*
I was so young. I dreamed of falling into the arms of a man. Then what? Feeling safe? There was nothing about a man or his arms that guaranteed safety. I knew what a man was. I even knew from the inside. They were all as dumb and as blind as I was. It made no sense to love them so much. But sense was something on the sidelines. I dreamed of his arms.
Sam was my confessor, spiritual guide. He was somewhat fat -- I loved fat men. He had arms that looked just right to me. I confessed many sorts of things to him but one thing I was careful not to confess to him, the love itself, my love for him, that remained unspoken and even undemonstrated. So the confessions were incomplete from the very start and oddly, paradoxically, became even more so as my love for him grew. That is, the larger it became, the more there was to hide from him. More and more as the time went by. Finally, the thing that filled my life was the one thing I couldn't say.
And, you know, as I loved him more and more, in a way I respected him less and less. Because he had no idea at all about the terrible thing playing me. He was wiser than most people I knew and at the same time very blind. Insofar as it could, my love expanded within his blindness. A piece of art for art's sake, a thing with no application at all.
He took me to his gym. Bad idea! I tried to turn away as he unwrapped the cloth and linen from his toasty body. He was indifferent to his own physical presence, the way straight men used to be, in the early eighties, say, before they came to recognize that they were pretty too, like the women that they long for. We ran along the trail, hearing highway noise that couldn't touch us. The knees sang. I was so happy in that temporary way. He was very fit for his size. Some sort of tank. Sam.
The horrible part of my divorce, he said, is that I not only miss the kids but I still love her, as much as the day we married.
I could not control my drinking and I still can't. I spend all my time running away from it. I can't actually achieve anything because I'm still running.
Kid, you are so lucky not to have an obsession like that. I do have obsessions and they're huge, I said. I was sliding open the door to my own revelation and definitely keeping it closed at the same time. Unfortunately I am great at keeping closed.
Sam, like most of the other clergy that I'd met, and all of the best of them, "supported gay rights", even fervently but he didn't have a clue what it might mean to be gay, how deep it went. He thought it was a "way of life". Without wanting to, straight people really did think it might be something superficial like a "choice". They of course didn't feel the power, the trembling. I mean, they didn't feel where it was centered.
We walked through the leafy labyrinth. He kept touching my shoulder, hugging me. Each time it felt as though my skin would simply slither off and I would just become a pool of liquid. The sheer unplaceable feeling of it. Oh you poor paralyzed penis, you don't fit anywhere! It was a gun that pointed more at me than at him. Back in the locker room I didn't know what to do. I went to the john and tried the squeeze the feeling out.. Toothpaste from a tube. In soreness longing only grew. He was so beautiful, so warm, he was more than a man to me. How could that be? What could it mean?
I was in love with his goodness -- his goodness heated me up. I didn't want to soil him, i just wanted him.
An icon with God flashing through? More likely utter idolatry? As I stepped into the shower with him I became Russia, as in a game we used to play in college. Russia? Big sad place. People on their own offering sweet kindness, giving rubles to strangers. But unable to take charge. Unable to organize. Soaked in booze. Riddled with corruption but not really corrupt, just unable to cough it up and spit it out. So decay stayed put like an absolute given. Oh, they were so resigned and their resignation was like steps that criminals climbed -- the steps basically the backs of humans who couldn't remember how to stand up again. Really we longed for a strong man to pick us up. We craved a strong man, a man without doubts. That was Russia, frozen in fear. Not healthy at all. Not likely to get better. And yet there midst all the ball-clashing warriors, the naked strangers, there was Sam, not exactly America but a little bit like America. Warm, brown and completely oblivious of me. It almost seemed that if I touched him he wouldn't make the effort to feel the touch. Oh, this dissolution of my soul, it couldn't be good.
Sam, nights dreaming of you. Mornings recovering from what didn't even happen. Sam.
So. Established distance. Went weeks without seeing you. Sam. Wandered the street at night instead of sleeping. Scrutinized every man I passed. Ah, Sam, scrutinized was the wrong word, an unhappy word. What they were was to me completely veiled. It was the veil I studied and got lost in. The shape of the groin, that I memorized. Idolatry? But none of the words applied correctly.
When I saw someone who looked like you, I would be pretty much devastated, Sam. And many did look like you. Like but not really like enough, not the same, so nothing like.
Grace fell on me even in my bad dreams. I felt affection -- well, ignorance but also affection -- for every man on earth. Any color. Any class. The unbeautiful in fact were what they were claimed not to be. Ravishing. Important. And the women I loved even because they couldn't hurt me.
Trashy roads, dangerous, with these guys like angels walking along. Sam, there was a grace. Not to mention searing pain. A spear from my throat to my butt.
In the bars, Sam. Places you would never go. Hot ones leaning back, peeling the label off their beerbottles. Feeling mentation drain. Too much noise to think through. People liked that. Music like hot syrup from the speakers. Agitation. Vital energies leaking into the darkness. So much motion would have to land somewhere. I had had to fast for a blood test, so why not? just continued the fast. So I was light headed and next to hallucination. The guy that looked most like you was at the top of the stairs, theatrical. In a single beat he just fell forward like a panel of flesh, down the stairs, joints like water. It would be some drug the rest of us never heard of. Solemn Samoan bouncers carried him out of the house, forever. Miguel stood next to me. Never ever do that, he said.
I dreamed that night of a larva, soft and white, a creature so soft that the smallest touch would crumple it and pulp it into juice. Sadness, so vulnerable -- why would anything let itself be so easily attacked? Then the morning tried to pull itself together. Was that dream creature me? Or was that a form of God, daring to enter the world without armor?
I needed my guide to help me ponder things. But it wasn't even safe to go near him, that is, near you. You you. I was left exposed to Jesus without mediation. Sitting on the edge of my bed I shook softly and silently four times but no. It wasn't that I shook but that I was shaken. Not alone, I wasn't at all.
Miguel Miguel. I found him at the coffee house and tugged him by his sleeve, for all the world like a spoiled child, right, not far from the truth, both spoiled and child. Take me home with you Miguel. Please. Let's not wait.
I need to f*******ck you instantly.
What's got into you, crazy boy? he asked. Is it that you've lost access to your clay angel?
To fat old Sam, that pious fake of yours. Then I kissed him to shut him up and he finally got up from his couch. It was low low low. Somehow we got to his apartment and climbed the stairs.
Miguel was someone that to my shame (but sort of a numb shame because, in fact, I barely thought about it) I had ignored and possibly in some strange way even scorned -- because he had always seemed to me a bit sluglike in his effeminacy and we straightish looking guys were always afraid of getting near and suffering contagion -- this is a disgusting thing for me to say much less admit and I wouldn't say it except that if I don't tell the whole truth, why even bother? But now the cards had all restacked in a different order because 1) he'd gone to church with me and knew Father Sam too; 2) being feminine is not such a bad thing, is it?; and 3) well, Miguel had this odd Miguel quality that could not be scorned. Not in my condition for sure.
He opened the door, I jumped onto the bed like a beached fish and then the wonderful part began. Ignoring my infused genitals as though they weren't even there, he slipped off my bloody shoes and solemnly caressed my feet and that was it. When I squirmed on the bed he grabbed them from a different angle that was all.
These have been stepped on and despised too long, he said.
Little wallflowers always sitting in their cardtable chairs, at the rim of the dance floor, my poor little feet, always having to dance but never being asked to dance. They melted under the unexpected attention as the rest of the body drifted into and out of sleep. Could feet be awake by themselves?
I left him at 5 am. We had been intimate but hadn't had sex, which a lot of people considered to be impossible, not to mention a loss of time. The expression "like a virgin", what it really signified was a time when knowing a person had multiple tracks, deepening intimacy that didn't go only one direction. Maybe Freud was upside down and sex was not the substructure of everything else but itself only a superstructure of something richer and leafily truer, whose existence we had stopped noticing or suspecting. You know, Miguel said, you are really a bottom at heart. You are not afraid of black men, you're comfortable with women even when they lead, you treated with respect, at least once you let yourself do it. You're a bottom pretending to be a top. That's part of being a Christian anyway. The bottom. The shame.
You know, he said, it used to hurt me so much to see you walking through that bar, twisted tighter than a pretzel. Trying to be so tough.
In the morning I had to rush away from my chaste friend. In the courtyard beautiful Lili and the others were rushing to their yoga. We kissed like apples bobbing. I had to rush home to get ready for work.
In the shower I thought about Sam. I still loved him but didn't crave him like a bad food anymore. Let that person be. I could feel him in the water but didn't try. Let it go. I will set you free of me and me free of you. My little cross bounced on my clavicle. Sam Sam Sam.
I dressed and went in to work, sort of a long ten hour sleep. Then I climbed out and scrambled home, stopping at Sam's apartment on the way -- thinking I could risk at least that. I assumed we could interact like 2 normal humans, whatever shape that interaction might take. I found him packing boxes in a half-empty echoey room. Man, I'm so glad to see you and get a chance to say goodbye.
I started helping him fill a box, moron that I am. I had to move slowly because the foundation of the floor was not quite steady. The world rocked and changed its angle like a heavy boat or rather a light boat with something very heavy in it. Looking out the window you might see west, you might see south. I had to hold my body still.
I wanted to be free of him but I didn't want him to leave. I was still lost in something like idolatry. What was so damaged in me that this could happen?
I have to go try to patch things up a little bit and at least see the children, take care of them or try, he said. It's been like living with half my organs removed. You're so stable you maybe won't understand -- how unstable and incomplete I feel. There are aspects to marriage that maybe you'll never know, in your situation. And I wonder if you're the lucky one. We all know it's better not to be so bound to the world.
As he talked I managed to look at him and saw -- something unexpected -- the image of someone I would soon not be seeing, I mean, I already saw him a thousand miles away, and me right here, trying not to stagger as the room moved like that idiotic boat. A big chunk of something was missing right next to my heart, on top of my heart. How did it feel? Was the best thing to have it just forcibly pulled out like this?
I was like a dog who'd just been given an exotic worrisome treat -- maybe it was toxic, maybe not -- and who urgently needed to take it into solitude, to taste it and break it down and see what it really was.
*
