Lucius Bod | Rogue Diary

LUCIUS BOD | ROGUE DIARY

A Bisexual and Bipolar Romantic Man with a Murderous Streak

AUGUST 29th, 2024

He

As he enters his flat at midnight the hallway light is turned on with apprehension. He knows where the knives and the aluminum baseball bat are if there's an intruder. No one tonight. He wipes his well-worn biker boots on the mat, which reads: "Not You Again!" in a bold Helvetica font, then follows that by turning the second light on in the living room. 

The giant Medusa of an Art Deco chandelier illuminates all the visual signs of a man suffering from an acute awareness of his physical  surroundings, but also his shoddy hygiene in the way in which his possessions have no appropriate places to rest upon. It's not an enviable trait.

He goes to pour a drink at the modest table made of cut glass with a nickel-finished steel frame. He's content today, and relaxing is necessary. The faded and woodsy amber cologne scent lingers on his erogenous zones enough to bring serenity. Sitting fully dressed in his dark chocolate leather tailored suit on the chaise longue, he's almost calm and void of the usual ruminations about his day. 

Getting undressed and enveloping his body with a silk robe will be delightful after his whisky. The hand-stitched Napa leather driving gloves he used to commit his serial murders came off and were thrown into the trash chute in his building without remorse… It was all righteous, necessary and inevitable.

He is a creation of his mind: Lucius, an émigré from Czechoslovakia, of Spanish (Gloria) and Czech-Romanian (Lucius the First) parents. His life parallels mine in all joys and sorrows: both parents died in 2023, almost a month apart. There are only two younger sisters left, Carlotta and Luminita. The former had two girls, the latter one son, a cherished nephew, Marko. 

Both parents were professionals: she, a journalist, he, a hydraulics engineer and architect. During the divorce, when he was eight years old, it was stipulated for both to have joint custody, and all the loneliness of looking out from hotel windows in different cities, when they took Lucius and the girls with them during job assignments. Six months with one, six months with the other. Toledo, Spain and Prague, Czechoslovakia were the separate homebases.

There were trips to Central and South America, as well as the Caribbean, when his mother covered political unrest and tragedies for a Spanish newspaper as a foreign correspondent. She went on to have her own radio show until she received credible threats on her life, and one crucial attempt on her. Her loyalty and love for her children made her decide to quit the business. 

He remembers one of her most interesting assignments, which was to cover the Sandinista coup in Nicaragua, when an earthquake hit the capital, Managua. Even nude people would come out of their dwellings, much to the surprise from the neighbours, his Mother and him. It was amusing to both! 

His father offered the opposite: The first memory Lucius suffered was of his father attempting to kill his mother in a drunken stupor. The divorce proceedings commenced after that event. They would both use nothing but pejorative adjectives about each other hence. 

The elder Lucius travelled habitually to the Netherlands, France, Italy, the Balkans and South Africa. However, it was not the way for the children to see parts of the world, secluded in temporary dwellings, accompanied by tutors and nannies. I found this rather sad.

His life has been a series of profoundly introspective moments, happy occasions and a zig-zag trail of destinations in cities big and small in Europe, Africa, most of America and the United States, where he finally settled. Loneliness, regrets from his biggest mistakes and wonderment coexist now in a comfortable existence within himself. 

He would not be who he is without the push from the energy he can summon subconsciously. All the mistakes and false starts were simply the ricochet effects of a karmic bullet aimed at his mind.

In the United States he lived in Miami, Miami Beach, New York City and back to Florida to find love, then moved to Iowa, when his lover Dermot was summoned as an AS/400 programmer. The last stops were in Vista and Hollywood in California, before settling in San Diego, California.

The most wonderful qualities of his can be found and understood by meeting him, and absorbing his hope and vision to overcome the crushing lows of depression, along with the manic episodes, few as they have become. His goal in life is still a bit muddy, from holding back the light living in his mind and soul.

Never a great student, many of his early years were spent learning from tutors, and unfortunately, several schools, which came as a result from the intense travel schedules engaged by the parents. This lifestyle marked Lucius as a shy and awkward boy. No one knew he would develop a dangerous sociopathic streak, you could say out of love and a dark madness.

I defined his anger as frustration from unchangeable or difficult events and handling people unsuccessfully. All it takes is one sharply painful provocation for anyone… There was a pain, a wicked frustration throughout his life, a hunger transforming slowly into intent to end the rage, all from the rough childhood he'd suffered.

During his first Statistics class in College he felt different, alienated and stone cold when all his comrades were facing ahead during his ride on the bus… an epiphany came to him: he realised there was a bizarre attraction to both sexes, his first uncomfortable crux. He could not decide whom to be friends with during his first year in College. As the progress of his studies made him impatient to go home, he slowly made an acquaintance and friendship with Carlos and Violetta. Carlos was the dux of his class. He focused sharply on his admiration to be both attractive peers' friend. It became necessary to survive in the group. The rage was building up, but he didn't know what to do about it when the feeling of being trapped in his life became searingly overwhelming.

His adolescence revealed a spectacular set of events, all changing the course of his life. That is when he left his childhood behind, and his exodus from the family happened at age 18, just after being shamed by the scandal in which he was the younger participant. His father never forgave Lucius for having homosexual relations. 

Life with two sisters, a mother and a very loving grandmother for a continuous six months per custody cycle transformed his core views on male and female behaviours with his intelligent, creative and sharp alertness to wit, clever personal performances from either gender enriching his curiosity and wonderment at the world around his slim body and average height every day; a bright boy with two intricate hazel eyes and long black natural Marcel hair set free to roam. 

His father was not affectionate, but rather a rancid-smelling and violent alcoholic disciplinarian whose male presence seemed to upset the half of Lucius sympathetic to others' troubles, to an impulsiveness and imagination sometimes lacking when he entered the second half of the year with his father. It was his father who made the most shocking discovery of Lucius's adeptness at using chess as a social opener to the seduction of both his classmates Carlos and Violetta. Never did the family expect an obvious bisexuality in a young boy of eighteen. His Mother asked “Where did I go wrong?” as most parents do after the shock and disgust. His father drove him to a cliff, where he made Lucius swear he was not what he called a deviant, a pervert. The shame on his family… His father's anguish at first turned into pure anger and then hatred. Lucius took a serious beating and was taken home to heal at his mother's place. Carlotta and Luminita were too young to explain his sexual predilections.

After being expelled and ex-patriated from the country and his family, 18 years of age looked grim to Lucius. Despondent, his mother facilitated living arrangements for him through her colleagues. 

His first land of Exodus was the island of Formentera with his Mother's retired journalist friend, Beatriz. I shall let him tell you his stories.

Point d’Esprit

Beatriz greeted me affectionately at the airport in Ibiza last summer. We took a ferry to the smaller sister island of Formentera, where she had purchased a fantastic little villa at Es Pujols, a lively village with a burgeoning tourism industry. At the station, her daughter Rosario had arranged the arrival of two Vespa scooters for us to drive down dirt roads and beaches the ancient Romans enjoyed centuries ago. I had felt a little homesick a few months before the self-imposed holiday, and after so many emails and phone calls I longed to visit my elegant and gorgeous friend Beatriz, to feel the Mediterranean sun on my pale skin.

Rosario packed two suitcases the next morning for her return to Madrid, where she enjoyed great success as a well-known broadcast journalist in television. I envied her linear path of education, social networking and a fulfilling family life. My own had become a badly drawn, awkward diagramme of trial and error, impulsive behaviour and disorder. She pinched my arm in the kitchen and smiled sweetly before walking out the door.

One terrific week of sun, fascinating conversations and self-reflection by the sea yielded superb results on my looks and mood. My hostess friend showed me the lighthouse at Cap de Barbaria, the Platja de Illetes, Punta Pedrera, and I fell in love with the island completely by the weekend. We climbed the rock formations at Cala Saona to watch the yachts and catamarans stalking the coast and stopped at the chiringuitos (open air beach bars) for carbonated drinks, salads and fried fish with peppers. The euphoria of indulging in carefree laughter and dancing was all I needed to trip hop back to life.

The night before my departure from this new heaven was enchanting. Beatriz wore a sheer white blouse with raised polka dots in its weave over a low-cut silk camisole for dinner. The sensual image and romantic alchemy they inspired together made my breath slower, fainter. She startled me with an “Hola, guapo.” I stuttered my “Hola, bella!” Was it all a flirty gambit? She exuded lust and sweetness elegantly.

The greetings filled the space between us comfortably and flared my curiosity at the unexpected and sexually-charged mood the scene provoked in me. Two glasses of an excellent red wine alleviated my paranoia, but not the intrigue. I felt like a novice charlatan, an amateur Lothario trying to look casually at her. Alas, this apprentice of love was not offered dessert at midnight.

A harmonious percussion of golden Gucci snakeskin stiletto sandals on the tile floor woke me up, and the sight of gorgeous legs was one of two gifts I received at the breakfast table. Beatriz shook her head at my cheeky grin and gave me a small golden package wrapped in a tawny iridescent silk ribbon. She whispered: “This is for you to remember this holiday with me, of your search for pieces in the puzzle of your happiness.” I asked for her permission to open it immediately, and she nodded. It was a point d’esprit handkerchief; beautiful, made of the same gauze as the blouse she had worn the night before. Her tender parting words reverberated on my mind: “I hope to see you next year.”

I stopped in Toledo to kiss Mother on her forehead on the way to New York and left one day later, with a few souvenirs for my friends. Mother was becoming translucent in my memory from time and distance, but I was happy again.

After Toledo, I made a stop in Paris to say good-bye my friends. That made me sad and nostalgic immediately. 

On to Paris, then NYC. Beatriz recommended the move to the U.S. and assisted me in applying for a student visa. It was approved. I had signed up for an ESOL course in Barcelona, so I left after finishing it. I gave Mother one last hug and another kiss in Toledo before the last flight out of Europe.

Paris in the Rain

It’s raining in the afternoon. I open my windows to listen with a clear mind to this familiar sound of water drops, to smell the new scents it uncovers when it reaches the ground. Chimes play a delicate syncopated melody in someone’s balcony next door from the soft breeze passing through.

Time seems to be suspended. My memories take me back through every arrondissement in Paris, and nostalgia overwhelms me for a moment. Names and faces come to me relentlessly until my eyes close, and I sit on the old wooden floor with my back flat against the wall. My shoulders relax and fall naturally. I breathe deeply once, then I hold it for two seconds and exhale.

So lovely is the scent of wet earth from my small window garden, I experience bliss. The sound of cars and people below becomes a subdued rhythm, a euphonious caress. I count to three and fall into a trance: One, two, three.

Now, a dark and narrow corridor appears in my mind and I walk into it. Clear skies slowly become visible above, and at the end there is a white room with a pale blue chaise longue next to a polished steel and glass side table. On the table is a small globular rock crystal vase with a stunning arrangement of violets. I will return to this place whenever I can.

As I turn around to walk back, I feel neither anxiety nor longing. When I count to three again, my past will have its proper perspective. I am ready.

One, two, three.

Just the Three of Us

1989 and a summer that scorched New York City were on my mind, making me sweat profusely as a newly arrived student from Barcelona. I knew Julio, an old friend from childhood whom I had kept in touch with via correspondence, and he offered me the spare room in his flat, if I ever came to visit. 

After leaving my mother’s home in Toledo, Spain, I travelled to take a break and re-focus on which career I wanted, on what I should do to become independent from my family. 

My friend Julio was once a vicious bully at school, but took a liking to me for reasons he never shared. Perhaps I was distracted by the familial problems I had witnessed and never bothered to ask about. 

Well, I was content with having someone to talk to after class for a change. We took long walks outside the city to smoke together and to have a great time as often as we could. As with many school outcasts, he taught me his ways, and I shared my toys with him in this new companionship. Ah, childhood…

He left Spain to live in New York in his late teens with relatives from his Father’s side –many of whom he detested– but the possibility of a new life got the best of him. He opened his own automotive body repair shop in the Bronx, and I would help him on my available days to perform accounting tasks. No work was beneath me whilst looking for a great College and a new career in Multimedia Design. He had a whole new life, which was something I wanted to earn for myself.

After he picked me up from LaGuardia airport we arrived at a very shabby-looking building, where he showed me his new home in the city, located in the East Village, in what he told me was called “Alphabet City” for its avenues named by letters. This is where I stayed. After unpacking, I laid back on my new bed, listened to the sounds of the metropolis coming from the open window and smiled with anticipation.

One night, after working at Julio’s auto body shop I left a little early to recover from some greasy food he and I ate for lunch. I tried my best to purchase items at a deli or to buy fresh vegetables and fruits, but this time I was not up to cooking, and paid the price. 

I took the train home and walked a short distance to the apartment building. I walked up the flight of stairs and came face-to-face with a young couple walking downstairs. Both looked great in what looked like a re-styled 60’s bohemian printed cotton chemise on her, and a collarless orange batik print rayon shirt on him.

My mother was a client of the best prêt-à-porter designers in the ’70s, where she took me on days when she'd had enough of my sloppy cleaning habits. She taught me so much about quality and style. Her guidance led me to take better care of my garments and to appreciate good taste in clothing on other people. I remember her L’Air du Temps perfume in the iconic Lalique flacon. 

For much of my childhood with her I used to read a lot of Jules Verne books, Agatha Christie novels and Robert Heinlein’s stunning visions of the future in science fiction. Before and after her divorce to Father she would come home after parties in what I would describe as a heroine’s wardrobe. It was an unforgettable life that seemed like a great novel come to life…

The couple did not just take a casual glance at me, they stopped to smile and stare brazenly. I felt uncomfortable. Were they looking at my dirty appearance? No, there was something aggressively inviting about how they engaged me. 

Both introduced themselves as Nikolai and Polina, the newlywed visiting neighbours from Moscow occupying the sublet flat across the hallway from my friend and I. They asked me, “Would you like to come over for a drink with us in an hour?” I hesitated for one full second, but said yes. I walked briskly to the door and let myself in to hear my fast breathing.

I purged the contents of my stomach and immediately felt better. Because I had admired the couple as a stylish duo earlier, I wore slim chocolate pinstriped summer-weight wool trousers, caramel brogues and an easy crewneck short-sleeved cobalt blue silk knit t-shirt for the friendly drink meeting. After a short trip to the local wine store I found out they had nice Chiantis in stock, and I picked one out as a gift for them.

After one knock at the door, Nikolai opened it and invited me in. He showed a mischievous grin when he saw the Chianti, he thanked me and took it to the kitchen. Nena’s 99 Luftballons was playing on their stereo, and it brought back good memories of 1984. Where was Polina? I would know in a moment, but just then, Nikolai offered me a tall glass of good straight-up Russian vodka. The effect was felt quickly and thoroughly, since I had not consumed any spirits for months. Some light conversation took place between us and he kept serving me this - by now - great vodka. 

Nothing prepared me for what happened next: Polina opened the door of the bedroom completely naked except for black satin high-heeled pumps. She walked over to where her husband and I were chatting and gave me a lusty kiss. The look on my face must have made both of them laugh, but I was close to being completely drunk, so my bewilderment gave way to excitement.

Both took me by the hand, and together we walked into the bedroom. Polina undressed me expertly and seduced me with her lips and eyes. At first, Nikolai removed his clothes, walked to the edge of the bed and watched me devour his wife. He slowly guided the pace at which I was breathing and having sex with her. She looked at me with what was now full ecstasy, when suddenly, I felt Nikolai’s hand on my shoulder. I thought he would join me in the ravishment of Polina, but instead, he made me stop and embraced me from behind. I felt his hot breath on my ear, and he ran his hands up and down my torso slowly. Perhaps it was the vodka and this complete surprise, but I did not object to his touch.

After she and I were satisfied I got up and put my clothes back on. Nikolai’s behaviour alarmed me a bit, but I accepted his invitation to return the next night. I saw myself out of their home, walked quietly back to the flat and greeted Julio with a brotherly hug. He smelled the vodka on me and asked if I'd had a good time. I do not know why I hesitated then to tell him about my encounter. Instead, I lied and said I had been out for some drinks at a bar. I knew what had happened was not a dream, but it left me with some disquieting new thoughts about my sexuality, which I decided were best left unshared. Na zdraví! Delirium!

I went back to them every night of that summer. Polina and I made love whilst Nikolai slowly seduced me, and one afternoon I accepted the sensuality of his homoeroticism, so we made love to each other. If this was a battle, aggression became the relentless exploration of our bodies. Every surrender and thrust was transformed by touch and breath into a dance. At first I could not stand my insistent desire to release tension and feel the insane moment of the conquest, but I slowly learned to enjoy our dance and listen to the music we offered each other. I made love to her as he guided me, and then he and I loved each other. Polina’s expression of jealousy and lust was the call for a new dance between the three of us.

My happiness with them ended when they returned to Moscow in August of that year. We went out for a farewell drink together in SoHo. I wrote letters to both for many months. They wrote back and promised to love me again when they returned the following summer. They told me they missed me as I missed them. I could move in with both if I wished to do so, and it would be just the three of us. I looked forward to it.

Tomorrow 

Many American photographers I've met credit the work of Diane Arbus as their inspiration to pursue Photography. Their personal forays into fashion, fine art, landscapes and other specialties in turn inspire others to capture moments of beauty or the grotesque as she did. 

I considered the idea for years, and I still can't decide if I have a story interesting enough to tell others, or to use my life as a splendid compendium of experiences to help people find their way. Writing in my journal filled me with joy and pain as a boy. It still does.

After a wonderful afternoon I spent at the Metropolitan Museum of Art I walked aimlessly for a few blocks, and on a whim decided to buy three photography books from a glitzy book store on Fifth Avenue. The work of three artists was now mine: Cindy Sherman's Untitled Film Stills, Nan Goldin's The Ballad of Sexual Dependency and Diane Arbus’s An Aperture Monograph by her daughter Doon Arbus and Marvin Israel. 

I couldn't wait to go home to open them and experience what I felt during exhibitions presented at various galleries I visited, so I sat down on one of the store's sofas and allowed their visions to kidnap my mind. 

The mundane, the beautiful, the lost; humanity at its least and most self-aware, the diseased... involuntary tears of gratitude fell from my eyes onto my hands, but I saw hope clearly, marvellously shown by people who chose to live with their conditions and their looks, their challenges and joys. How shockingly beautiful to see, and all I felt from them, how moving they were to me!

A strong desire to leave took over, and I walked out into the streets, following every building with my mind, experiencing everything, as I came across tourist shop owners serving their customers, delis and people looking at goods, and strangers crossing the streets. I felt naked under my clothes, and outside my flat I was one with the city for a moment.

It was only when I took the subway to the East Village that I felt myself again. A brief melancholy took me by surprise, and I thought of what I was at that moment: a man from a broken home, with a broken marriage, a past of opportunities lost and found; just a broken man with a dream and three photography books, going home at the end of the day. Tomorrow I will have another chance to win.

Tropic of Sandwich

I celebrated the fifth anniversary of my eighteenth birthday with Stephen, my new flatmate from Australia and the telly on a cold Wednesday in November in the East Village. No one else could come – or would come – but I wasn’t alone at my party. A feeling of abandonment haunted me until our last drink together. I watched the first snowfall through my window before I went to sleep.

One moulten candle in a carrot muffin on the bookshelf and my flatmate naked, snoring in my bathtub next to an empty bottle of gin assaulted my eyes and ears the following day. The gray dawn caressed my face tenderly, then it kissed my pile of laundry. A nightmare had awakened me to a hangover and mild dysphoria.

Hunger struck at seven o’clock in the morning. Our fridge was empty again, except for a pizza box with a chewed-out crust leftover in it. Reluctantly, I made the decision to walk outside our building and cross the street in the freezing weather to find some fast food. Nothing else was open for a few blocks and it gave me the chance to flirt with Chrissy, the new clerk.

Chrissy was off that day, and I was greeted instead by Kat, a sylph with Dynel curls falling from a trendy transparent visor. Her rhinestone-studded acrylic nails and perkiness belied the symptoms of a person suffering from helium ankles syndrome, which is often triggered by drinks at a club. “How may I assist you today?” was smothered in a very charming, unplaceable accent. My bovine expression stumped our communication for a moment until I pointed at the Fish Patty Combo. “With fries?” Yes, please. I purchased a small coffee for Stephen as well. “Have a nice day!”

I walked in to find Stephen sitting in the buff on our couch with the heater turned on to scorch, as he watched the morning news on the telly. He waved at me and I waved in return. I sat on the minimal patio set we used as dining room furniture and I took a bite out of the soggy patty. My expression must have been of such disgust that he got up from the couch and walked over to my plate. He grabbed the coffee and the meal, then said: “Let me do something for you, but close your eyes!”

An unceremonious “thud!” on the table announced the return of my plate. It all looked the same to me. What had he done to it? The first bite and my glare of suspicion at him became distant memories once my tongue did somersaults, as my eyes and sinuses were overpowered by wasabi. Bastard! We laughed together. However, I continued to devour my meal with relief. The subsequent high opened up the vision of a world for me where I could coexist in harmony with Thai spices, Tabasco sauce, and endless hot dressings. Flog me raw forever, you beastly hot sauces! Vile take-out food, you have never had it this good.

The Day We Met

That morning I listened to music whilst I dressed up for work, and something made me notice the lyrics. Kismet is a special word, but serendipity fits better to describe our first meeting. Discovering you marked the beginning of an adventure for me. Frank Sinatra and I would have sung a duet about it.

I received bookings as a wardrobe stylist through Mario, a photographer friend I made in College. He admired the way in which I pulled looks together after his wardrobe stylist Moira approached me in Times Square, where I wore a retro navy and white chalk pinstriped three-piece suit with an Hermès ascot and a fedora. After Moira hired me I assisted her, Mario's  best image consultant, who went away on her honeymoon for a month. He also knew I needed to keep myself busy after I quit my last job at a photo lab because Julio died, and I needed the work. Our friendship started there, when we had a discussion about the prints he ordered from an editorial he had just photographed. Between jokes and fashionista talk we formed a bond. We called each other every day since then, as if we had always been friends in an unbroken line of history.

7:15 A.M. and a cup of espresso in my hand wearing a scowl could have been turned into a postcard or a meme, considering how many times I had woken up early for Mario. We were taking photos of a new face at the talent agency that hired us, Stacey. Her blonde hair and gamine look reminded me a bit of Jean Seberg in Jean-Luc Godard’s film “Breathless.” Then, you appeared: two irises of dark chocolate brown looked directly into my hazel ones, and I did the same to yours. We acknowledged each other, straight into each other's gaze. You walked slowly toward me and said: “Hello, I am Karlie. You must be Lucius.” Those words were pronounced with a crisp undertone of imperiousness and flirty coolness. “I am here to do Stacey’s make-up and hair, it’s a pleasure to meet you! Mario raves about your styling.” I had heard about you before, but we had not worked together on a photo-shoot until then. 

I remember your black hair with a side part cut into a sharp asymmetrical bob that grazed your chin diagonally on the left side, and the rest of the hair was pushed neatly over your right ear. I noticed the hair had a healthy shine and a natural blue tint in the black strands. Minimal, precise make-up and short manicured nails with a gloss topcoat announced good grooming. Fluidity in your walk and a knowing movement of the hips made me stand up sharply to notice your stern elegance. One platinum and diamond ring in a tension setting on your left hand made me curious about its origins, but time pressed on, and we needed our model to be ready.

Mario played a new CD in the sound system whilst you ironed and teased Stacey’s hair. The first song had a killer retro-sounding sample in an up-tempo beat to accompany a great female Soul singer’s voice. A beautiful melody and street-wise lyrics made it tough chic. It impressed me enough to ask him who the performer was, and that's how I became acquainted with the music of Amy Winehouse. My feet followed the rhythm, and you winked at me. I felt a jolt of wonder, Karlie. You caught me looking at the silver lariat falling into a lovely place between your breasts and smirked. I was shamelessly admiring you.

Once Stacey was ready, Mario and his assistant Luis went to work on shooting the first outfit. She eased into the “characters” she was portraying for the camera, and we were all impressed by how quickly she interpreted the directions given to her by Mario. Karlie was pleased with the work, ever observant of stray hairs or any make-up retouching needed. I watched out for unsightly wrinkles and any ill-fitting garments.

How to describe the way in which we looked at each other? The naughty expression on your face met my appreciative eyes. After the session was over, you asked me out for a drink and my lecherous smile amused you. I accepted.

The Dancer

On a cold Sunday morning in January I awoke to the sound of wind and leaves rustling at my window. When I got up, the sting of the cold air made me shiver when it seeped into my flat. As I shaved, I saw my face in the mirror; twenty-five years old and full of promise, a fresh visage looked back at me.

My friend Julio passed away on Christmas Day, and I picked up the phone to hear a dial tone but I could not call him anymore. A Chopin waltz I played inspired me to dress up and drive to the forest, to escape the city and my sorrow for a moment.

When I reached Millbrook in Upstate New York I drove around to find a solitary spot, and the site of a demolished building spoke to me of loss. I put on war paint and spiked my hair.

I danced to remember.

I danced to grieve.

I danced, inspired by Pina Bausch and Martha Graham.

My dance was for you, my friend.

When it was over, I felt the brotherly love for my friend Julio intensified. I gave myself closure, and the hope he had in me cheered me up. I have the right to succeed and the right to fail, so I will keep working every day toward my happiness. My return to NYC was sad and quiet.

The Train

Few structures remain standing after the sweep of my eyes around you. Most are now fragrant cinders, but your eyes have not returned the gift I long for, that acknowledgment of your fear when you notice and then understand the shameless heat in my expression of longing. Allow me the peace of you caressing my shadow with your body language so I can proceed happily to drown in the ocean of lust I am willing to merge into.

We are but a few feet away at the train station and the pressure I feel within my clothes is extraordinary in volume and fury. The things I would do to you, on you, in you; with you, all night, tonight. Wrap your slender hand on the rail and board my train.

Duel

Karlie,

Since our last argument, we have pushed and pulled words of beauty and hatred freely between us, darling. I miss coming home to you, but not tonight. Mother says “hello.” I will call you tomorrow afternoon.

Love,

Lucius

Another night, some drinks and too much talk about feelings again… My own were nowhere to be found in the conversation, and instead, I walked out of the flat Karlie and I shared. The expression “I’m going out for fresh air” took on an urgency that made me overlook the cliché. 

I had some time to think whilst I walked in silence for a few blocks. The night seemed inauspicious and gloomy, but it did not reflect my mood. Somehow, my frustration turned into a sarcastic smile that owed its appearance to Papa. I finally understood the man, but it was up to me to determine what to do about our similar conjugal woes.

Nothing magical or wonderful happened after my walk, but I knew it was up to me to challenge our views and transform our life together because I cared. If she wanted the same, she could do so as well, but I could not wait. I went to bed for dreamless sleep. My side is always the left side, my dear.

White Walls

My girlfriends and my parents thought I was insane to marry Lucius. The statement “He’s my husband” carried weight and safety, but I was well aware that being with him was an unbounded territory for me. Every day with him was different in every way: lovemaking, cooking, going out to trendy bars on occasion, impulsive shopping for clothes or accessories, and his quirks only added mystique to his mercurial character. He made me laugh, and he also made me think.

“Karlie,” he said, “there are things I must tell you, so you know me as your friend, and you can decide what to do.” I can’t say I was surprised when he told me he enjoyed sex with men and women. He told me about his past, between bites of his grilled chicken breasts with a mango-infused sauce on a bed of white rice and an amazing gazpacho. I swooned, although I had to confess the meaning of what he was telling me would come into my mind slowly. He cooked modestly, but with great sauces, and I admired his resolve to make his home a welcoming place for our dates.

At first, a feeling of dread came over me when he asked if I was a jealous person. I dated several men before Lucius with mostly disappointing results, yet I felt there was a possibility to have a long-term relationship with him, much like what my parents had. He said: “I won’t ask you to be superhuman, my love, I just want you to accept me.” I asked him if he preferred one gender to the other. He went on to say: “I can be with a man or a woman.” My silence fell like lead. Was he implying that I would have to share him? I looked away for a moment, and when my eyes met his again my sadness was on the surface for him to see. He poured some Pinot Grigio for both of us and looked at me with tenderness. His “I am with you now” felt like Heaven, I was so blindly in love with him.

I’ve had relationships with women off and on throughout my life, starting with a girl crush I had on Amelia, a popular girl during my junior year in High School. When we met, we both had long black hair parted in the middle. We wore black, forest green and navy plaid kilts, little white Peter Pan-collared cotton blouses and sweet raspberry lip gloss as our uniform every day. Our matching Mary Jane shoes were always impeccable.

Amelia was Argentinian and half-French in origin, which gave her a unique knowledge and two perspectives of Fashion and Style I admired and loved. She and I were routinely written up by our Principal because of trimming and sewing our kilts to a miniskirt length. She taught me about sheer stockings and garters, high heels, and why I should never show up at a party without bringing a gift.

What I did not enjoy were the moments when we would both become hysterical and catty, just utterly vicious with each other at random times. The boys seemed to be mostly push-button creatures, but I appreciated their consistent programming. My preference for the male stereotypes both charmed and annoyed me at times.

Lucius and I felt more and more empathy with each other as the conversation continued because he forced me to examine my past and see the real me. He was challenging me to go on this wild adventure with him into a sexual and intellectual realm I had never foreseen with another being. His honesty helped me to express many things I kept hidden, even from myself. Nothing made me doubt his love, as his actions showed. 

This new reality in which I could have the freedom to indulge in my fantasies and he would be free to philader with my approval was both terrifying and alluring to my ego.

When the light of dawn came through the windows I was in his arms and he said softly: “White walls of rented flats and many jobs, but no career. Blank faces with secret identities surround us and somehow, we found each other.” I listened to his heartbeats. “Let’s have a life together.” I kissed him and nodded, knowing this was a demented troubadour’s dream. Sometime during the night it also became mine.

The morning sun found us walking to a bakery for some croissants and coffee. We said nothing else to each other, and he held my hand. Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland came to my mind in waves.

Vodka Breakfast

The morning after my divorce from Karlie I found myself swimming in a sea of vodka and pity. I sank to the bottom. I swam big waves looking for absolution. Crystalline light above compelled me to gasp for air. That didn't happen until I reached the rocks. I saw you covered in flowers. You said they were all for me.

Every day I took a flower from your body, and you chipped away my corals, then gently washed the salt off my skin before you kissed me. I saw the silver cross on your chest, and you found my gold Star of David. 

One year later, stripped of everything that kept us apart we became children again, and we played by the sea, but I would never again have vodka for breakfast.

A New Beginning

Hello. Sometime between last night and this morning, I could not stop packing my trunks. There were so many aged photos, letters and old bills from a decade of living in New York. 

I caressed the pigskin trunk, with its protuberances coming to me. Almost all of my clothes will be creased by the time my train arrives to my destination. Even now, I face uncertainty about where.

Every face that stared back at me from those pictures and the handwriting of everyone no longer here… I sat down on the old sofa, the aubergine suede nightmare my sister had picked for the new flat. My eyes looked at the voluptuous oak-panelled library with its volumes of delicious sins dormant in skin-bound books with tenderness.  

Wow, I think of ten years of life in this city, and I smile. After looking at Father’s tailored worsted wool three-piece suit in the closet, I smile even more as I am leaving it behind.

Last night I wrote a note without thinking much about it, only feeling. It said:

Living. I breathe through my nose and exhale through my mouth. Vision is alert and perceives millions of colours, all there for me and for others, too. Scent. Touching my limbs. Walking to the door and resuming the activities in a sequence I call living. Sound fills the evening. My friend, your light brings to me that sweet moment when we speak and I feel as though you and I have never parted physically as we whisper on the phone. Your voice, hearing you…

There was a different moment, when the colours dimmed and the scents were bitter. Touching the sheets caused pain of unspeakable sharpness and profound regret. Lying in the imaginary cube in which I found myself, with my arms around me and music caressing a moment I knew was over, I wept. It was an end to us, to the possibilities.

My eyes closed, and ennui came from impatience at the seconds slowly piling up like dried fallen leaves. When? How much longer? I got up from my cube and walked with fear. The cold was that much more stinging and acrid outside. Snow pricked my skin on contact. The darkness was my friend and longtime acquaintance walking next to me. Resignation came.

I made a promise to myself: to withstand it all, if I could continue giving, loving, crying and laughing. Living. The darkness left, but the sun that came after was paler than I remembered. 

Something was left behind as I contemplated walking through the door at the end. Thank you. 

Everything is peaceful and more balanced, but innocence is now that old book in my library. It was something I had felt and lived, but is now another part that I collect; treasures that arrive when I summon my past with trembling hands. How cynical of me to remember things this way.

I could not. Something inside me said I should not cease to be. Perhaps it would be over another day, but not at that moment. There was a brief and shiny vision of me walking away and learning how to live all over again, but this time without the sickness, without the ignorance and the fear, always ready to learn and feel everything that came to me, knowing right from wrong and willing to experience it all until it was the right time to go. This was what I thought and felt last night.

What is at the end of this lesson? The incredible happiness of living, of always being hungry and of being eager to walk and breathe. I will dance again and smile like the free man I am. A new beginning in a new city, but without you. If we don’t meet again, just know that I will always love you. I must call my cab now.

Yours truly,

Lucius

Miami

The moment I turned 26 I left NYC, after years of unforgiving heat during the summers and horrible cold in the winter. Yeah, there was so much more than that; I was also running away from bad moments embedded in my mind.

There was at least one thing that remained constant: my addiction to social media. It was through several popular platforms that I met Christophe, a very handsome, tall redhead from New Zealand. He also left NYC, but he did it after a long romance online with me. Way to go, chappie! We moved in together into a modest flat in North Miami.

Long Distance Love Affair

The new millennium began after raging madness and flames of prophecy in the expectation of an end to the world and I drank the finest Champagne to celebrate it. After the general hysteria subsided, my life and the search for a lover continued. 

Electricity and fibre optics were the means to an end. We met on the Internet through mutual friends and I never imagined I would grow to experience longing every time your avatar appeared on my monitor. Perhaps you could feel my hand touching the screen…

It is one year later. Now, our conversations about hot sex and fetishes make my loins engorge with blood, and a single tear falls on the polished wood floor between my naked feet. You have a way with words indeed, lover. I wake up after dreaming of you, and the best in me is enamoured with your vision of happiness. I am only afraid of the distance. The possibility of meeting you and holding your hand causes anxiety in me because it hurts to touch.

Ginger and Spice

On my table lies the first draft of a story. You embrace me with the delicious aroma of your cooking and yell at me from the infamous kitchen of sarcasm, demanding of my kisses to taste like the stars, not cookie dough. Your words sound better than the morose drivel engraved on the page, and when I open my mouth, I feel moons and galaxies breezing into my mind. 

My gypsy had lain unconscious in the mirror for years until you came along. I used to feel as if my life’s mission was to watch an hourglass filled with dread and poison whilst sitting on a cinnamon-coloured chair, wearing clothes sheared to slices by my own poor judgement. When I finish my story you will know how everything changed in me the day you offered me a rabbit as a gift. 

The taste of pepper on my lips will always be part of my makeup, but I will follow you into a lifelong trance with your sweet-smelling skin on mine. I promise we will be together in New York soon, lover. 

Unfortunately, it all ended when Christophe couldn't find a job, so he left me for New York. It was futile to contact each other after that.

I went out to the clubs on Miami Beach. Of course, I did most of the drugs: cocaine, ecstacy, ketamine, quaaludes and marihuana when I  partied with new comrades. The Health Department had my phone number on speed dial! This is when I cruised the park on Meridian Avenue on Miami Beach and found Helmut, an Austrian millionaire. Tall, brunet, and the owner of such tender brown syrupy eyes, we went to his yacht at the Miami Beach Marina, and our relationship began when he started teaching me all of his kinky and depraved ways and shared all his secrets. I fell in love. He kept an apartment in Central Park West, where we would invite hot strangers to play with us when we travelled to NY. I still had almost overwhelming psychological scars from my experiences, my memories.

Furtive Kiss

I put on my trench coat and hide behind mirrored aviator sunglasses when I take the subway. Your phone call beckons me to find you and let you have my body. No one else must know I have feelings for you. The growing impatience makes me weak with desire...

The scar on your face and the hair on your body make me want you even more. When I am inside you I wish to never be apart from your warmth and the strong smell of your sweat. Our passion takes over my mind, and delirium brings me into the delusion that you are mine. I am yours this afternoon and you belong to me.

As you said, I understand now all that exists between lovers is companionship. Exquisite food and delicious wines only serve as the smaller diversions before we make love and spend hours caressing each other. Our conversations are mostly about my job and you teach me all about stocks and bonds. You enjoy my music and I admire your officer’s dress cap on the desk. 

I know I may spend the night, but your lover could surprise us and this affair would be finished. I am “the other man” and you give me everything but a promise. Every time we meet I feel closer to you, but years later may render us just friends. Perhaps then I will understand everything you share with me over dinner, after sex.

Neal

After some time together with Helmut, I went out with him on Miami Beach to look for other men to share together. Our routine was fairly consistent: we woke up together, perhaps had sex, then went out to restaurants. Evenings were spent at clubs in full predatory mode.

That night in a club just on Washington Avenue on Miami Beach we both found Neal, a fit guy who was shaped with a lean musculature after being an equestrian for years. Neal was drinking a Long Island Ice Tea, which I also bought for Helmut and I. Getting him drunk took another highly-alcoholic drink, after which Helmut and I took him in a cab to the Marina, to Helmut's yacht for sex. Shamefully, my opening line was: “hey, how's tricks?” He replied: “Not doing much at the moment. You came in with a friend, yeah?” I explained that I was horny as hell, and I wanted to hook up at my friend's. He agreed to come with us.

However, Helmut saw Neal's furry body, and he declined to join us. Neal was too drunk to perform and excused himself. The following day I received a dozen red roses and an invitation for dinner, just Neal and I. Helmut could see my surprise shining on my face. It's possible that he knew then that I was happy to have a suitor with a romantic streak. I must have hurt Helmut, but he didn't show it. I think I resented that.

The following night I had a wonderful first dinner with Neal. He was very detached and even nervous, as if he'd never… Well, he confirmed I was his first male sexual partner. Up until the night at the bar he was going out with two Argentinian sisters. Dog! 

He was renting a flat on the beach, just off the club strip, on Michigan Avenue. We went there and had furious kissing, all throughout the amazing sex.

As much as I loved Helmut, he had been attached to a younger man he also met at a club, and I didn't see longevity in our relationship. I didn't know if I was ready for someone new, but I didn't care.

For the next six years, Neal and I went from his coming out to his parents to living together. In the second year we formed a women's manufacturing and wholesale business, after Neal saw my fashion designs. My time as a wardrobe stylist inspired me to create fantastic clothes. I fell for him so hard, despite his verbal and physical abuse. 

Mélisande

The unbelievably fashionable and stylish sylph that was Mélisande became an acquaintance through Neal. She was a friend he made in childhood, and we had a similar taste for personal flair. 

When we first met, Neal and I had organised and executed a successful business trip in the early 90s. We met Alexander, a first-generation NewYorCuban, a fantastic ex-buyer for a prestigious women's retailer. Success for our business now had a showroom on 5th Avenue. 

it was slightly cold outside in the Autumn of 1990 and Neal asked: “Would you like to meet my friend Mélisande? I've known her since forever. You'll like her.” I did. She met us at a small restaurant in the Midtown section of Manhattan, and our modest budget allowed only prix fixe dinners. She entered the restaurant in what I recognised was a vintage black A-line wool melton car coat over –then trendy latex tights tucked into architectural blood red conical-heeled booties, exquisite makeup and forties-styled mid-neck length brown hair with blue highlights. Fabulous! 

We had a lovely dinner of Veal Piccatta and vowed to be in touch after Neal and I returned to Miami. She did. What Neal didn't share with me was that Mélisande was Joanne, an exotic dancer. I was well and proper intrigued. 

She met us on Miami Beach for a summer. I loved that she would betray Neal by provoking me sexually. However, I was committed; couldn't cheat on one of my few ex-bisexual comrades. 

After Neal and I ended, she took Neal's side of our relationship.  Never saw or knew about her again until I found Neal on LoveBook decades later and asked about her. She had become a famous DJ. Excellent for her. I had also found Helmut online, but everyone from that part of my life had drifted away from my life successfully. 

One

There you are! My mind takes the sight of you coming to me and I smile. My shoulders fall back and the hands are open; I’m glad you’re home to celebrate our anniversary, dear. Let me see those lips I want and I am going to kiss until I taste just like another part of your skin. I have no pride to give you everything in me.

You come closer as if there has never existed anything other than body and soul living together. With my eyes closed, I say your name and it is with them closed, because I have turned into a heart inside this body we are. Hope makes everything around me shine anew whilst dancing to your excellent collection of Pop Electronica songs tonight.

Through the moments of happiness you bring and the lust in your smile, when we see each other every day, I am so overwhelmed with gratitude and joy. Every night we spend together I whisper… I love you.

Onomatopoeia

I love Pussy. Not many people know this, perhaps because I don’t post photos to flaunt it in my blog or upload it into the profile’s image albums. What an unexpected source of mirth and bewilderment in my life, this Pussy is.

When my close friends Claudio and Derek agreed to end their relationship both gave me their cat. She had a name, but I couldn’t think of calling her by it since we were now together. Without further ado, she became my Pussy.

As with all cats, she owns me. Already housebroken, she knows where everything is and what it stands for when she reaches for her bowls of water and food, claws the couches fiercely and runs through the hallway into the foyer to chase her toys.

“Meow!”

She likes to play after I give her catnip. I toss her toy a metre away from me and she runs back with it, to lay it at my feet. My feet have scratch marks from her, but I still refuse to clip her nails often.

Last Wednesday night I had a long conversation with my brilliant new friend Gunter, a hardcore Berliner who lives in Barcelona and works as an Art Director and Commercial Photographer for an advertising agency. His day had been stressful, and I could feel the heat from his anger through my headphones. We both decided to use an Internet phone service after we looked at our cellular phone bills. He was not using foul language for a change, and the aspersions were also witty, something I have always admired of him.

When we met he was just another photographer snapping shots at a runway show for a designer friend’s collection in Madrid. During one segment of it, he turned to me suddenly and whispered: “That model has a pack of cigarettes under her arm!” enunciated boldly with his accent, so I looked up to see a price tag the stylist had not removed. After nearly collapsing on the carpet with irrepressible laughter, I shook his hand and asked if we could go out for a drink to exchange more observations on the show. He gave a “Ja!” that thrilled me. I went back to New York, and he returned to Barcelona, but we formed a great bond with every phone call thereafter.

“Miau!”

I was multi-tasking, making storyboards for my friend Mario’s photoshoot in the morning and also on the phone with Gunter. As he ranted about an unprofessional actor on the set of the commercial he was working on, the cat jumped on my desk and sat in front of my monitor. 

Because I spend so much time in front of the computer every day, a male model friend advised sitting on a Swiss ball for some hours. I got up and dashed to the kitchen to refill her water bowl and sat down again.

My friend Gunter and I did our hefty amount of complaining about egos, but we also acknowledged each other’s alpha dog characters in business, as well as in social situations. Mutual respect kept it all from becoming a brawl, choosing to experience and learn from what we both had to offer from our day.

Everyone would love to find their talent and cherish what they do for a living. On the way there, people seem to become sick with greed, envy, pride, and many undesirable qualities. Those trying to take their place constantly accost the individuals who succeed in their fields. The result is a mass of tired and angry beings with self-defence as their philosophy. During projects, most professionals seem to jockey for attention and kudos, usually at the wrong time.

“Miaou!”

Pussy wants, and pussy gets. I’m spoiling her, eh? I keep a metal comb in my bureau to both pet her and take off her excess hair, to prevent her from spitting out fur balls so often. She purrs and goes to her little bed with a grin.

I continue a conversation both blunt and esoteric that turns to possible solutions: What would Gunter and I do outside the Arts? There are days when I wish I could go and recycle plastics, to turn them into bricks and help the poor build their homes. I think finding people in need and not just pampered queens of platitudes can balance my day. Gunter concurs with this. Why are there no fines for people who waste others’ time?

The conversation ended, and I looked at my Pussy. Exhausted, and feeling slightly bitter after the exchange of dissertations on divas, I went to the couch, and she leaped gracefully on it, her little paws stepping on my arms and solar plexus, purring on her way to my ribcage. She knelt in the middle of my sternum and looked at me.

“Miauw!”

She came closer to my face, and pressed her cold little nose on my lips. I think she just kissed me.

Seven

A seven year-old comrade was found drowned during an outing at a swim pool organized by my first school when I was seven. No one knew how. All the kids went back to their parents, and there were charges filed against the instructor and the institution. 

I did know little Esteban, but I also wished for that to remain a buried memory, something “dodgy” about it all. Funny to think about him now, when I've had time to forget.

To this day, after all those  decades ago, no one has found the culprit, when the drowning was ruled a murder, nor did I follow-up on him or his family. Could someone have held him underwater and not remember? I've had tortured dreams about it, yet I don't have an answer.

Everyone was questioned about the incident, but I had nothing pivotal to share. With true anxiety, the incident came back to me with a vicious snap into my ID. Perhaps, I don't remember everything…

Jonathan

Something marvellous and cataclysmic marked and defined me in 2001. I met Jonathan, a tall, lean elementary school teacher in North Miami, when I was still living in my flat, after Christophe and the terrible breakup I experienced with Neal.

Because I felt lonely when I wasn't with Jonathan I began writing for a popular blog from an art curator in London, Petrus. We met through Lovebook. He read my personal notes and decided I had some skill at writing prose. 

I began writing for Petrus, after discovering how profoundly I had been influenced by my new relationship with Jonathan. Jonathan and I share one amazing characteristic: we both are hung, but he wins by a tremendous size when we compared members. It was a bit embarrassing to have little skill in handling his tool. We were really into each other, so I made that work.

Two

I felt so much for you and now, I cannot return to my life. I feel it, the enchanting blindness of looking at your face and never at the disdain you have shown me every time our conversations stop on the drive home, after visiting our friends.

There are no more films to watch with you on my shelves. Their sounds and images of captured lives used to fill the rooms completely and we joined them for fifty-two Sundays. Do you remember how we sat on my sofa, bored and hungry for popcorn? There must be a new place for me to see and feel again. I felt so much for you and now I understand why you’re leaving me: I have been in love only with myself and all I felt were my own feelings.

Jonathan knocked on my door and smiled when he looked at my notepad, freshly wet from wine on the coffee table. He started laughing and asked: “What are you writing, Lucius?” He gave me a small jewel box. As I opened it, he said: “Jamais deux sans toi. Never two without you.” I felt stupid a million times at that moment. “You are a silly man, Lucius.” Yes, I am.

Six Flowers

Yesterday I turned off the lights before I went to bed, and today I awoke without the crimson traces your beard had left on my neck. 

There is a small music box covered in a saffron and chartreuse collage next to my pillow, but it does not play music; it plays the recording of your voice repeating “home” to the beat of an engorged native drum. How thoughtful of you to encourage my hands to recreate the feeling of your hands on my skin with anamorphic lust as the heavy breathing of your voice makes me rise and rise.

Slowly

Jonathan, raise your hand and place it on mine. Look at me in the eyes. I want us to live with Passion, in such ecstasy that burns in colours so magnificent, the clouds part and watch astonished. 

Our ashes will blow in the wind and scatter us across every cobbled street of the town we call home. Whisper my name. How could I have caused such an end to us?

The Scent of  Danger

Jonathan and I had a wonderful life together: his sister and the rest of the family accepted and liked me. His friends were our friends. He moved in with me in my flat in North Miami, just South of Aventura and Hollywood. Yes, there is a Hollywood in Florida. 

As per Jonathan's request, I went to his school one day, to become familiar with how he performed his duties and taught Art to small children. All I could do was to assist him and look lovingly into his beautiful dark brown eyes. I loved him with all I had. I still do.

Somehow, I made the most catastrophic mistake of my life: I met a man I'd had casual sex with in-between romances, after Neal, before Jonathan. He was walking in the opposite direction from me when I walked to the supermarket near my building, a few blocks away. I gave him my land phone number, which I shared with Jonathan, after we vowed to live together. Jonathan had access to all messages, and this man did call to ask if we would meet again and have sex. Jonathan accused me of cheating and remained furious, even after I explained I had no designs on that man. 

What happened next scarred me psychologically forever, and I could do nothing to stop it. Regret and pain now live inside me always.

I found a job as an executive assistant to a magazine publisher, which became miserable to endure eventually. One night, I came home early after quitting, but when I entered the flat and I held Jonathan to kiss him and make love he smelled like the sweat of another man. My suspicions were confirmed when I found traces of lubricant on his back. Someone had my man! He allowed another to enjoy him! The fury that came over me was too strong to bear. I think I had a mental breakdown, because I woke up in a hospital, after swallowing a packet of rat poison. 

After I was admitted and then released from the Behavioural Health Unit Jonathan asked me to move out, which was said with crushing sadness. Had I done something unforgivable whilst deranged? Jonathan was clearly afraid of me. 

I moved into a unit in the same building with my middle sister Carlotta. Luminita still lived in Spain, but we remained in contact via phone and the occasional postcard. She couldn't help me during that terrible breakup, so Carlotta took me in to console me, which remained absolutely impossible to do, as Jonathan still lived on the top floor of the building. The pain of that was brutal and unbearable. 

In 2006 I was diagnosed with HIV. There was only one lover who could have given it to me, Jonathan. I thought I would die of a broken heart, takotsubo cardiomyopathy. These days, I'm healthy and uncertain of my future, but optimistic. Every morning I have fought with my psyche to forget his betrayal with every pill.

Because of my promiscuity, I invited the random chaos of what in gay parlance are “tricks” or casual hookups.  Some were memorable by their surrender as well as mine.

Greg

I've questioned my sanity so many times during our furtive meetings. You refuse to speak to me, and yet you enjoy every moment I hold you in bed. Your existence is my one big shadow, my sugary poison. One day, I'll lose you and perhaps then I'll know how to stop my slender arms and legs from holding you, only to find a void at dawn. My sugary poison, my midnight lover. My Greg.

Not About Love

The unmistakable traces of sweetness, of a life half-done. The trousers hide all my mortal sins to bear later.

Give me that final kiss and ask of me to leave you before I can touch the candle burning. From the past until now it was all about love. No more.

Without further ado, I will share two of the short stories and vignettes I wrote for my new English friend Petrus for his Art Blog for you to judge:

Marcus

To watch him fall in love was to watch a sky at dawn after a melancholy spell. He followed a dream made conspicuously clear in his eyes, sparkling on a face revealing the relentless pursuit of riches and pleasure, perhaps of someone new.

When he received compliments from others he was unable to use his own voice to claim possession of the feelings in his heart that paralleled the Universe in its enormous and infinite motion, to thank them for their aether flowers. Such contrasts between lucid intent in body language and charming vestigial shyness built an attraction that could shake any statue. 

So sweetly has he given me in a few key notes of his keyboard the tears I needed to bring down a house of fear. Where shall he drift to now? I’m longing for our union of touch and sound, standing, waiting by the phone. The recording of the sentiment seems trite and soulless in the hot wax of words because it is spoken through the eyes and the lips; the hands and the arms; the unmovable, bittersweet faith of tender longing borne on my lips waiting for a kiss of hope. 

But he did not wish to be better, to overcome his disorder, the spiritual myopia of Depression. He saw destruction as a conduit for a better life, contemplating it every minute of his inclement emotional weather. Death becomes flowers in the spring. Today, I remember his life and display the writing on my skin worn by guilty happiness the acridest sorrow of them all: that moment when I stopped being him. 

Traumatic dreams began after my guilt about abandoning my sisters overcame my sanity. I had one of the worst about Carlotta.

Don't Be Afraid

Vivid dreams in colour show me glimpses of what I am. Some include sex, but I have begun to dream in definite colours, not just grays or black & white. Others are felt on my body with raw and pulsating pain, yet I cannot awake from them. Will I ever awake from them?

Where am I? A shock of magenta fades into fuchsia and ends abruptly on an opaque violet wall; I’m being led through a house I remember from my childhood by the hand of Carlotta, my younger sister. There are no sounds I can discern from her mouth as she speaks. One window deceives my mind into believing I see dark blue water and it shows me when I was seven years old, Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea. I am drowning into black. Another window…No! NO!! A red sportscar is coming our way!

My eyes open and I am chasing myself…being chased by someone… I am in a tavern drenched in orange and gold. Why can’t anyone hear me? My own panting and fear, the swelling of my arm muscles punching desperately an oak wood door mimic the distant sound of galloping.

Now, I see a garden but there is an acute blast into my ears coming from a silver trumpet and I suddenly see my arm with a needle in it. Sweating and enjoying the water pouring from my body brings me back to reality and it lingers, anchored by my own scents.

Should I be afraid? Will madness introduce me to my own soul? I shall not sleep again; I must continue my search for Paradise. Thank you for coming to see me again, dear Carlotta.

Things

Things I keep to myself. Things others see and I don’t. I lick my own sweat, thinking of a tongue from a lover who isn’t here. Things. Beautiful ones and ugly ones, morbid and cheerful ones. Who would know me better than myself?

A storm is coming and I am ill-prepared to contain lust, fear, anger and murder. Savage feelings in either direction you’d see can easily glamour you into the comfortable feeling of knowing me. I offer my skin and my skill to those I adore, yet withhold certain things to discuss after some wine, grapes and Brie.

Goin' to Church

It was Easter Sunday, and I hadn’t given it much thought, except to remember many businesses would be closed, and my own lack of religious fervor toward Buddhism, Judaism or any other -ism I have experienced –and strayed from would give me an unpleasant poke. The night before it I felt anxious, uneasy and even upset because of my family and the problems and attitudes that conspired to keep us apart. It’s a conscious effort and not an easy one, dealing with people whose dogmatic views on life I’ve witnessed fail and succeed on equal terms. My opinion was seldom wanted nor needed, as it should be. Everyone knew all the right answers already, didn’t they?

An invitation to attend services at an open communion church on Sunday morning from my close friends Claudio and Derek suddenly seemed to be the coolest thing to accept after my breakup with Jonathan, and I did. After packing a few clothing and grooming essentials I left for the flat the boys shared on the West side of the city. 

My friends Claudio and Derek offered to host me in their flat, to recover after Jonathan. I absolutely had to, I felt suicidal.

Saturday night belonged to Rum & Coke plus Alfred Hitchcock and a few of his films: “Sabotage”, “The Man Who Knew Too Much”, “Number 17″, “The Skin Game”, and I didn’t finish watching another movie included in the DVD. Insomnia is a beast, indeed. A big thank you for getting me out of my cave to my two buddies. I love you.

Surprisingly, the morning was less rough than I expected at waking time and one of my two friends made coffee (Claudio, thank you). The three of us looked awesome, but I made the mistake of bringing a jacket in black during a brief heat wave we were going through and I had forgotten to cuff the trousers. Oh, well! On with the show. No, it was not the show I expected either:

Turquoise Jeep: check

Men in pastel polo shirts and madras trousers: check

A rude masculine lesbian woman driving like a bully: check

The loudest rainbow-print t-shirt I’ve ever seen, as worn by a very gay African-American guy: check

Septuagenarian man walking with a cane, helped by a younger person: nice

And then…

Middle-aged male couple in shorts and flip-flops: no no no No NO NO NO! What happened there? 

Somewhere on the sand and perhaps with palm trees swaying in the breeze that would have been fine, but this was taking place in a downtown area in a building of worship. Not a day to judge anyone, but it was wrong! Stereotypes are bad, but man… Deep breath. Happy place, happy place…

“The Lord be with you.”

“And also with you.”

I sat and looked up and down the church, with its tall and delicate stained-glass windows, the organ pipes and projectors that fed screens with the text and lyrics to the songs we were listening to. I would not chant along with the crowd, feeling at odds about my place in a predominantly Christian group. My friends and I sat behind a remarkably tall and beefy man who must have certainly been a competition bodybuilder in his youth, slightly separated from gay son’s mum and gay son in a white linen suit with coral cotton shirt and caramel oxfords. Ten out of ten for appearance. Good job! Mum was no slacker in her pale lilac casual trouser suit and ivory peep toe high-heeled slingback shoes. A+ as well.

Whilst seated in a mesmerised state, and surrounded by the echoes of all the voices chanting I began to feel more at ease and a thought came to me, somewhere between looking at the crowd and the harp emitting full-force sweetness: I thought of the reason I have navigated easily through the social wildlife and the failures or successes of others. I remembered it has never been difficult for me to say something true and also kind to someone about what they looked like or their work and their impression on me. I abstained from insulting or humiliating people into giving me anything I wanted or needed. I loved and I was often loved in return.

The Reverend for this service gave a homily built on passages from the Gospel of Mark. He opened it with an exhortation to change the perception within anyone who cared not to know the facts about people suffering from HIV and AIDS: “Fight AIDS, not the people who have it.” Yes, I was at first callous and sarcastic about my friends’ insistence,  trying to charm me into joining the church, printed on the envelopes for tithing. I wouldn’t join, but I could donate. I had no questions to ask. After this procedure, the service continued and kudos were given to one of the presiding members who was barely able to speak and gave his all for the prayers he recited. My quiet gratitude to him glowed.

As for kudos, I was expecting without a doubt to hear “YOU GO, GIRL!!” when it came to the orchestra, the singers or anyone, really. Thankfully, that did not happen. I think the energy generated by so many members looking for communion or an answer in some way to our troubles made us all feel together and the sometimes aggressive and gaudy battle cries of activism gave way to a basic joy as the humans we all are.

When the service ended and we stood outside, waiting on friends of my friends, the thought of brunch (well, drunkch for me, as I had a mild hangover) was tossed in the air and no one caught it. Bah! What came after that made me smile and I won’t forget it, but it wasn’t without a bit of showmanship! The three of us drove through the back alleys and shortcuts on to Wilton Manors, commonly known as the Gay Ghetto of the city. There is something about wit and brashness in dressing up that always entertains… 

We stopped to watch a beautiful congregation of African – American folks in some amazing outfits. They wore the outfits and not the other way around. A collective gasp was almost let out loudly when we saw a Nubian princess strutting in a cream short skirt and fitted jacket with lime green 4-inch stilettos with a matching clutch. The appreciative “Woooorkk!!” was screamed and then some. How beautiful! How dignified they looked!

A diner felt like a good place to go to and it was refreshing to have the spinach quiche with a fruit salad and the unexpected touch at the end of the meal, presented as yellow marshmallow peeps on a dessert plate, served by none other than Miss Thing, who sashayed like he was competing in a pageant for a rhinestone tiara. I have nothing else to say about this, except we ate it all. Oh, yeah.

Life Goes On

Carlotta eventually got married to her boss, a charismatic man named Asher, born in New Jersey. Honest and handsome for his age, he was the best choice of man for my young sister; rich and tolerant of her bipolar extreme moods.

After the marriage, Carlotta and I moved into Asher's three-story home in Aventura, Florida. Asher had two sons from a previous marriage, Moses and Joseph, both teenagers. We all got along very well. What became problematic was my desire to host my casual sex partners on the third floor, where Joseph could hear my incessant sexual activity, so I was out all night sometimes.

After a couple of years Carlotta and Asher bought an investment property in North Miami, so I was asked to live there, before selling it. The neighbourhood was rough, critically-flawed because of crime. I wasn't worried, but I took precautions when leaving the house. 

Unbeknownst to me, Carlotta and Asher had ferocious fights. She was unfaithful with a Cuban contractor named Yosmel, who was working in their house for repairs. The divorce was imminent, so I had to think of other housing arrangements.

Carlotta Does Not Live Here Anymore

I drove past the house you and Asher finally lost during the Recession. The garden is now covered in the sepia tones of our past. How I hated our fights! You were such a bitch to me sometimes. Well, I hated the moments when we could not communicate with each other.

Remember Giulio and our flat in North Miami together? He was clearly beneath your breeding, but I can surmise what "thing" made it compelling to be with him. One time he was helping me move my sofa and you yelled at him: "Be careful with that sofa, it's worth more than you!" You're a fierce feminist, with cruel epithets and masterful manipulation techniques as part of your arsenal. 

Asher became your fourth husband, but he also loved your "cruel pretty girl" demeanour. As you explained to your girl friend at the time: "who cares what his family thinks? Who's got the pussy?" You are a true philosophical juggernaut. I won't forget your last words of feminine wisdom: "When it comes to boyfriends and gifts, the more they give, the more I can receive." Genius.

This city feels so enormous, and I lower my head to look at the small space I own in it. I always admired the way in which you picked yourself up and dusted the dirt off you to start again, anywhere. Call me when you get to San Diego, I miss you.

Vizeau

I contacted Neal to have him buy out my shares in the business we had together, and he did so. I founded a men's swimwear manufacturing and retail business with the money Neal released to me. It was the happiest time of my life, and the best thing I got from my relationship with him. 

The business could be easily run from my tower computer, and I started to have a steady income from sales. I always paid my rent on time for my stay.

A galaxy of joy was mine! Hiring beautiful men and women to wear my designs eventually bore a permanent mark on the evolution in my otherwise unstable –yet controlled mental condition. 

I remember all my models: Azrael, Ashton, Adyna, Goksun, Tommy 1 and Tommy 2, (Indian guy) (Chinese guy) (Paul dilillo) (pretty guys from ny) ( Yeikov) (T.M. Hitchcock) 

A New Chapter

After my sister Carlotta's divorce I had to search for a small flat in which I could live and deal with my business manufacturing partner, a Venezuelan woman named Berta. She came originally from a women's lingerie manufacturing background, but I challenged her to engage menswear. Income was stable, so I wasn't hurting for money.

I found a minuscule studio in Hollywood, Florida, just North of the house in which I lived in North Miami. I am usually at my best when I am in a relationship, so I began to search again.

111101

I posted a personals advert with one outstanding result: his name was Dermot, an IBM AS/400 programmer from Scotland. Until I met him, all of my males were taller than I. A few emails and days later, I played a game by myself using numbers after we met. We met one night and watched S1M0NE on DVD, had some drinks and talked frankly about each other’s version of an ideal friendship that would lead to kisses and spontaneous hugs with eyes closed. A scent I hadn’t known seduced me onto the neck…the clavicles… 

1 Good manners

1 Good looks

1 Employed

1 Shy, yet friendly

0 Disconnected from most of the family.

1 Good kisser

111101

I wondered…am I worthy of this new relationship? The small voice inside said I needed to relax, but to work on the flaws fast and furiously. Renovation. Does it really take meeting someone new to want to be a better person? No names shall come forth, as I want to wait and see…

Que Será, Será. 

Dermot and I

After months of romancing each other, Dermot asked me to live with him and his father in their condominium. I simply could not do so, there was something holding me back from having yet another relationship so intense again. 

Perhaps I had some vestigial psychological trauma after my incident with Jonathan, but I knew my only coping mechanism of choice was casual sex.This was my biggest vice until I turned 53. 

I'd had some regular males with a comforting oblivion to anything sentimental happening to me. Some were exceptional, and I had affection for them.

I had sex with Dermot throughout our romance, something furiously penetrating and fierce, powerful. I still kept him at a distance…

Smoke Ring

Sometimes at night I walk to the beach and lie on my back near the sea to dream of good things about my life. I’m a vagabond soul filled with Internet folklore, and the thought of your kiss shines like the stars amidst dark moments.

During the day I hunt for food and fight my enemies with the anger of my early twenties intact. I’ve taken up smoking again and do so with macho style in my red ‘79 Camaro Z28. A glass of Shiraz at lunch was never happier than with me. Handsome bloke, I am.

At home, my sofa should not reek of tobacco, but there lies my body in the afternoon, holding a pillow and smoking cigarette number three next to a cut crystal ashtray on my coffee table. Life, I am yours. Where are you in this poorly decorated tableau? It’s just another day for me.

The Name Starts With A J

I continued being a lecherous fiend to ease my loneliness. The searing feeling of my disappointment wouldn't leave me until I said so. It's the story of a cheater who saw no Art in meeting. 

Vacuous and unkind he was, and I liked him against my will. He won't be back to my humble flat until whenever his Master allows him. 

Jerôme is incapable of plotting an end to his suffering, yet in me he found a cherry evening of intimacy, of smiles and touch. How could the act of breathing mean so much to both of us?  Done with it, I was. Nothing screams more tired than a grown man lost. Lost, and shall never be found. So bitter was the sound of me when I am was in you.

Petrus Saved Me

During my ferociously clandestine and promiscuous phase I still wrote in my friend Petrus's blog. His support and my work in my business kept me engaged with the rest of the world, as all retailers who accept and execute customer care until a disdainful burnout.. 

I went through a period in which my depression cycle showed in my writing. I started drinking alone at home. Even then, Petrus soothed my mind by asking me to use my imagination and style to write my pain away. I came up with more short stories and vignettes:

Film Noir

Every human being can end suffering completely. I have not found the right way to end mine, but the thought torments me so much, I write short stories in a journal instead. 

As with all journals, this one is no different in its goal to reach you some day, when the manuscript is published, and much to my shame. I must tell you all about that night, of why I committed such a despicable act against you, against us. 

Perhaps I ceased to believe in a future and my faith was so drained put of me that objects laid about me at the scene where I raged that day. Something went wrong inside my consciousness, something terrifying occurred between that day and the following morning. All I have left is a lifelong guilt. 

You misunderstood how a call from an old acquaintance ended up in our phone's answering service. I did not invite him into my sex life, lover. We've been cut off from others during our honeymoon, so I was lonely, and engaged small talk with the first acquaintance I came across.

Not even sex is enough to make the laptop sing today. Cursed, I am! Not even rabidly vivid memories of making love to each other offer a respite from what my life has become. I used to work for the money. I used to do it for love. Now, no more. We shall meet again, Jonathan, if there is an afterlife.

How much better to become fiercely promiscuous to drown the pain. I turned again to the internet to find casual sex, even hoping to meet a new lover, something nearly impossible.

Party!

It's seven-thirty P.M. Do you know where your wife is? Seshen was Roi's wife back when I was best friends with a laser lighting technician, Arnaldo, whose work for the best clubs on Miami Beach earned him a loyal clientele. I met him through Roi, who also happened to be bisexual. The magic of a drink at a pansexual club was a success.

I thought of Niko and Polina in NY, but now in Hollywood, Florida, in a warehouse where my friend Arnaldo, his DJ friends, select buddies and I partied for days after the clubs closed for the shift.

Roi introduced me to analingus; he and I spent one night with me on my stomach, being eaten out as if he were a mental patient, with the occasional reach-under to fellate me. I met his wife Seshen the next day, when she brought us boys breakfast. I had to handle my shock with class.

Wasn't it Plato who wrote of a Legend, of humans having two faces and four limbs, soulmates? Zeus split all to be cursed, to roam the Earth for a soul mate. I wasn't sure of how to absorb and comprehend this particular event between the three of us. I got dressed and drove back to North Miami satisfied and intrigued.

Books resemble a finished and taut cloth to me. With a tactile nature and my sexual experiences, much of my life during my early to mid thirties resembled a true bacchanalian feast. Work, eat, feel up targets and make out, then have some sex. Nothing transcendental yet.

At my lighting tech friend's warehouse it was fairly easy to feed overdoses of all kinds. I somehow felt like an uncontested warrior, for lack of a better metaphor? 

Julienne was a cocktail waitress who had excellent oral skills as well as a real thirst for hard drugs. She was easy to kill. I left the warehouse after someone called the paramedics. I had just danced to Miró's Paradise Trance song and felt revitalized.

Seshen flirted with me forcefully, so I accommodated some casual sex with her. A natural blonde everywhere, her only flaw was to become immediately affectionate. Roi would never give her children, but I was not going to! I used several condoms. That all had to end, quickly.

The First Possibility of the End

After the death of Julienne, I became acquainted with my Nemeses Detective Candy Teets and Chief of Detectives Florian Delicto. “Mr. Bodnitsky, what went on last night? A woman is dead.” I responded with my usual succinct manufactured responses: “I didn't know her, she simply started shooting herself with a needle and I was dancing over there, by the speaker.” Teets and Delicto took me to their headquarters so I could sign my declaration. I narrowly escaped a drug charge. Close call, eh? Detective Teets could not stop staring at me. She would show up later in my life. It's possible that she could sense how cold and unfeeling I appeared to be. Smart woman. 

I met my first eighteen year-old regular guy after yet another online endeavour.

Youth

In my mind, we greeted each other at the airport and shook hands, then hugged each other. The hug lasted so much longer than any greeting…And I grabbed your hips closer, so I could feel your second pulse. Mine was beating so fast…

We kept up the civil appearances, but after we closed the door your mouth and mine became gluttonously and irreversibly one. I have waited years for your patience to fall, as I crawled back from being a cannibal into being a soul.

The Midwest

Dermot was summoned by a company in Fort Dodge, Iowa to program their AS/400 system for more efficiency in processing orders for birdseed. This meant that I would move to Iowa when all the basic paperwork was signed by Dermot.

My business had come to an end after my contractor Berta suddenly died under suspicious circumstances. I couldn't find someone who would manufacture the boutique-sized amounts of swimwear and underwear I sold through my website. With full honesty, I can say I was burned-out from the Customer Care duties I performed from home every week, so I finally accepted to move in with Dermot and his father. 

After the required background check was completed and all documents were in order, Dermot contacted Rory, a close relative of his to assist us in moving my furniture and our other mutual belongings. My clothes took some time and boxes to pack, and there were also so many accessories and shoes to handle with care.

Dermot's cousin Rory had a driver's licence, which neither Dermot nor I had. After renting the large truck, Dermot had a vicious argument with his father, after which they both decided to separate. I was there to listen to the rotten insults between father and son. I felt ill with anxiety, so I retired early, to wake up in a better mood the day after. They continued to yell at each other for hours. 

I didn't know how much they had been alienated for two decades, until Dermot told me how he resented his father for abandoning him when he was a child. Necessity had brought them together when the father couldn't afford his rent.

We woke up still unsettled by the previous night's quarrel. Dermot, Rory and I climbed onto the truck and left as early as five A.M. We made several stops at diners in small towns. There were remarkable cities along the route, one of them Nashville, Tennessee. We were dangerously low on fuel and rather tired, so Dermot called another programmer who went to Uni with him, Callum. All three of us slept at Callum's home, then woke up early to continue our trip. 

Iowa is incredibly beautiful. We passed endless acres of corn, stopped at one more diner, then passed by industrial plants where ethanol and  biodiesel are produced. They also offer enormous amounts of gypsum. 

Along the road we passed an almost endless array of wind energy turbines. It was a very impressive sight. We later learned Iowa is a leader in the industry.

Fort Dodge is a very quiet town, where merely twenty-five thousand inhabitants lived in 2013. Peaceful and lovely in everything from the suburbs and their symmetrical urban planning to the historic landmarks I knew we should visit. Simply stunning architecture, preserved with much dedication and care.

Rory, Dermot and I arrived at a house in a quiet enclave that was rented by Dermot's employer. Excellent taste in surroundings brought me relief in accepting my new reality. All of our belongings went into the house, and after unpacking for hours we became exhausted and hungry. Dermot cooked a special quiche for us, and we went to sleep.

Rory stayed with us to drive Dermot to work until he applied for a replacement driver's licence. When Dermot received it, Rory was ready to go back to Florida. He was packed up and left the next morning. 

The End of Dermot

After the catastrophic end with my Dermot, I calculated the damages in the aftermath of the tornado that was my relationship with him. Bittersweet memories could have saved me from committing my third murder…

My income from the modestly successful retail website I owned for thirteen years had come to an end after my manufacturing partner Berta formed her own business. She dropped me like a soiled prom dress. It motivated Dermot to fight with me viciously over my lack of success in finding a job. Why should I? Wages in Fort Dodge were below the threshold of living expences! I promised to find an income when we'd return to Miami. Alas, he had alternate plans which would separate us and said that to my face. 

Dermot will never be found. I had secretly bought rope at a local hardware store and inflicted death by strangulation when Dermot was in the kitchen, cooking a spinach quiche only for himself, angry. The sudden panic after the murder made me sit on the navy leather reclining chair, and the comfort of leaning back in it brought on a strange solution: I laid Dermot on a carpet, rolled his cold body until completely covered, then carried him with strong arms into the trunk of our car. I researched online where there was a pig farm near our rental house in Iowa, then waited until nighttime to drive stealthily and locate it exactly. To my surprise, there were no dogs to alert the owner. Thank the stars for a lucky break.

I wanted and expected Dermot to be eaten by the pigs, all the way to the bone. That is what I got. I got into the car and drove away to the house, to grab all potential inculpatory evidence of my violent crime of passion.

After packing all of Dermot's and my own belongings into a rental truck, I left Fort Dodge, with no one wise to my lover's disappearance.

Dermot's freelance assignment as a programmer had ended, so his employer did not bother to open a missing persons report. Another lucky break.

I drove all possessions to Vista in San Diego,  where my sister Carlotta had invited me to live, out of a blood bond and wretched pity. I now carry a stern face and a criminal secret deep inside me.

Go West, Young Man

It didn't take long for me to suffer from an insistent desire to leave my lover. Dermot experienced and detested how I had become abusive toward him after drinking alone in the house. He was growing tired of it, and I resented having fun only by attending mass at all the different churches in town. I even got to see the notorious “holy rollers.”

Things did not get better, so we broke up. At that moment, Dermot begged my sister Carlotta to help me achieve sobriety by taking me in before his death. She called me to encourage me to move to Vista, California and re-invent myself.

Carlotta was once the tomboy in the trio. The fights between our parents had her out all night, when she could. A friend here, a friend there…anything to stay away from my parents, Lumi and I. This made her resilient in her defiance against the life she had led. It also made her harbour merciless resentment and hatred against all of us – including herself for being small and helpless, as Lumi and I were.

When she visited me with mum on Miami Beach in 1990 her mind was made up to leave Europe. Ruthless was this young girl. It took her two weeks to marry one of Julio's close friends. Brava!

We lived together for months at a time throughout our years across the United States. I eventually became disappointed and left her.

She could see a change in my attitude after I left Dermot's body in Fort Dodge. I will always have an inscrutable facial expression.

Within two months, I had come to realise my sister behaved in an apparent bipolar manner. I did not know who I was talking to on enough occasions to confirm her illness, as I knew the symptoms. This situation caused my lifelong unhealthy habit of catastrophising.

Untitled

I can describe almost anything except the sensation my drum beats give me when I am fully enraged. I feel pain. I am pain. Surrender is but a memory when I allow myself to flog my loved ones with ugly words, defacing everything I’ve built with love. How bitterly I pay the price the next morning.

As I feel better in my recovery from substance abuse today, I continue writing about my progress in this journal. I vow to feel every extreme of the emotional spectrum until I know how to live clean again, but that cannot occur without some damage to my spirit unless my new program of acceptance and courage is set into my daily routine. 

This note is to remind me of good times and great feelings, to remind myself to breathe slowly. The drum beats slowly and now, softly.

There would be another female in my life, Patricia, an actress I met in NYC who also moved out West. All became surreal after Patricia and I decided to form a bond by becoming better friends in California. 

Hollywood

She resisted the conventions of her craft and the politics of her business for one year. Every new film propagated her image of beauty and lust with unrestrained promiscuity. Every man who watched her became enamoured and jealous, possessive and demanding. A saviour to all, she was. The women saw a threat, but none could forget the agency of her ingenuity in the few moments she was allowed to show it.

Her range of emotions increased auspiciously with every new middleman she dealt with and all the ambitious female allies she made. Fame was almost close enough to touch and she could feel it. One, two, then infinite lies took her to new levels of achievement. I watched, amused.

When she bowed out of her screen self at the end of rehearsals we used to meet at my flat between Franklin and Ivar Avenues and do shots of Jack. She would always ask: “Lucius, do you think I will be a star someday?” In the Oracle of my mind my answer came back as multiple distorted echoes through barely-used synapses to help me understand she belonged to her public and the end of our intimacy was nigh.

In the spring of 2019 she entered the elite group of actors who can control their public image and projects after a masterful performance that earned her domestic and foreign awards. She mentioned me in her acceptance speeches! I was proud and full of joy for her.

One night, after celebrating yet another award she turned to me, still smiling for the cameras and made me promise never to tell anyone about her childhood. She had finally entered the safe haven of wealth and its power to intoxicate her out of sad memories. Our friendship was dangerously becoming a part of the past she had been relentlessly escaping from because she was being born again.

The last time we met she chose Grauman’s Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard. We walked in the afternoon arm in arm. We laughed and then quarrelled over Champagne memories, and stopped on the corner of La Brea and Sunset Boulevard. Tears fell from behind her cat’s eye framed dark sunglasses and gave me one last kiss to remember what we were. She called a taxi to leave me in the final act of her wondrous live performance. I was in the Boulevard of Broken Dreams. 

I wrote a screenplay for her during my times off from work, the last one. I loved you, Patricia.

The Star

I was sad for a few weeks after I left Lucius on Sunset Boulevard. My agent was very blunt about what I would face as a public figure, since entertainment is a universal Religion, and everyone must be immaculate, flawless. Somehow, I am beginning to understand what he meant about the torture Lucius would face in the tabloids, being flagellated and slandered. 

My close friend Selene described him as a beta personality guy with some alpha traits, but not suited for the life of an icon. Perhaps, I can channel my feeling of loss to help me portray the heroine in that new play…

The life I used to lead as a model in New York feels like a dream I had long ago. Some of my designer clients still call me, but I must focus on my acting career now. Oh, I dreaded being just a “lovely mannequin” in the showrooms, and I ached to perform, to be Anna Karenina on the runway if the clothes inspired me. Well, here I am in Los Angeles with my awards underfoot in a new reality.

Most industry luncheons and parties are such a bore, darling. Lucius told me he was not fond of my white lies, but he just doesn’t understand I cannot speak my mind and tell people off, to burn bridges and all because of silly drunkards’ arguments. I had never feared someone before, but he knows about my past, and I have a legacy to build. One day, I hope to have a daughter, and I will name her Siobhan, to always remember my mother, and I will tell my little girl all about her.

Sequins and lights, the applause… There is something in me that comes alive when I read a great script, and I can see myself using my eyes, my lips and hands; my entire body, to make such beautiful words come to life. My art has given me the closest feeling of what Heaven can be and I cannot be far away from the productions and even the bickering behind the scenes. This is a love I have waited many years to feel.

The Mimic

Hollow is my name. When we hug, I absorb all you have and play back the result sweetly and carefully, albeit not exactly. Wayward, brittle and shallow are words that mark me, yet they cannot define me as my love for you does. 

Pain. I am not sure of how much longer I can endure the exquisite pain of being single. My soul wants to leave, but I convince myself I feel the warmth of your soul, my lover in all these calls and emails we send each other.

Holding back all the kisses I want to give is no fun behind the door of my humble flat. Deep blue whispers and sounds of cars taking off or arriving happen during my insomnia bouts. People fighting, people kissing; lives outside my door, but I don’t make a sound. You could say I hold my breath to listen to everything outside my door. Perhaps one day I shall welcome the sounds of our relationship again. 

Little Crimes

It starts with a rumble. Turning my trust on a dime makes a sound final. In this gamble I lose your love and my mind. Every awful word and all the fear between us is now wrapped in a box.

I stole Patricia's diary when I left Hollywood. I found sensual writing, bold, written without restraint: 

Tea for Two

I want to summon you to my apartment, Lucius. Not only to talk, but to expand your sexual horizons against your will; nothing new will happen otherwise. My skills have accumulated over the bodies of the countless tricks forced upon me. How sordid, eh, Lucius? I've never had a John as good-looking as you.

Take off my jacket and all it carries. I'm a rough girl and not yet ready to put all my feelings inside you. I'm not afraid of failure with you, but of success, and that is as honest as I will ever get with you. Don't question me, Boy! I brought these cuffs for you.

Tears come down my cheeks also against my will, but not because of feelings, but rather the lack of those. Lie on your back, so I can devour that which is on your body. Watch me, as I throw your legs on my shoulders and then give you all I have: rage and surprise, the weather vane or what makes me your torment. I'm quite pleased to know that you are unwashed, to tease me and take me to highs I haven't smelled on another man.

Much of a reciprocation soon, I can also receive what you wish to give me, several times. Kiss my neck and mark it. The surprise of my physical control doesn't shock you, so I proceed to teach you how to man-handle me. Easy, easy, Boy!

Stop, you pig! How dare you misbehave! Lick and smell the leather of my high boots, Boy! You must be chained and whipped mercilessly until I know you are ready to go further.

You're mine, and that defines you and I. My submissive. Until tomorrow night. Cheers. 

Next, San Diego

Lovely, and rather constructed, he is: nothing seems to be out of its place, except for his mind. So is this man, so is the shore, and the love he cannot give anymore.

As there is Beauty, there is Horror. Lucius navigates freely between both, which makes him something close to a bittersweet drink. He is profoundly more than a hint of Whisky, several languages compounded into a generally pleasant, yet neutral accent and wanton visions thrown about, expressed succinctly when we talk. I am beginning to enjoy his indecisiveness and the obnoxiously elegant persona.

The Vodka Killer

I've thought about my obsession with "The Vodka Killer" since I heard about it and watched the reports on the telly, as well as oral accounts from homeless people who knew the victims. Not psychologically-driven? I'm fully immersed in the case. This is happening in the East Village in San Diego, where I live now.

"An unknown person has been leaving poisoned bottles of vodka throughout San Diego for random people to pick up and drink, then subsequently die." Shocking, and brutal; taking someone's life by poisoning is a terrifying and nasty way to end a human when done wrong. It was obviously made to look as if an amateur had simply gone on a self-righteous mercy killing spree.

All news channels were on alert. The first victim was a destitute elderly man named Charles "X", without a surname until the autopsy revealed his full identity. Born in Seattle, he supposedly came to San Diego because of the weather. He found something else.

Much of my journey into the empathy necessary to understand it all forces me to somehow feel the abject way in which the dead might have simply tripped into their demise by the hand of this monster. There is only a feeling and a bitterly painful taste of sleeping pills and vodka I can relate to, with the last vestiges of hope wiped-out from my eyes.

Almost every night brings nightmares about this killer, thrusting all I have been into the fire. Would I do the same thing to the helpless? 

The second victim was a Julie "X", homeless since 2015, a portly woman whose history is lost now. The count has only started.

Albeit not proud, I left my last lover in Iowa before coming to Vista, San Diego in 2015. That's because I became homeless in 2015 as well, after Dermot and I were through, after the murder. Alcohol to numb my psychic pain caused me to behave ungratefully toward my middle sister Carlotta. She then proceeded to evict me from her apartment. Life has been bittersweet ever since. 

For five years I was on the streets, in-between sobriety programs and crisis centers. Never too proud to admit who I really am, even when it hurts. I have found a pace and some self-forgiveness to crawl out of my existential pain.  

I attempted suicide four times, but I always checked myself into an E.R. close to the end. I felt, and then knew I would not die in the gruesome ways I  planned. Something keeps me alive, and I hope to know what it is.

Garlands on the spinnet, and my nimble fingers processing my life by slowly reaching into the monster, the Beast I thought I had become in my own life. I'm not as cold or even unkind as I've been told I am. Being formerly homeless has not rotted my nature.

Now, someone is killing the destitute, and living is a confusing maze of decisions, all unknown until I open the door, and leave my flat. Will I come to face this killer? I'm fascinated because I am getting a thrill by following in the killer's mind; to seek, hunt, wait. 

Victim number three was a runaway teenager named Billy "X". He was not fifteen yet, and this death felt and registered in me as harder to fathom because of the innocence of the dead boy. Where random violence suddenly becomes terrifying reaches me throughout. 

Victim four was a tattooed man, homeless since his discharge from prison. Walter "X". Why do I want to know about Walter? He looked as if he could "exude parametres" to anyone outside his colleagues’ circle. What a mass of prejudices I have become. 

Another dead body, but ask what they did wrong. I wish to know nothing about the reasons that give the right to kill, yet I still stare outside the window in my small bedroom at a moon that sells me silence in exchange for slumber.

One night, I put on charcoal gray cargo shorts, ash gray trainers and an anthracite gray hoodie, hoping to blend into the sidewalk. There were rumours that The Vodka Killer would prey on people within my neighbourhood. The things I could ask! What may I ask?

After hours of observing cars going past me, and deranged transients yelling out about their insular little problems, I chose to walk out to the Marina, on the Northwestern side of the city.

This man and I are separate but for a sliver of love. 

K-Dog

Between the sky and I is the story of two. Two men. Two child-like grown men. Both of us threw away our lives without regrets other than those he would impose and I agreed to, and now we are best friends.

Kyle and I met six years ago, when I moved into the new Zeta Square building on Market and 14th Street in Downtown SD. He asked of me to come to his apartment to have a drink, and as with all lonely people, he talked, and talked, and talked... I had the opportunity to explore his company during outings to the Marina in San Diego and Ocean Beach, to attend choice festivals and toward the end of the first year, to convert me into a fan of the Padres baseball team. Yeah! I also enjoy NASCAR, but the best parts of our friendship are the graphic and lewd conversations we have when he lets his guard down and doesn't act like a pretentious idiot. I am truly foul and vulgar when unleashed, and he admits he loves it less these days. 

He lives just around the corner from my S.R.O unit. Such a profoundly dysfunctional relationship we have, that we both hang out, and then part after our bipolar manic and drunken moods take over and cause some heinous altercations. This is every time we meet. Only marihuana saves us from inflicting harm on each other.

Kyle is a Forensic Cybersecurity Analyst. He taught me all about VPNs, Bitcoin, and at least attempted to introduce the basics in the field of Statistics to me when we started dating each other by organic impulses during the first year of our surprisingly unsatisfying relationship.

He uses the word dog as a noun, a verb and an adjective. An example: “let me cook the dog (chicken breast), and I will let the oven do its doggy.” See what I mean? He has the whole Southern California “surfer dude thing” going, which persists to this day. It's charming and funny in its own theatrical way. 

Benji, one of my former dates said to me: “ He definitely has brain damage!” after meeting Kyle, with his aggressive arm and leg movements, bouncing, and almost throwing gang signs at us is a bizarre phenomenon.  He is a belligerent and brilliant bipolar 63 year-old retired Navy pilot suffering from PTSD.

Kyle is a relentless drunk, but he often meets people at random when drunk and high, which frightens me to this day. I don't want to be shanked out on a sidewalk by a skell or a gang member! We sometimes walk in the afternoons to the San Diego Marina for exercise and to blatantly embarrass me by shouting flirty epithets to both men and women. 

We traditionally buy fresh food daily on the way back from our walks for dinners he cooks for us at his place. Traditionally we stop at our local supermarket or his favourite liquor store for what we call “the boo”, short for booze. He sometimes disappears for an hour or so to buy “bud.” 

When Kyle was overweight I teased him endlessly, calling him “Fatty McFatterson”, who performed “fatty activities” and “rolled out of bed on both sides”, which transformed him into a fit, energetic and healthier man, after my relentless prodding of his ego. I'm truly proud of the results from my bullying.

John 

He was 27 when I met him. It shouldn't have been necessary to murder him, but I did. I'm sorry, John. I couldn't tolerate you being with that terrible tart! It burned me every night you went back to her. 

Karina

Karina was one of my school classmates when I was seven. I met her at the San Diego Airport on her way to Hawaii. I recognised her from the old photos she scanned into her internet profile. I approached her to say a polite “hello”, and she spat on the floor in front of my feet, with absolute disdain, to say “I know you killed little Esteban.” This was all done quietly otherwise. 

I could not breathe! I couldn't breathe! Interpol would have me tried and who knows what else! 

Karina left me feeling increasingly apprehensive. She had to retouch her makeup in the ladies’ restroom, and never boarded her flight.

Lover

I am quite afraid of being less keen than my lover when I listen to our favorite songs to enjoy whilst lounging in his flat, and to be called dead to rights on my snobbery in my choice of beats when I summon Alexa to switch a song. 

There's a cultural chasm between my generation, Kyle and the upstarts. I don't know which of us controls the music, video and social media now, and it's visibly shown on my face. No smileys underscore what my narrowed eyelids and cruel mouth tell.

After so many years of online hunting and passion for the romantic searches, I found my Nemesis and my companion in the same person. His name won't be forgotten, if my writing perhaps has magical powers as I won't resist the urge to mention him.

Six years of us. The constant malady within our love has been his ugly and demeaning, intolerant words against my "special" way to view objects and situations, then to verbalise his opinion with horrible inferences and foul language aloud. It all terrifies him because I present myself quite like a horrific figure made visual as a clown staring into him; he never knows what to expect coming out of my mouth, or expressing my need to touch him, to have his hand merge with mine in a bold and unafraid way.

Did he know that I tried to end it all four times over the years? Of course, he ran a full background check on me, and still remained close. It all happened before him, in another state, without success. I survived that sadness to aim forward into my life and his. Never will I make him live through loss, if I can. 

For such a short age span, I have been in love eight important times, all ended because of the disjointed rate at which my partners and I grew into being so different from each other. And difficult. I should be proud to have lived through them, to have changed profoundly and still love my own company.

Yes, I certainly own my part in the lack of joy, the lack of sex, and the roughness between Kyle and I. It's been a trigger to my most recent jagged thoughts; the ruminations and such guilt for us not being together right now. 

I will be better in my thoughts and spirit for myself, but also for Kyle, my ex-lover and now best friend. We couldn't last romantically attached, it was impossible to sustain it because of our mood swings and the spectre of our PTSD. We will be both enemies and friends for the remainder of our lives.

We perpetrated damages to each other involving the building's management (our written complaints against each other), siccing the Police on each other and he even had an officer serve me a summons for a restraining order. He did not attend the proceedings, so that was dropped. 

I was dripping hatred for him for months, until he knocked on my door to yell: “ARE YOU ALIVE??”, which is his cute way to show love for me.

Man-Friend

I need to look at the glass that shatters when I break it. If you could hear my voice as I type we could laugh together at how childish I can be with all these pranks. All I want is your arm around me now. I put my head on your shoulder and the sound of the drum in your chest is one of the reasons I smile every day, my man-friend.

Because we both live in two separate units, it's easy to have anxiety, expectations and brief smiles from memories made together when we're apart. I read back all the short stories, vignettes and “moods” I wrote since I finally called my Diary a Journal. 

The Ice Cream Truck

I begin this entry with a smile. Nothing in particular caused me to flaunt writing it. Perhaps I'm happy? Similar smiles from all around me with full intention make history and a cold ice cream cone is all I need now.

The sand below, the tide of the Pacific Ocean, and my joy under all the loving stars above form a haphazard trail along this beach, baby. Walking demurely, you nod to me.

So, we had a party on the beach. Your friends came, but none of mine sat down at the table. The frost in their looks turned beautiful enough to melt with my charm. The stares were enough to use as daggers into snow. Never worry, my love. I don't care anymore about their snobbery and contempt. Let's kiss later.

Rebirth

It is of the utmost importance to not be important. On my daily commute to work I see hundreds of faces on the trolley, all without a smile, hiding behind a persona these anonymous beings created over many years of over-exposure to Culture… or lack thereof. Appearance is now the reality in contrast to empathy. My aim these days is to enter the homogeny of egos surrounding me in the new Drone Economy.

Ah, the perverse joy I feel when my visual experiences are distilled as I carbon-date other people’s outfits! You can tell when someone was at their happiest in the ’80s by nullifying the pride with which they wear shameless copies of apparel staples in the magazines and on the telly during that decade. Such is my banale sport of late. Perhaps I’ve become just as boring and care no more.

My eyes are not hazel by coincidence, because there is something behind them other than you, my former lover. I feel something more than a golden and rotten envy as I look out the window from my minuscule office at stunning bodies across the street from where we used to gape at the homeless.

Other people's stable lives are no longer Bourgeois to me. I’m an activist against homelessness who has lost brio and regained a tranquil lust for the uncomplicated sexual acts of the adult animal. What makes me who I am? Desire.

No one can explain why it’s hard to write when happiness is all around me and no one has a bottle of booze at hand. I’ve tried to write my observations and epiphanies in the diary whilst very happy and found myself powerless, pitifully emasculated and certainly not in the mood to write dark prose. Shock and chaos usually pull me out of a depressive cycle and into anger, but what is left after the fury overwhelms my body and mind like a warrior’s thirst after a nasty battle. No writing for me this evening.

Well, what do I seek in earnest? Rebirth. For this to work out I need to meet a gently-used soul. I am in desperate need of falling in love with someone who is experienced in Life as I am but still optimistic. I’d like to fall in love one last time. I wish for this last love to also be my last story because nothing I live in those moments will be shared with anyone. Save me from the collapse of my faith.

I won't stop writing to both share and purge my mind. When we argue, I go home and write like a hermit scribe. It's my challenge to edit my thoughts clearly and perhaps even beautifully.

Suppose I Leave You

Feel the steps I take away from you, fragrant with the last perfume you gave me, like an emotional flagellation which shall never cease to haunt me. 

Never were joy and despair so beautifully expressed by your tears of desolation, in the paradoxical relationship's demand for all the suffering, with the brightest tint of a soulful Spring in our minds when we inevitably argue, then laugh at each other.

The bittersweet smile on your beautiful face is still radiant and bucolic at the same time, after the destruction of our bond. A schizophrenic view of  Humanity and the never-changing canons remain after centuries of existence come forward.

So, we are done, my darling. This gold ring on my hand does not belong to me anymore. Would you not remember the days and hours we gave to each other? How cruel were we to each other, and yet how happy. My perspicacity grown from jadedness cannot rescue us, what we had, all we felt and said carelessly. Assignment is

Done.

Death Comes Slowly

Kyle, there are many ways to interpret how I feel about you. The one that matters to me the most happens when I am alone, and everything about us becomes a paragon of docile existence, as if we were a real couple. It's possible that we are better than that. We always were.

You said to me once that you would never survive my death. Yours? Possible to survive, knowing I will meet you, when it's all over. What if Death is as final as many think it is? Have we been wrong all our lives?

I don't care that you are fading away, and that I have no recourse, no hope. May you spare me the rite of the last words, because I wish to knock on your door just down the hallway. Let me in.

Come to me and close my eyes to the upcoming terror that awaits us. Hold me, I need it. Until I meet you again, my friend, my lover, My Kyle. 

Lonely Rose 

Very, very pretty, this mature female. Hot! We've met each other at the checkout counter of my supermarket, and you were not shy, or gave me a perfunctory stare of pure intent. No, you were pretty, and I could surmise from your tattoos marked by previous men that you could stare into my hazel eyes with such naked want. I shall not be buried in your cage tonight, but I can at least give you some of me. That would be the last of you.

I need this pain to end…

The Exit

The sun greeted me in the desert with fire and music. A strong wind amplified the sound of my skin melting into a melody, entering me to seduce my essence out into its flowing ghostly voice. Thirst, hunger, and sunstroke took away my last breath.

I was carried gently into the ether, where I saw white doves fly above me and ominous-looking dogs running on the ground. My five closest friends waited many years for my return, and like the lights in a big house their existence dimmed and they met me in the desert, one by one. I felt them all next to me without the shell of my body, bereft of restrictions from facial expressions to show them how much I missed them.

My sadness became someone’s tears; my anger became someone else’s anger when I looked back through memories of my short life. Perhaps I waited for it to end impatiently, leaving myself adrift in negative emotions and deprived of smiles. A force I recognised intuitively emanated light and warmth at the end of my journey and guided me into a new consciousness; I found peace at last.

Dexter et Sinister

Detective Candy Teets and Chief of Detectives Florian Delicto finally caught up to my multiple murders. There was one thumbprint left on one of the bottles I fed the homeless, or whoever picked up my bottles. I was the Vodka Killer. I killed little Sebastian when he and I were seven. Dermot disappeared, but I left DNA behind, even though I shaved every part of my body, including my eyebrows. I inadvertently sweated on the partially-consumed head, something I did not plan on… John's death was more prosaic; I used a garrote, then tossed it miles away from my flat. Yes, I killed and killed, but I died a miserable death: alone, regretful and void of love. I can't tell you what the other side of living is like because it's not part of The Design.