Sunday, October 02, 2005



It all seemed to have been executed in one swift continuous motion. Run up the stars, knock on the door, throw him on the floor, take off his clothes and fuck him.
Could it have been that easy? Surely not. Surely there was some slight tremor of resistance (either real or feigned, it really doesn't matter) on his part. Not on mine. I wanted to fuck and he wanted to get fucked. Afternoons were best. Always. We were both awake and alert by then and just bored enough to ache (ever so slightly) for a soupcon of physical release. There was no emotional release -- either sought or achieved.

Allen was pretentious. Hell, I was pretentious too, but no quite like that. He, for example, insisted that Jean-Paul Sartre was gay because Simone de Beauvoir used to pass her girlfriends on to him. "So who was his boyfriend?" I'd ask. Allen wouldnever say. He'd just laugh. He was always one for great vague pronouncements about the future (or lack of same) of one thing or another. And when he spoke to me he always seemd to be looking every so slightly away -- as if he was trying to attract the attention of someone else in the room. But there wasn't anyone else in the room. Not much in the way of furniture either -- which was typical of the lower east side in those days.

"But a chair is not a house
And a house is not a home
When there’s no one there to hold you tight,
And no one there you can kiss good night."

Just big and well-swept ( the equivalent of "clean.") It was his soap box, as it were. He seemed to chatter almost incessantly. Almost because the sex would shut him up. itwas as if someone had left the bathtub running and I'd rushed in to stop it just before it overflowed. Rather proud of myself for being able to do so. But then ever so slightly annoyed. Then truly annoyed. No, no, this couldn't go on.

It didn't.

Complete strangers can (sometimes) be so much more comforting than friends. Especially "friends" like Allen who didn't really need me at all.

Or maybe he did.

"This life's a play from the start,
It's hard to play thru a part,
When there's an ache in your heart all day
I have my dreams 'til the dawn,
I wake to find they are gone,
But still the play "must go on" they say.
When I pretend I'm gay
I never feel that way,
I'm only painting the clouds with sunshine.
When I hold back a tear
To make a smile appear,
I'm only painting the clouds with sunshine
Painting the blues beautiful hues,
Col ored with gold and old rose;
Playing the clown,
Trying to drown
All of my woes;
Tho' things may not look bright
They'll all turn out alright
If I keep painting the clouds with sunshine."

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