… it’s 1183 and …

I’ve turned it all off again. I’ve lost the will, again. What a desolation.

One of them — who had not previously bothered to share his real name with me — reached out to me, in a panic, the middle of the night, to tell me he wanted to shoot himself. Of course, I went. I have loved men before who have shot themselves. Such is my taste. Now, this one has a name and has been (for now) saved and is back on the meds  I didn’t know he needed to be on, so didn’t know he’d gone off, and all is well. But, we won’t be having sex anymore, because now I am his counselor, now we know names, now, instead of the sating of physical urges, we have become exactly what I did not want; real to each other.

streetcar Blanche and paper boy -named-desire-vivien-leighI am, it seems, the modern, virtual reality Blanche. Only now, it’s the paperboys doing the luring to Tarantula Arms.

 

Another, he sought me, wooed me, for two days (a forever length on this particular app) and then, when finally I said yes, he disappeared, blocked me. It had all been one of those cruel jokes about which one reads.

This had been shortly after another who lured me, promising he would meet me and give me a dream-like, orgasmic thrill if only first I’d vote for him in a contest where in order to register one volunteered one’s credit card information for identification purposes only. I laughed (as much as one can via texting) and asked, “Am I really that repugnant and desperate looking you think I’d fall for something like this? And, fool you, I don’t even HAVE a credit card. So, who’s the silly ass now?”

Before I turned it off, feeling foolish and ancient and sad, I “spoke” to another there, one with whom I have chatted at great length, who has chatted with me at great length, to let him know I was disappearing, not blocking him. On-line we’ve an easy repartee, a connection and commonalities, but, in real life, it turns out we go to the same gym and on the occasions when we see each other there, we have never spoken one word, despite being nearly naked next to one another in sauna, and fully naked across from one another in showers, curtains left part-open, but neither of us willing to make the reach across that breach, that rupture left when the imagined self must manifest into the actual shape of truth of corporeal being. I explained to him — because he is quite sweet and kind — that I am better imagined, just these words. I made a joke about our ages and my failures as a human being and my location, now, it seems, firmly registered at some mythical Tarantula Arms and he replied, “I think whatever else you may think you’ve done, I am certain you have never been guilty of deliberate cruelty.”

Which made me, of course, want to fall in love. That he recognized Mr. Williams and oh, my dears, well, this real world here, it is too much, yes? I am shuffling from one to another relative and caretaker, looking for a place to be, riding this particular streetcar to too many sad destinations for far too long. So, I have turned it all off again and I am hoping for the best, but fearing we are all savages, knives out, ready to destroy when we’ve so much to love for.

 

 

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