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mallorys_cameraPoured all day yesterday.
I finished a Remunerative Project.
Will give myself a couple of days off before starting the next one.
###
Several more pals from the Good Ole Days have been diagnosed with Stage IV cancer.
(Well. I am in the cohort where such diagnoses are… shall we say… not uncommon…)
One was once a lover, and in between reading his medical updates on Facebook—metastasis to T11 vertebrae, left scapula, spleen…—I tried to remember his body.
He’d been very, very handsome.
That’s why I went after him. We didn’t have all that much in common. He’d been a fan of tattoos, and marijuana, and web design, and weird, illogical anarchism, and I was a fan of none of those things, plus he was 10 years younger than I was and so was into bands that I didn't give a shit about, Sonic Youth, Hüsker Dü, Nine Inch Nails, Radiohead, and worst yet, insisted on playing them before I had time to leave because for some strange reason, we always fucked at his house, I never invited him over to mine.
The sex was good. Not phenomenal. But good. With him there was always a moment that if I were having sex with him today, I’d describe as the Bluetooth Moment—we’d be kissing, all awkward tongue thrusts, squinched breasts, elbows to ribs, and then all of a sudden, we’d be perfectly in synch, gliding into penetration, and I never had any problems coming. I didn’t even have to pretend to myself I was in love with him.
Anyway, I sent $50 to his medical fund.
I mean, what else could I do?
I finished a Remunerative Project.
Will give myself a couple of days off before starting the next one.
###
Several more pals from the Good Ole Days have been diagnosed with Stage IV cancer.
(Well. I am in the cohort where such diagnoses are… shall we say… not uncommon…)
One was once a lover, and in between reading his medical updates on Facebook—metastasis to T11 vertebrae, left scapula, spleen…—I tried to remember his body.
He’d been very, very handsome.
That’s why I went after him. We didn’t have all that much in common. He’d been a fan of tattoos, and marijuana, and web design, and weird, illogical anarchism, and I was a fan of none of those things, plus he was 10 years younger than I was and so was into bands that I didn't give a shit about, Sonic Youth, Hüsker Dü, Nine Inch Nails, Radiohead, and worst yet, insisted on playing them before I had time to leave because for some strange reason, we always fucked at his house, I never invited him over to mine.
The sex was good. Not phenomenal. But good. With him there was always a moment that if I were having sex with him today, I’d describe as the Bluetooth Moment—we’d be kissing, all awkward tongue thrusts, squinched breasts, elbows to ribs, and then all of a sudden, we’d be perfectly in synch, gliding into penetration, and I never had any problems coming. I didn’t even have to pretend to myself I was in love with him.
Anyway, I sent $50 to his medical fund.
I mean, what else could I do?
