New Year is coming. Sometimes I think it would be beneficiary living far away from the family, from this old town, to be able to fathom the festive sentiment of reunion, of being the fresh face coming back after all this time, of not waiting.
It is getting cold again. No sunlight, no dry clothes, cracked skin, empty bed, torn lips, slow bike nights, lovers curling up in the heat exhausted from each other. I was born in the winter. It was hard to imagine how my mother could do it, giving birth, in this season, under the conditions that they were in. Maybe it was destiny, for the winter-ness to be interwoven with the lives delivered during its span, until forever.
Sex. Ultimate passing time. Ultimate ego & confidence boost. Short-termed curing effects.
A guy came over my place, the first, or maybe the second, after Joe. I told him I wouldn’t let anyone spend the night, at his request. This Brazilian guy just came and went. He was muscular. He was manly. He was hot. And he was a top so there wasn’t much. He smiled when I said “cachaca”. He left and didn’t forget to put a kiss on my lips before the ultimate departure.
I came to another one this past week, Scottish, staying in a small hotel. He was a bit bear-ish but possessed a state-of-the-art pair of butt cheeks. They popped out. He undressed me in front of 2 different mirrors facing me from 2 different sides. I saw my flesh slowly uncovered as his mouth moving down slowly, creating a path of gentle bisous along where it had been. He gave long head, but not the best. He rode my cock, which was OK. He came while riding me before I did. His whole body kept on shrugging for the next 15 minutes.
“Only happens after a good orgasm,” he consoled.
I went to see La La Land, mostly due to awards season buzz. Matt was there. He was my only viable option. We both arrived in bike. I slapped his butts from behind as a way of greeting. It’s been a while since the last time there were only two of us, talking. He was still in the same loop. So was I.
“Fuck me gently with a chainsaw,” he said, mimicking Winona Ryder in Heathers upon learning that a relationship of mine ended long ago, before the movie started.
In the dark room, where the beam resonating from the projector to the silver screen was the only source of light, when Emma Stone’s character, finally achieving her life-long dream, happened to walk into the jazz club with the sign designed by her for the lost lover a long time ago, I felt something slowly burning on my face. It was moving. It was spreading. And when the piano started to fill the room gently with drop after drop, I knew what it was, that slow burn. “Salty water”, that’s what I used to tell my children, the salt on cracked winter skin.
The movie ended with a flashback of something that wasn’t even real, a could have been, but with the very same musical piece that brought the characters together in the first place, the piece that reminded me of the Emmanuelle theme in 1974.
I had previously thought that La La Land would be a classic sunny American musical, where things all worked out in the end. But the last vision in my head of that night was, in the room, where heart beats from the audience made sound, Matt turned to me, reaching out to give me one last hug upon seeing me trying to hold back the tears in the dark.