Man the Juice

moon through bare limbs

I skid across black ice. The Volvo’s brakes grumble with anti-lock distress. Their distress is my safety. My mind spins, fresh and raw, voluptuous and hungry, animal. I float the ship into its cave, slide in to the warm cavity. Ok, I like my garage. I like it, but not as much as Johnny. Oh Johnny boy, take me to your haystack and shine your sun on me!

Yes, Johnny redeemed me, resuscitated me, brought me back to reality, to the reality of sense, of sensation. He reminded me to cherish the sweetness of life as it happens, from as early on as you possibly can. Johnny “hungry skin” was perfectly hungry, salient. Connecting with his velvet skin, giving my pleasure back to him, sharing it just for the moment, carefully, formally, we did a little dance of mutual healing in a crowded bar. He danced and shimmyed up to me as if I were the only one for him. Yearning, but with open eyes, embracing, a shocked vermilion flare engulfed me. Then he moved on to say hello to the next hungry skin. There is one lesson. There is only one lesson. Cherish.

I don’t try to kid anybody. I take it as it comes. I flop around a lot. There is no turning back, no redemption, just gratitude, giving in, giving over, finding the music of just being, just breathing. Man the Juice. Be mindful of the juice. The juice is what pulses through us with joy. It only happens once, each second, each moment of pleasure.

Panting, I get out of the car, push the buzzer button hooked up to the auto garage door. I walk out into the huge, silent cold. I pause, facing the scene I’ve seen dozens of times a season, tonight crushingly new, daringly new. My breath hovers around me, ghostly.

I glance over at the Christmas lights decorating the house across the street. Electric icicles hang along a steep roof angle of the A-frame. Expensive, adorable, kitschy, gay but not gay, they are annoyingly perfect, Martha Stewart-like. But it’s ok. We need to feel that something can be just right. We need beautiful illusions. We need to feel complete, like we’ve arrived, if only temporarily. I smile at those lights.

I stand in the driveway, pausing, knowing I’ve paused safely here before. The wind chimes barter their wares, seductive questions, partial answers, sampled sirens messages. Their alto pings swim between two notes, a chant of poles, tides of a question.

I look up at the magnificent beast looming over my house. It reaches anciently toward the sky. 300 years gives this green sage some perspective. How does it see our frantic lives? Now denuded of its summer cloak, its gnarly limbs pose dramatically, frozen time, at least to me. One of it’s great, gentle hands, with long, almost grotesque spindly fingers, cradles the three-quarter moon like a baby.

The wind chimes pause, hold their breath. Silence.

Regal yet demure in her shroud, she notices me. Facing sideways, alluring, she looks somewhere beyond what I see, gazing across the neighborhood, over the house with the perfect lights. She draws clouds around her noctilucent face, swirling them in a slow liquid, curled silver glass.

She listens as I watch her hover in the oak’s stringy fingers. She calls deeply, shows me myself, my weakness, my perfection, my meaning. She somehow touches inside me, calls up my innocence, my child, my hurt. She tells me it’s ok. She lets my tears out. They flow from far, far inside me. They wash over me. I stand there, looking up at the moon through the arms of the great, gentle beast. I cry, wailing inside. I wail silently, not wanting to wake the neighbors with the perfect lights, not wanting to disturb them, their contentment. I cry for all I cannot do, all I have failed to do, all I wish to do, all the things I fear. I cry for those I cannot help, those I have not helped, for the love I’ve failed to give. I have so much to learn. I have so much to live. The moon gazes gently beyond me.

The chimes tap my shoulder, resume their muted sighs. Chilled from the steely cold air, I go inside the house. I am greeted by my two little furry friends, Merlin and Punker, whom I ignore way too much, as I do many of my friends. Why do I do that? Why do I let pass so many perfect, sweet, gentle moments in favor of some kind of thrill, a rollercoaster ride? My interior life demands me, snares me. I get hooked on far out orbits, swinging low, way low on a glittering chariot.

My little purring pals, free, reliant, so poetic, they know me and cannot speak. Yet they ground me, tell me things, remind me to eat, to sleep, to breathe, to love, to hug. They wait. I am sure they embody some subtle, effulgent fragments of a great spirit. I see this and I am afraid. Afraid and somehow comforted. Something cradles my fear. Merlin and Punker gaze at me, kiss me with their eyes, waiting for food.

How come we do the things we do? Why do we feel so much, and know so little? How can we be so sensitive and seductive and still so dull, as we crash and flop across exquisite landscapes, barely noticing, just passing, blinking, wandering into some strange night?

I cross the bridge, walk away from the river into the open fields. The moon calls me. The trees stand guard. I weep quietly in the long, dark night. I begin.

photo by Sharp Bokeh
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Touch My Soul

Touch my soul and it is yours.

(It is never
Fire eating
snakes nip at my nipples,
unzip my fly,
bitemy mosquito)

Take my hand.

(Filling their mouths, drinking
mother’s milk, they
queue up at my statue.)

(It is not theirs.)

Look into my eyes.

over a hedge,
falling flat
my back.)

What is yours?

Kissing me is not…

…the answer.

Touch my soul and…

…it is ours.
Take your bow.

Sexy Shaved Legs

shaved leg

I love when men shave their legs. Bikers do it fairly often. So do swimmers.

It’s funny to see a recreational biker who shaves his legs. Yeah, like he’s really going to go that much faster with his legs shaved! I think they secretly stand in front of the mirror after they shave and admire their sexy legs.

One guy passed me the other day with beautiful legs. Yes, I meant to say beautiful. He passed so fast (must have been the shaved legs) that I didn’t know what sex those legs were until I got a good look. And I thought it was a really muscular woman. Those legs were “shapely”. (I love that vague description) I just wanted to run my lips down them. Maybe not up them, unless I knew the shave job was fresh.

Men who shave their legs get extra manly points in my book for shedding a masculine layer to expose sleeker, softer muscles beneath the gruff exterior.


veach glines art, intimacy

Some kind of far and deep metamorphoses has been taking place in me the past few years. I’ve grappled with some of its details here on this electronic stage, in posts such as Flat Sex and Taboo Sex as Mythic Fuel.

Intimacy is a very different chemistry than sexual attraction. Men tend to fear intimacy. I know I do. I feel like I’m giving over my soul. No way. Sex is easier than love, by far, especially for men. And post orgasm rejection comes as easily as removing the condom.

In the long run, having sex is less important than intimacy. I know that seems obvious to many, but sex and its trappings in the gay world can create a quagmire of identity. To my surprise, I’m finding that a deeply felt connection can lead to beautiful and rewarding sexual experiences. But the walls of self protection and self deception are high and the foundations deep. The house is confused with the man.

The house metaphor carries through my life. I have always lived more clearly externally than internally. My soft, chewy center is well camouflaged by my friendly, affable exterior. I focus on the exterior to fulfill my desire to be accepted and loved, but my vulnerability remains hidden. And that exterior takes time to maintain. It becomes self perpetuating. The house becomes me. But I remain, the inner child wanting to play, the faerie struggling in a man’s world, the artist trying to shape chaos, experimenting, the boy fearing rejection by his father, by anyone, the explorer wanting to wander and get lost, to find new lands.

I’m finding that just allowing myself to know these intimate personas is the greater battle. Looking in the mirror, I only see the shell. The inside is hidden even to me. But that is changing.

Digiart by Veach

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One Day it Dawned on Him

A story about identity.

Jay threw him across the room. Luckily Dorn didn’t get too busted up. It just made a racket as he knocked over a small table with some “family” photos of the couple and their friends. He was uncannily lucky that way. Rarely ever got hurt. The impact surprised and shocked him at first, but then felt kind of good, tingly all over. He felt like he’d just awakened from a dream.

Dorn’s whole life he’d gotten what he wanted, done what he wanted, gotten away with almost anything he did. For a few seconds now, he felt he’d arrived at the station, actually stopped in the middle of the room, instead of passing by on the train, while others had to stay behind and live their lives slowly and deliberately.

He was good at almost anything, and popular as well. Since he improved any situation with his presence, most people thought he was there just for them. And that was true. He liked pleasing people, but it wasn’t really him. Alone, he was lost. He needed something to match, something to adorn, in order to be something himself.

He took this jolt from Jay to be a sign. Someone had been watching, and now he was in for it. But that didn’t happen. Jay apologized profusely, and Dorn again had the upper hand.

Just like always.

They had quarreled before, but only when things got too strained for Jay to remain physically passive, which was work for him. He was a man of raw emotion, not a lot of detail. That’s why Dorn loved him, because Jay wasn’t like him. Dorn had complex emotions, but he hid behind the detailed analysis game, picking apart an event, looking at things objectively, until he convinced himself, and almost anyone else, that he was right.

“It’s tough being a chameleon” he thought. “No one understands you because they can never really know you. And even you can only guess what your next move will be.” Dorn used to have a dream where he was in a play and forgot his lines. We’ve all had that dream. But he’d learned to make them up as he went, and pretty soon, just flowed into any situation as if he created it.

While Jay retreated, Dorn sat there on the floor, thinking. He could just keep going with the flow, the usual, and use the new power he had over Jay to get more out of him, or he could try something new. He opted for newness, which didn’t surprise him. Dorn thrived on chaos. It’s so pregnant with possibility.

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