Having been informed by my physician that I’ve a vitamin D deficiency, I have been trying to take more sun. But, it’s the night I love. Tonight, the lightning bugs are painting glorious blasts and bursts of light in the backyard, it’s quite magic. I was sitting, watching, and came to mind my old life and a section of “Libertytown”, my un-published novel, inspired by my love of the energies of the night sky, and what one man in my life made of that love, did with that love, how he ruined me by knowing what it was I loved and how to use it against me. So, here, from “Libertytown”, some Moontan.
LIBERTYTOWN (an excerpt)
After the EVITA load-out, I’d, in essence, lost him. We’d talked on the phone just those four times but never had we discussed my touch, his explosion, as if none of it had ever happened, as if he hadn’t spent the summer coming on to me, as if none of the time or the sexual tension between us had been at all. During those calls he told me about his girlfriends and his drinking, but not in detail and always he had to go in a hurry.
When, three summers later, Vincent produced PIPPIN, despite my lack of dance ability and my enslavement to a full-time job at an insurance company that was draining the life out of me, he talked me into doing my Ben Vereen imitation as The Leading Player; which was, rather, something less African American and Fosse-esque than it was, say, the love-child of Liza Minnelli and Dick Van Dyke. There was no PIPPIN. I suggested Vincent call Tom. Vincent, ever eager to encourage a messy, trashy unrequited love affair, suggested I call Tom for him. And ask. I did. He said yes. This time we were both stars. We touched each other. A lot. We went for drinks. Even more. I watched him fix his car, that blue third generation model Pontiac Firebird Trans-Am with the black leather interior and the custom ordered gear shift he loved so much in which he‘d take me who he did not love so much for drives, too fast, and often drunk, but he would never let me be anything but passenger.
“No one’s ever touched my baby’s steering wheel and no one ever will Goddammit.”
I was drunk too. On the blue of the car and his eyes and that drink – Bloody Smurf Jizz with its Curacao and grenadine – he’d forced on me against my wishes our first night out together after his return, and there were nasty, leering remarks about its lurid name leading to nasty imprecatory threats about if I wanted jizz later I would drink this now and other, even fouler, crueler, indications that his feelings for me were warped into painful shapes of hate and love over which he had no control, over which he wanted control, about which lack of control he was furious and for which he blamed and wanted to punish me.
He played mix tapes he’d made and told me he was in love with Continue reading