I was sitting on my bed, my thoughts full of how to do what's next, what to do. Then he was sitting
on my bed.
He told me he wanted to know how he should go about getting help -- he'd heard I was a person who could help him and was asking for an instructional of how to get what he needed. On my bed, sitting there, was the icon from my mind and he needed my help. And all I wanted was to get him under the sheets. Thank god I was drugged or he would have noticed my instant 'attention.'
I tried to keep the conversation light. From the luck of the draw, his bed was just above mine. We were neighbors. He told me his name was Aidan but his friends called him Killer. I called him Aidan -- I will always call him that because we were not friends. We were never friends. These are his words and not mine, 'We are what we are.' That wasn't true though -- to his friends he would say "Me and Sam are me and Sam." He was a strong presence but at the same time was missing something in his life. I became determined to fill that void.
He was tired and quickly drifted off to sleep. This left me perched on my bed, looking over at him, thanking God for having sent him to my life. I also wished it was tomorrow, because I'd have the pleasure of having known him better for two days rather than just the one.
I returned from an appointment and was walking up the hill of what leads into the city's worst neighborhood when I looked past the church, towards the liquor store. Coming out the door was Aidan, with a brown paper bag and a spring in his step. I caught his eye -- he walked over to me and started talking. The dialogue was friendly and masculine -- within minutes I was invited to drink with him and Canyon.
Thus began the painful emotional struggle of always wishing we were alone, knowing that his friends had seen the appeal that he so clearly emanated. They were attracted to him differently than I was, no sexual tension, but it was the same in that they felt better about themselves when they were around Aidan. They fed into his desires, wishing to make him happy so they were able to bask in the light his soul radiated. We walked behind the laundromat with bottles in hand and began to bond in the way that men do.
Even in homelessness and poverty, there is bragging beyond measure of accomplishments -- where you’d come from, where you were going and how you would go about making your wishes come true. Canyon was smart, you knew it from talking to him for five minutes,. He was also directed in his goals by his priorities. His priorities were cocaine, beer, cigarettes and being with people he considered friends. He and Aidan had been friends for years. Over the consumption of beer in a back alley, I got the capsule version of who they each were.
Aidan, knowing the last fifteen years of his life was miserable entirely due to substance abuse and mental illness, was the voice of reason to dissuade any illegal activity. Canyon was the devil on your shoulder, waiting until you were just buzzed enough to consider listening to the suggestion to run astray. That and he had impeccable timing. We scored and walked down the street, looking for an acceptable place to consummate the relationship, substance wise.
As we walked down that street, Aidan walked in front of me. I looked down at his hips, picked up an empty soda container and said "nice can." He thanked me, looked over his shoulder and saw I was pointing at the soda. I knew I had found a way to get my point across and that my point was taken. This is how you hit on someone who is clearly able to reject you without facing the rejection square in the face. I was not rejected though. It was all I needed to pursue the chase.
I'm proud of myself for being so clever, thank you very much. I've never had such fun in a bush next to a church in the pouring rain with two strangers than I had that day.
Tune in Friday for Chapter 5 of Wild Ride!
_______________________________________________________________
Brian is a bohemian writer with a fab-ola warped sense of humor and
sarcasm, (provided at no additional charge). He married a great guy and
moved out of the States to Australia.
He told me he wanted to know how he should go about getting help -- he'd heard I was a person who could help him and was asking for an instructional of how to get what he needed. On my bed, sitting there, was the icon from my mind and he needed my help. And all I wanted was to get him under the sheets. Thank god I was drugged or he would have noticed my instant 'attention.'
I tried to keep the conversation light. From the luck of the draw, his bed was just above mine. We were neighbors. He told me his name was Aidan but his friends called him Killer. I called him Aidan -- I will always call him that because we were not friends. We were never friends. These are his words and not mine, 'We are what we are.' That wasn't true though -- to his friends he would say "Me and Sam are me and Sam." He was a strong presence but at the same time was missing something in his life. I became determined to fill that void.
He was tired and quickly drifted off to sleep. This left me perched on my bed, looking over at him, thanking God for having sent him to my life. I also wished it was tomorrow, because I'd have the pleasure of having known him better for two days rather than just the one.
I returned from an appointment and was walking up the hill of what leads into the city's worst neighborhood when I looked past the church, towards the liquor store. Coming out the door was Aidan, with a brown paper bag and a spring in his step. I caught his eye -- he walked over to me and started talking. The dialogue was friendly and masculine -- within minutes I was invited to drink with him and Canyon.
Thus began the painful emotional struggle of always wishing we were alone, knowing that his friends had seen the appeal that he so clearly emanated. They were attracted to him differently than I was, no sexual tension, but it was the same in that they felt better about themselves when they were around Aidan. They fed into his desires, wishing to make him happy so they were able to bask in the light his soul radiated. We walked behind the laundromat with bottles in hand and began to bond in the way that men do.
Even in homelessness and poverty, there is bragging beyond measure of accomplishments -- where you’d come from, where you were going and how you would go about making your wishes come true. Canyon was smart, you knew it from talking to him for five minutes,. He was also directed in his goals by his priorities. His priorities were cocaine, beer, cigarettes and being with people he considered friends. He and Aidan had been friends for years. Over the consumption of beer in a back alley, I got the capsule version of who they each were.
Aidan, knowing the last fifteen years of his life was miserable entirely due to substance abuse and mental illness, was the voice of reason to dissuade any illegal activity. Canyon was the devil on your shoulder, waiting until you were just buzzed enough to consider listening to the suggestion to run astray. That and he had impeccable timing. We scored and walked down the street, looking for an acceptable place to consummate the relationship, substance wise.
As we walked down that street, Aidan walked in front of me. I looked down at his hips, picked up an empty soda container and said "nice can." He thanked me, looked over his shoulder and saw I was pointing at the soda. I knew I had found a way to get my point across and that my point was taken. This is how you hit on someone who is clearly able to reject you without facing the rejection square in the face. I was not rejected though. It was all I needed to pursue the chase.
I'm proud of myself for being so clever, thank you very much. I've never had such fun in a bush next to a church in the pouring rain with two strangers than I had that day.
Tune in Friday for Chapter 5 of Wild Ride!
_______________________________________________________________
No comments:
Post a Comment