05.Jan.2004

"fuck" is the sexiest word in history

--

my favorite mirror

I have been tonguing everyone on every level for the past five days. Intellectually spent, emotionally lighting a cigarette, physically bruised, mentally resolute, ejaculating streams of affection in German, French, and Japanese. Vodka shots, Bacardi Raz, hard liquor washed with malternatives, a daunting, black blazer curled at my feet, Stevie Nicks scarf wrapped suggestively around others, my exigent sensuality in words, music, thought, form. I love each and every last goddamn one of these moments.

I held extreme dominance over the stereo while Eric, otherwise known as Adonis, and I matched shots. We traded admissions, goals, CDs, wallets, and jewelry.

In the midst of honey-sweet colloquy, I said, "Damn it, Eric, I love you."
"I love you, too," he responded.
"I want to clone you and take you home with me," I said.
"Your own personal Asian?"
"Yes, my Asian house-boy."
"How would you pay me?"
"I'm fairly certain the terms are extravagantly salacious and non-negotiable."
"You're very cute," he murmured, chuckling.
"Yeah," I said, holding the vowels, "we're drinking."

This of course does not include the requisite regaling of Jubal-oriented tales, where I'm damn sure I talked about him for twenty uninterrupted minutes.

It always starts with the hair, Precious, then the height, then the voice, and I said, "He's currently violet-eyed."
"Violet-eyed?" Eric questioned.
"Yes," I said.
"Wow," Eric said.
"You can't have him," I stated defiantly.

Ah, yesterday. Depeche Mode, Massive Attack, Goldfrapp, Bjork, victoriously crushing everyone into a financially twisted and sinewy pulp at Monopoly, tracing the lavender underbelly of the clouds, and experiencing a dream in all its minute details in the conscious realm that slithered and sluiced through my subconscious just fifteen hours previous to the moment. I could always do that. I always do that.

Today, it's back to the numbers, the sobriety, the weight-lifting, the cleaning, the folding, the unconventional domesticism, the periodic stress of bills that otherwise appear inconsequential, confirmed and sharp-edged normality, and it feels like chocolate-steamed intercourse.

Because I don't have to be anything to them; I don't have to be anything to you. Your swift acceptances border on effervescent naivet�, but we all of us give each other trust-eyes when the universe drifts by to leave us alone to our prose and our music and our tangled confessions, and I don't have to be any era of insecurity, and I don't have to be rouge-imbued pretenses, and I don't have to be silk.

I truly and immeasurably adore making those who spark me grin to the softest fold of honesty. I love my lunatics. I love our flesh-secrets. I love our collars and our chains. I fucking love my life.

--

time & machine