masturbated without real fantasies: the sex acts were never between myself and another. Mostly I came to the image of land. Of standing in the center of an empty field, body obliterated by the space. I knew I could never sleep with Don. Not only because he was Susan’s lover. No matter. Don’s version of ‘sleeping around’ seemed like a kind of manifest destiny: god-given right to fuck towards the wider pacific. Don dealt exclusively within the realm of pleasure because he knew it was his. My style of promiscuity concerned connection. The desire to feel it, in the same instant, with another for however many minutes.
Handing me the withered joint, Don shut the window she’ll be home any minute. I took the last ashy hit then flushed it down the toilet. Already past midnight, I laid down on the brown couch, listened to Susan park her car, shuffle across the front porch, unlock the door. Without so much as a glance towards the couch, she headed to the bedroom. Through the walls: Don asked how was-? Their voices lowered. The whole house stilled. To sleep is to reach an abrupt ending, without looking back. But there was something inevitable about the sleep that followed smoking where rest was no longer a great and painful finite but the inevitable act of the body slowing like dust settling.