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AUGUST 29th, 2024
He
As he enters his flat at midnight the hallway light is turned on with apprehension. He knows where the knives are if there's an intruder. No one tonight. He wipes his feet 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 a central 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 the nickel-finished steel frame. He's content today, and relaxing is necessary. The faded scent of L'Eau d'Issey Pour Homme 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, covering his body with a silk robe will be delightful after his whisky.
He is a creation of his mind: Lucius, an émigré from Czechoslovakia, of Spanish (Gloria) and Czech (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 Lucy. The former had two girls, the latter one son, a cherished nephew.
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.
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 and the United States, where he finally settled. Loneliness and wonderment coexist now in a comfortable existence within himself.
In the United States he lived in Miami, Miami Beach, Orlando, New York City, Houston, and back to Florida to find love, then moved to Iowa, when his lover Dermot was summoned as an AS400 programmer. The last stops were in Vista and Hollywood, 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.
His adolescence would reveal 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 16, just after being shamed by the scandal in which he was the younger participant. His father never forgave Lucius for having relations with his brother.
Life with two sisters, a mother and a very loving grandmother for a continuous six months per custody cycle has changed some of his core views on male and female behaviours, with an 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 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 in using chess as a social opener to the seduction of both his classmates Charles and Violetta.
After being expelled and ex-patriated from the country and his family, 16 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. I shall let him tell you his stories.
Point d’Esprit
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?
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 Gran Reserva 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 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 in my mind: “I hope to see you next year.”
I stopped in Toledo to kiss mum on her forehead on the way back 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 to my friends. That made me sad and nostalgic immediately. On to Paris, then NYC.
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 was on my mind, making me sweat profusely as a newly arrived student from Barcelona. I knew Julio, an old friend from childhood with 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 family’s home, I travelled to take a break and re-focus on what 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 I was looking for a great college and a new career. 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 and 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, 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 Loris Azzaro and Nina Ricci in the ’70s, where she took me on days when she had 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 a 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 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, and my bewilderment gave way to excitement.
Both took me by the hand, and together we walked into the bedroom. Polina undressed me 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 and 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 puzzled 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!
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 and 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 couches 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 tenth 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.
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 and 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. He admired the way I pulled looks together when I assisted his best image consultant, who was away on her honeymoon. 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, considering how many times I had woken up early for Mario. We were taking photos of a new face at the 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 in a photo-shoot.
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 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.
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. 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
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.
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 was constant: my addiction to social media. It was through it 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. Way to go, chappie! We moved in together into a modest flat in North Miami.
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 and partied with new comrades. This is when I cruised the park on Meridian Avenue and found Helmut, an Austrian millionaire. We went to his yacht at the Miami Beach Marina, and our relationship began when he started teaching me all of his kinky ways and shared his secrets. I fell in love. He kept an apartment in Central Park West, where we would invite hot strangers to play with.
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.
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 “Jä!” 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 and I did our hefty amount of complaining about egos, but we also acknowledged each other’s alpha dog characters in business, and also 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 agrees 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.
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 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, and Helmut's yacht for sex.
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, 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 sex.
As much as I loved Helmut, he had 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. On 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.
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.
Jonathan
Something cataclysmic marked and defined me in 2003.
Seven
A seven year-old comrade was found drowned during an outing at a pool swim 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 cause, nor did I follow-up on him or his family. Could someone have held him underwater accidentally 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 to share. With true anxiety, the incident came back to me with a vicious snap into my ID. Perhaps, I do not remember everything…
