Bumblebees

So. A while ago on the couch. I was complaining. Sorta. Saying I didn’t know what it was I was looking for in backrooms these days. That I wanted more affect. More relations. Thinking of Foucault. Which I do every once in a while. “Perhaps it would be better to ask oneself, ‘What relations, through homosexuality, can be established, invented, multiplied, and modulated?’ The problem is not to discover in oneself the truth of one’s sex, but, rather, to use one’s sexuality henceforth to arrive at a multiplicity of relationships.” My complaints must have been. Oh. Say. A year and a half. Two years ago. Something like that. Definitely before Berlin. Which was a turning point. As you’re all too aware. And as I think you’re aware. It was a turning point because of B. Or at least one way of naming the turning point is to call it B. It’s his fault. Which is also his grace. I’m so happy he’s still around. We have cakes now. On Thursdays. It’s become a little ritual between his office mate E, B and me. Late Thursday afternoon/ early evening. One of us buys cakes. We’re in Paris. So they’re yummy. It’s kinda the end of the week. Definitely the end from my end of things. We eat cake. Drink coffee or tea. At their office close by mine. And chat. About what we’ve seen. At the movies. On stage. In bed. On a screen. In our childhood. And at some point I tap my hands on my legs. And from his swivel chair across the room. B’s head rolls a little bit. And he takes a head-lolling step or two to collapse on the sofa into my lap. And I give him a head massage. Which in general makes him purr. And moan when it’s over. Once he said. “Wow. Can’t wait for next Thursday.” At the end of the massage. Which made me happy. That he was happy. That we ache a little bit. Because the happy moment is over. Until next week. I love B. And I love that I can love and care for B. A little bit. Given the situation. It’s some of the affect I was looking for and not finding in brothels. He still wants somebody to put a foot to his ass to get things done. Someone at night time. Someone he calls a husband when he imagines him. I hope he finds him. If that’s what he wants and needs. And if he figures out how to need and want his husband all at once. Well. I’ll be happy for him. Even if I'll probably have a fit or two getting to that happiness. I’m lucky enough to have a husband. Of a kind. That’s not on a marriage certificate. That’s at least partly why I can see B. And give him a head massage. Purr.

So since that moment complaining on the couch. About the lack of affect in backrooms. I kinda quit going to them. Not on principle. Mind you. Just because. There was a lot going on in bed at home. Actually? T and I never fuck in bed. Or hardly ever. Only when we have guests and the desire arises. Otherwise we fuck on the couch. We spread out this huge white towel that has my father’s initials on it. It was a gift to him from a Saudi prince. Don’t ask. He handed it over to me at some point because it was just too big for him and my mother to know what to do with it. And it sure is handy. Because it covers the couch. Mostly. From wet things that do nonetheless soak through from time to time. Because good sex does that. Makes you. And your sofa. If that’s where you're having it. Wet. Lately we’ve also been fucking on my desk chair. Access to pictures. And? I think it eroticizes writing in kinda cool ways. Though you wouldn’t know it here. Sorry about that. Hopefully this one will be a doozy and we can make up and get on with all this.

Jesus. B is everywhere I try and tell a narrative. Because at the beginning of the month. November 1 to be precise. We went back to a brothel. The Full Metal. Our local standard. Though not the one that’s so practical on a Sunday afternoon because it’s a ten-minute walk away. That one’s called The Bunker. And it’s great for boys who went out for it on a Saturday and didn’t get enough and want to wile away Sunday hours looking for more. That reminds me. Of my main internets sex profile. The headline on it reads. “Ready for more.” I’m serious about that. Though nobody much has noticed yet. B has. In his own way. A week or two before we headed back to the Full Metal. We’d gone shopping with B. After lunch. And somewhere in the margins of a trip to see Wolfgang Tillmans’s recent exhibit in Paris. It was a lovely day. Made B fluctuate in his categorical statement about not fucking with us. That Saturday. He came over for our weekly rotisserie chicken. And then the exhibit. And then shopping. I think it was in that order. And when we went shopping. We went to the local leather store. Because they sell Fred Perry. And B wanted to get a Fred Perry shirt for P’s birthday present. Which he did. And we flirted with the shopkeepers. And various other sundry there for their Saturday shopping. And one of the shopkeepers gave us each passes for a night they sponsor at the Full Metal. Like something like twice a year. And we held onto them. The passes. Saying to our various tricks that we were going.

Like to S. Yes, same S we saw walking down the street with T² and W². A while back now. We like to have S over for dinner. This time around. On November 1. He wanted to have us over for dinner. But we have our market on Saturday mornings. If there’s anything sacred for us. Saturday morning market might really be it. So we had food. A really yummy big fish. And we’re closer to the club than S is. So we conceded that he could make desert. Which he did. Yummy apple cake. Which we ate after our dinner. We still have his cake mould. And I just this second left a message in the chatroom saying we still have it and that it would be a good excuse for us to see each other again. If we do just more of the same. That’s just fine with me. More of the same would be dinner. And then sex. This was the first time the three of us went out for it. Usually we just do it at home. T and S and me. Actually. I’ll anticipate my narrative a little bit. The Monday just after this November 1 dinner and outing. I went to hear S sing. He’s a singer. In an a capella choir. That’s sorta hot shit. Like Orange developed special technology for them to be able to hit the right notes. That kinda hot shit. They were singing a program of contemporary music by a composer named Gérard Pesson. And some of his students. And Ravel. It was pretty great. Even though I had been a bit in a state. All day long. Until I stretched out on the couch again. But I’ll get to that in a minute. Before I do. I wanted to finish off this strand. After the concert. My friend M and I went out for dinner with S. (T was in Denmark for work, so he had to miss out. On the Monday cultural activities at least). M is a music person. Much more so than I am. So he and S had a lot of lovely things to talk about. Which I listened to and learned from. And at some point. I forget exactly how it came up. I think we were complaining about how so much of the sex we’ve been having was disconnected from affect. Or some such. And S said. To the literary people M and I pretend to be. “Isn’t there any literature about innovative ways of linking sexuality and emotion?” And I said. “Yeah, Foucault. And the novel I’m going to write someday.” Which made all three of us smile.

And I cited our little trip to the Full Metal that November 1 as an example. Because as we were heading out. I got an SMS from B. Saying he was still at dinner. But were we already there? I said. No. But we’re on our way with S. Who B finds sexy. T would say it’s because B finds anyone we find sexy sexy. And he’s probably right. To a certain extent. I’d also chatted with G, of G and J-M. Their letters have come up before. In Berlin. T and I chatted with them at the bar. So I had been chatting on-line with G and told him I was going to the Full Metal. And he let me know that he and J-M were going to be there, too. So when S, T and I walked into the Full Metal, I knew that G and J-M were going to be there, that B was coming. Which means. Jesus. That bar was stuffed full of people I have tons of affection for. Different world. Not paradise. Far from it. Not hell either. Probably a kind of purgatory. If we had to get theological about it. Or a labyrinth. If we wanted to follow your suggestion and think it through Greek myth. I mean the space of the backroom is already its own other world. And that night at the Full Metal that other world was itself being othered by the configuration of all these singularities. Like I said on the couch. If a while back I was complaining about the lack of affect in my backroom encounters. Jesus. Given this configuration I was served.

Because of course there were other people around, too. Like V. And N. And then this new fixture on the scene named F. Which also happens to be B’s name. T had been chatting with him on line. And cruising him the one other time we’d seen him out. He’s intimidatingly beautiful. Tattoos all over his body. And tending to prove T’s hypothesis. That B finds whoever we find sexy sexy. They ended up fooling around. Which. As the French say. Put me into all of my states. M’a mis dans tous mes états. For lots of very complicated reasons. As a matter of fact. When I was recounting all this on the couch. I said. Something to the effect of. “Jesus. All of this is so complicated.” Which. A week later? Became. “Jesus. This is so rich.”

I pined all day long the next day. For the fact that B had no doubt found in this F his husband. T found me overwrought. And this is all mixed up, too. As it has been on this site. With grieving for my father. Which makes things really complicated. So all Sunday. I was pining. For lots of things. We went to the movies. And saw a really good but very difficult film. A kind of allegory about a boss who runs a construction site where they make platforms for shipping things and who gives his workers a mosque apparently to allow them to pray on site but also to harness religion for the purposes of his capital. The boss is sexy. And ends up dead. It was a doozy. Turns out. At the movie theater just across the canal. B and F were seeing a murder mystery. I left a message. Saying we could have drinks afterwards if they wanted. They didn’t want. Because they were tired from fucking all night the night before. Which was fine. But didn’t settle the butterflies in my stomach. Do you know Joanna Newsome’s music? She has this song. That I love. Called “Clams, Crabs, Cockles, Cowries.” And there’s an image in it. That I love. Where she sings. “And some bellies ache with many bumblebees./ (and they sting so terribly).” That’s the state my stomach was in. This was actually the night I wrote you about recently. The night when T and I had a conversation that went like this:

T: I just feel like there's so much you feel like you can't tell me.
I:: But right now, there's so much I just can't quite tell myself.
T approaches me and holds me.

So to bring this all back into some kind of full circle. I went with all these bumblebees in my stomach to my shrink that week. And let out a little bit of anger that I hadn’t allowed myself to feel. Because really? The ecstasy I’ve been occasionally writing you about? A lot of it. I’ve learned on the couch. Has to do with the fact that before my father died. I was able to remind him of the child I was for him. The child he had forgotten I was for him. The anger was about his having forgotten. Which means I’ve spent a lot of time looking for that child elsewhere. “That child” gets mixed up. In confusing ways. With the child I will not have. Because I’m too busy doing other things. In a world. And in a country. Where it ain’t easy for a faggot like me to adopt a child. And really that’s just fine. But it demands a lot of tears. And it’s complicated.

I started crying some of those tears that day on the couch. Tears over the course of which it was suddenly clear to me. That the only tears worth their salt are ones shed when sadness is mixed with joy.

BTW. We're going over to S's for dinner on Saturday night. Plans were made in the margins of writing this entry.