Life without George

It’s been exact 3 weeks since the day George came down that staircase, said goodbye and got on the bike that took his free-spirited nomad soul away down the road where my presence was out of sign.

My big exam was over, which is a huge relief. If I get in this business, it’s good. If not, it’s also good, since permanent settlement in this town, at this age, might not be what strikes my liking the most. The bright side is, I hadn’t had time to be properly indulged in the imbalance among all the dreams lasting a little bit too long so I told myself, after the test, I’d mourn his departure the way I did to Ben’s or Steve’s, and then maybe things would get better.

But then again, the reality hasn’t turned out quite the way you’d wanted it to be. I don’t really dream about George nor find myself telling our story implicitly on Instagram that often, maybe largely thanks to Alan’s help. He’s been becoming a growingly important part of my routine despite the long distance. We’ve always said that we could save each other. But is it what serves me well, I don’t know.

I passed by the hotel where we spent those nights the other day to borrow a helmet for my friend out of urgent necessity. The people over there still recognized me and we did talk for a little bit and his name came out during our conversation, of course, since it’s the only fragile connection between us. And I couldn’t help but thinking about the “ghost” thing that George experienced at the hotel, him trembling in a child-like way upon telling me about it with such convincing combination of fear and excitement and for a moment, hearing the footsteps coming from upstairs, my mind fed me an illusion of him walking down to greet me, just like the last time I saw him.

Playing trick to keep the ache at ease, I went on a date night with Koen but it just didn’t feel the same. It hasn’t felt the same since the day that I caught him with the massage boy so maybe this isn’t entirely associated. I went to a queer disco party on Friday night, happened to kiss a girl from Ukraine while she kept on rubbing her body against mine, feeling her lipstick smearing blandness all over my lips.

And I went to see that old man that always express his desire of being dominated by my flesh via text messages. He wanted me to sit on his couch, which I did. He wanted to feel my skin, which I allowed him to. He wanted to suck my cock, I had no problem with it. He wanted me to fuck him, I nodded. I dressed up myself as the rebellious but obedient dominant boy, which is what excited him, turned him on, made him cum, as long as I didn’t have to kiss him anywhere.

What happened afterwards were unexpected. After being inside him for about 1 minute, I was astonished by my reflection in his huge mirror on the side, in such twisted position, having power all over a man – the thing that I’d thought I always enjoyed. But then my dick started to deflate immediately, and I broke down on top of the groaning body that kept asking for more.

That’s when I knew, the vibrant residue that George accidentally left behind still has an echo in so much space. And among such invisibility is where I find, not only just melancholy, but also my peace, my halfway nirvana. It’s where all of my senses bursting into life and I know if it isn’t love, then I don’t know what it is.

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This entry was published on March 16, 2015 at 10:11 am. It’s filed under George and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

One thought on “Life without George

  1. B.Hanzels on said:

    Reblogged this on All Gay Views.

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