Steve Canyon was a witness

Tuesday, Apr. 9, 2002 - 11:30 am
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

I told Erik I love him.

(Erik, if you remember, is the Fiend. The new boyfriend.)

It was the first time. It was the biggie. The confession, the admission, that our relationship had progressed to new level of significance, that it was more than a sexual liaison between good friends.

(Christ, will you look at that sentence I just wrote? "Progressed to a new level of significance." What kind of prig wrote that?)

I'm in love with the guy. The Big Fuckin' L. Giddy, goofy, tender, ardent, rapturous, fervid, feverish, lust-wracked, tumescent, blood-engorged, convulsive, compulsive l-o-v-e. Christ. Jesus. Shit, damn, fuck.

I can't believe I told him, for the first time, on JTJ. I can't believe I told him online. Well, actually, he wasn't online. I was. He was standing next to me, telling me to shut off the computer and come to bed. For sleep, not for sex. This was last Saturday night. I had been awake for 40 hours straight, touched by insomnia, and he could see that I was wan and wavering over the keyboard. In one hand he held a cup of cocoa, which, he has already learned, works as a soporific for me. He stood very close, his hip brushing my arm, his fingers brushing my hair, and bent a little to read what was on the monitor�s screen. I slipped an arm around his waist and brought him closer to me, so I could press my cheek against his stomach and still watch the screen as it refreshed.

His stomach is a wall of taut muscle sheathed in warm flesh covered in a worn-out Steve Canyon (by Milton Caniff) t-shirt. My t-shirt. He is learning to share my partiality for soft, ancient habiliments. My cock is learning to jump, tighten, swell, engorge, at his slightest touch. I can feel my blood reorganizing, to meet the new demand for its supply. I type one-handedly. The words appear on the screen:

I think I love this Fiend. Yep, I do.

And because this is a romance, the Fiend has no choice but to put down the cocoa, grab my hair, drag back my head, and kiss me like a pagan.

(I can't remember the time when I thought it was kinda gross to have someone else's tongue in my mouth. I know it must have been when I was much younger, so much younger. I must have been very young and very virginal. I must have been six years old.)

The lunatics at JTJ completely missed the significance of the event they had witnessed. When I read the board later, I saw that they had continued to post, without pause, their usual self-referential and self-reverential vanities. That's cool. It's one of the things I like about that message board. After all, it's where I go to be self-referential and self-reverential, too.

And now I have this diary. Shit, my vanities are gonna get exhausted.

(The board at JTJ is supposed to be a message board for trading gossip about Keanu Reeves. Originally, it was a forum to discuss the question of whether or not Keanu is gay. As far as I can tell, most of the Gay Keanu Advocates, and all males, have been driven away by virgin harpies. Who not only insist that Keanu can't possibly be gay, but also demand that he must never have sex with anyone but his true-loved, true-hearted soulmate. Are you laughing? Shit, do they even look at the man? A man that gorgeous, in Hollywood. Uh-huh. Yep. He's having sex every minute of his life. Metaphorically speaking.)

A lady, in every sense of the word, named Nobody responded to my last post of that night and wished for me a "nice evening." Oh, Nobody, my evening was every grade, rank and degree of every kind, brand, variety, genre, genus, and species of nice. My evening was a kingdom of nice.

But I'll have to tell you the details in the next episode. I gotta go now. Live refuses to be interrupted.

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

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