Bloody

Saturday, Apr. 6, 2002 - 2:45 am
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

We went out tonight, or I guess I should say last night, Friday night, to nowhere special. Just dropping by a few familiar places where we expected to buy some overpriced alcohol, and see people we knew. The places were familiar, the faces were not. We didn't run into any of our friends, which was slightly weird, especially for a Friday night. So we drank by ourselves and danced with each other (in the one place where it was safe for two men to dance with each other). And I watched my intake and avoided puking (when it comes to alcohol, my head is strong but my stomach is weak).

We fucked in a field. In the unseen dirt, with the unseen starless sky above us. It was overcast and cold. In the paralysis of the afterglow, squashed together, sweat and cum cooling and congealing on our skin (conjoined bodily, we had one skin), there was a murmur of discontent. Or maybe it was a groan.

I think I'm getting too old for this, said the Fiend.

He's 31. I'm 27.

FYI: The date and time at the top of each entry is not the date and time when I post the entry online. I jot down the date+time when I begin to write. I am writing this entry early Saturday morning after we got home and went to bed. To sleep, perchance to dream. But I'm fighting one of my occasional bouts with insomnia. I try to make the insomnia work for me, I try to be useful when I can't sleep, because later, when I need to crash, there's nothing I can do about it.

So what else can I write about, since I'm awake for the duration?

I'm new here at DiaryLand, but I've already noticed there is a bloody cunt diaryring. Really. (I'd give you the url, but I lost it.) Maybe I should join, although it's been many years since I had a hand on a cunt, bloody or otherwise. I am one of those rare men who don't freak when they encounter the gory evidence of a woman's menstruation. In fact, you could say I'm sanguine about it.

(I know. It's a corny joke. And a bad one. Sorry, I just can't resist them.)

I hate to admit it, but one of the things I miss, being a faggot, is pussy. I don't miss the breasts, those never thrilled me. At the same time, I don't see anything appealing about flat chests on women. I like to see women who look like women, with all their womanly curves, and I like to see men who look like men. But then again, I also like men who look like women, and I like men who look like both men and women, androgynously. . .oh, fuck it. I just like men. I confess, I'm just another phallus-worshipper. I guess I don't miss muff-diving all that much, after all.

Among the men I have loved, there has been only one woman. Indeed, she was The First Great Love Of My Life, The Only Woman In The Universe Who Could Make Me Straight, My Almost-Bride, My Scorpion Bitch, My Queen Of The Cowgirls, My Lenore. She was the one who taught me the joys of mating with a woman in the midst of her menses. Some of the hottest sex we ever had was during Lenore's period. Lenore always felt very sexy and empowered (How can we resist the opportunity to use this much abused word?) during her period. (Hah. Two sentences ended with a period.) She was always undaunted and adventurous in bed. She still is, I'm sure, but I haven't been in her bed since I was nineteen, when we ended our engagement. I regret that. We were planning a magnificent wedding.

There was only one more time, after that, when Lenore and I shared our bed and our bodies. On the day I was released from prison. We had to celebrate. And I was coming out of eleven months of enforced celibacy.

(I absolutely did not let anyone get the faintest inkling that I was queer while I was in prison. I prefer to have my gang rapes as fantasies, or indulged with only a few trusted friends. The Lunch Bunch has strict rules for our Mini-Gangbangs.)

I have been feeling heartsick and nostalgic on Lenore's behalf, since the first Sunday in March of this year. That's the date of another aborted wedding for My Best Girl. She was going to tie the knot with the fine fellow she has loved deeply and boinked happily for more than six years. And then it all fell apart a few days before the wedding. And now they are sundered from each other, each alone. They don't even speak to one another. Various friends act as emissaries between them, while they divvy up the spoils of their ruined love. After six years together, there's a lot of spoilage.

One piece of the detritus hangs in a closet in my spare bedroom. It's the wedding dress I made for Lenore. (In the enlightened modern era of penology, they don't just lock you up, they rehabilitate your sorry felonious ass. They teach you a skill. I learned to sew. Formal gowns and wedding dresses.) I sewed a wedding dress fit for the Queen she is, a sumptuous confection of gold silk brocade, tawny velvet, ecru lace, darling little bone buttons, and more than eight dozen dangly gold drop beads. (104, to be exact.) I did a damn good job of it, and damnit, I was looking forward to weeping with pride as my girl paced majestically through the pews. (Lenore wasn't going to waffle down the aisle to the stodgy lament of the Wedding March. She and her dad were going to stride in with Bach.)

It was going to be a glorious wedding.

What a waste.

Are you dying to know what was the issue that split this most connubial of couples? It was the issue of issue. He suddenly realized that he wants to beget children. Lenore, always clear and sober about the answer to that question, has never wanted children. She likes children, she has no problem with children, but she doesn't feel the need to possess a few of her own. She's something of a maverick among the child-obsessed women of her generation.

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

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