I remember one morning waking up and getting a notification from my phone. It was George, the seemingly odd one that I had frequent small talks about our mutual interest in the Wars on Drug and The Black Keys with since last November. We then arranged a date.
Friday night, I was at my regular jazz pop place, where this beautiful but cold lady that I know does her gig every week. This time, she did some more poppy songs and skipped my favorite one that I requested every night, The Masquerade. And there came George, in his old t-shirt that hugged his chest firm enough to reveal the curves that caught my eyes, old blue jeans and sneakers, long and a bit messy on purpose hair, nerdy glasses and a big grin girted by grey beard that indicated experiences. In short, his sudden appearance blew my mind away.
He greeted me in his Portuguese accent, which reminded me of a Brazilian guy that I used to sleep with twice. We then had a 3 hour chat, which ran effortlessly through our ideas of travelling, our photos, music, gay life and crazy ideas that we both endorsed.
We shared our music library, which were heavily similar, or as he put it “pretty much the same taste”. I had Pearl Jam, he likes Eddie Vedder. We both just listened to The Wars On Drug’s Lost In The Dream earlier. He had the 2 latest Black Keys album while I got all of them, and of course, Bon Iver. It was Bon Iver that brought us together in the first place. He shared with me the story of him in the airport hearing Bon Iver’s music being played in the toilet and following him all around without realizing that it was his phone.
We both recorded our dreams when we woke up and sometimes it was too dark and we weren’t in the clearest state of mind so our writing turned out to be illegible when we read it again. We both took photos of our foot in different soil that we got to land in. We both care very little about our clothing and do tee, shorts and slippers all year round. We collected cigarette boxes just because some of them were too beautiful to be put away.
“Let’s get out of here?”
“Do you wanna go home?” he asked. And then, upon seeing my confused look, he corrected himself. “I mean, my home, my hotel to be exact.”
Then he led me to his bedroom where we had sex for 1 hour. He tried to penetrate me but didn’t succeed since, of course, I hadn’t let any guys near that area before. But apart from that, things were good. I did enjoy my moment being inside him and I thought he did too. But what were better was our conversation in the aftermath.
In a childish manner, he jumped out of the bed, wearing nothing but a sarong that he got from Myanmar (which I also have) and talked endlessly and very passionately about Brazilian music, including 2 famous gay brother and sister whose names I couldn’t remember, the beauty of Portuguese, how he lost one testicle due to surgery and his fright of ghost.
We danced to Lana Del Rey’s “Yayo”, wrapping ourselves in the bed sheet and then we moved to the patio and chain smoked. It was all dark. All I could see was the top of the closeby church and the only audible sound were the bells ringing for every 15 minutes and our breath as we shared each slow and deep kisses, hips swinging to every drop of music as Lana went on singing. “Let me put on a show for you, tiger…” And he moved down slowly to give me another head, right in the overwhelming darkness.
“You know, whenever I hear Blower’s Daughter (the Damien Rice’s song), I feel like grabbing a razor to cut myself…,” his voiced trembled in the darkness.
At that moment, it struck me how similar we were, not just in hobbies and ideas but also, we were both a bit broken, which made me want to reach out and touch him, imagining my touch would have healing power so that we could both save each other from the verge of adulthood.
He would sleep with his head laying on my chest for a while. After 15 minutes, he woke up, mumbling something that I could only make out as “I just had a dream about you but now it slipped off my mind…” And then we both fell back to the silence nihility where no matter existed.
I told Tiger about George the day after and also sent him a photo of him in the sarong since Tiger was the one giving me my first and only sarong. Without much thinking, he then replied me with something that struck me to the core.
“A very Ben-alike, isn’t it?”
And then I started to think about all of the reasons that I like this George guy. He has the same attitude as Ben’s about leading a nomad life and fashions, same weirdness, same feminist in a very minimum level in body language and more importantly, they even look a bit similar.
But once again, Tiger warned me of my seemingly growing attachment since after all, George will be gone in the next few days. “Well, I guess I would just enjoy the fun when it lasts.” I replied to Tiger. And then I realized, put the Ben comparison aside, considering the chemistry and everything that has made of him alone, what I said to Tiger should be a lie.