Lorenzo Buford
|
I didn't want a dead end man
but that is how it was going to be with tonight's stranger. I found him in an ad that read "Man for No String Attachment." He undressed; he was thirty. His skin was pale, his hair was shoulder length, dirty brown; and he had a southern accent though he lived in Los Angeles for ten years. He hadn't found his film success while recovering from being an ex-sex addict; and track marks are still on his arms. He said the drug train had derailed; and he only had a glass of wine on special occasions; and some of those medication made him off balance and slur his words. He didn't want complications because getting out of bed each day was very taxing and moving through crowds of people was like jumping over cracks so he wouldn't be possessed by fragmented people; haunting the living but he needed to be touched. He found temporary sanity inside someone else's space though he didn't want to stay long because he didn't want to pay rent or become someone named "Occupant." I was the fifth connection for the day. He was off work, needed a distraction and he talked; I feigned to listen. We both had an itch that needed scratching. Articles of clothing were dropped like it was a dance; but I couldn't understand the song; but our emptiness needed to be filled for both of us and this was supposed to be no contact with lips, no sensuous kiss, no awakening a sleeping Beauty. There was only a Beast in this encounter, so it was like cracking open a cold one; and there was no moving into each other's space and we were riding the wave only to get the fix of our addiction to the orgasm; and to each other, we will become the Violated and the Violator. He stretched across the bed and asked me to kneel as he created a temporal space thinking he can rise above the workings of the Machine; but he carries the sorcery of the ground where his life is regulated into categories; and he couldn't remember my name. I was just to be another face floating between his legs; and speaking the names he left in my mouth made me swallow memories and carry other's pains as if it was a cross; and I thought this is another dead end since we are not consensual beliefs. He wanted no strings attachment; and I realize, I don't want to be an idiot god playing a flute between the spaces between his head and legs; and I didn't want to latch on to his mist crawling visions; or have his ghost in my mouth; or have his wars in my head; or have his anger scarring my flesh; or his hatred of self wounding my heart; and I found myself laying as a face in his desert and he is dying tree thinking he can root out the last few tears I have. And I thought - close his legs because the oil between his legs is a holocaust of ecstasy and addiction; and there is no freedom in the Machine. I will not be a ground for him to tunnel and exploit. I am walking down another road; a bit winding, but there is no dead end; just another horizon with possibilities. |
