Two Memories

There was a time when the act of a kiss was something sacred, something to be dramatized and a symbol of growing up, being accepted, being proud, the beginning of love, a milestone of life and well everything. Never mind the act of kissing a boy always resigned to being a distant dream, something to perpetually look forward to. Now it's second nature, I can go out and kiss boys whenever I want, and I can feel life over and over and over and over and over. What a horrible ailment to suffer from. The act of a kiss has lost its meaning for me, it's merely an aspect of desire, it’s easy too easy it’s quick and quick even in long drawn-out sessions it’s fading in and out constantly. It’s something I constantly seek out even though I don’t always want it to seem easy, the path of least resistance, what a horrible sentiment. Maybe I’m being too hard on myself, and I attach too much meaning to this passing affection, the kiss doesn’t have to lead anywhere. It’s better when it does though, when the kiss is timid and quick to flee there’s so much room for the what ifs. If I pursue, how do I know I can hold my end of the bargain, how can I know at that moment, yet I'm expected to pursue. 

Jaden’s place was at the end of an unassuming quiet college neighborhood, far from the bars and McGee's and unsure if it wanted to involve itself in that scene. We strolled around in the dark like a passing epiphany for a while counting streetlights before the curtain cold came down and you could appreciate sunset delicate in ambivalence were our desires for each other, what roles were we supposed to play for each other it's not something you contrive to plan and deliberate such as the kiss. Flesh was uniquely unfamiliar and I’m sure it was something in the way the moonlight softened the air around us finding familiarity in the dark disoriented my sense of self, after tripping over an uneven sidewalk and nearly falling onto a carved pumpkin we decided it might be best to leave the night to rest. His apartment was stuffy, and the floral wallpaper peeled in the corner where a stack of books had fallen in disarray around a grouping of dying potted plants of descending heights. We sat on throw pillows and played cards with Jaden’s roommates who I'd later learn were lesbians and not sisters but that it was a running joke of sorts for anyone who he’d bring home. We drank bad peach wine that stung my nose and Shelby said that cards and sex don’t mix, I’m not sure what she meant. 

A copy of Naked Lunch acted as a window opening so a stray cat, they called Binky could find recluse on a shelf somewhere. They said I dressed like an old man but that it wasn’t a terrible thing then we had fridge sushi, eating leftover sushi makes me feel sick it's like frozen pasta. I’m not sure what time it was when we ended up in bed, but flesh lost its feeling, not like caressing a stranger but a familiar dull sensation, a dull anger. I didn’t sleep all night, we just hugged. Filling away life into one sensation. Humans are full of contradictions. It’s important not to enable the inability to have meaning, this wasn’t a two-way street. I knew well in that moment I’d wake up to a day the same as all the others, waiting for another visit. It’s customary to equivocate queer desire with shame, but why should I feel shameful, that’s a learned habit a taboo.

I saw Jaden on the train about a month later, I’m guessing he still worked the same soul sucking hospitality job, the type of job where you had to wear tapping boots and take out your stud. I don’t think he saw me, and the train filled up in a cruel sense of humor as he got off. I was tempted to rush out after him, it's not like I had anywhere to be. I was riding the train because I didn’t have anything better to do, it made me feel like I had a purpose especially at rush hour, it helped me clear my thoughts and watch people be people. What would I say to him if I did, I didn’t have anything better to do and that was the problem.

In the middle of the night with The Velvet Underground in my ears singing about dark party bars and pale blue eyes I thought about how a name becomes a place and fantasies become real in the telling Boystown existed first as an experiment of tolerance a sanctuary with my first experience intoxicating, I didn’t have time to reflect now, what an eager traveler I was as I swayed down dim back alleys. Sampling the night, I refrained from edging too close to the bars grasping the camera around my neck rather tightly, I had the hope to encounter something real and wondered how the thoughts swirling in my mind are like footprints of spirits passed. The first time Luis Medina walked these very streets on the road to El Dorado or if Chuck Renslow’s portrait hung over the bar top like a patron saint of some beat up leather bathhouse boarded up and forgone where shadows now dance not to hide but to protect their innocence from the corruption of outsiders, another world. There is a certain coincidence in thinking about artists in this moment. Of course, I think of Walt Whitman’s poetry on the culture of cruising as an expression of power and the art that flowed from these traditions. Lost in my thoughts I nearly forget my true intentions for the night passing a grouping of apartments near Halstead St. Carter called me earlier, a mutual friend we hadn't seen each other since early September but he was back in the city for the weekend and there was a party of sorts. Carter was a danseur a ballerino student of some New York dance company. I jogged my memory of the address he gave me while strolling past apartment blocks hopeful to find the right one.

The studio was crowded, and the sound of glass shatter welcomed me in as I made my way to the kitchen where three people were bent over picking shards of a barefoot bottle from the black tiled floor. Asking for Carter, I was directed to one of the back bedrooms and pushed down a dark hallway. He laid back on a mattress hugged by a red quilt with several other bohemian kids strewn about the room, dimly lit by a few candles and the sunset casting an orange hue through the window. I noticed what appeared to be a collage of fire island postcards taped along the wall before I felt someone grasp my wrist and pull me urgently, nearly suffocated by pillows and blankets alike, laughing truly laughing for the first time all day.  Seeing his familiar face with that jutting chin and bright eyes was strange. But the strangeness would disappear, and a fine familiarity took hold. We smoked and watched people from the window, making up stories about what they did, who they were going home to, what they feared. 

Shortly conversation faded and it was just us left sat on the bed in silence and I predicted what would come next in an effort to slow the impending end of the night I suggested we do photos. To my surprise he said yes. I think they're some of the best portraits I’ve done up to this point, not for the quality though the quality is good but the experience. Jean Luc Godard once said photography is truth and the truth of life is often messy through the photo, we savor that life, regrets, and all. At the time I still held certain prejudices about taking the train late at night, so I must have left in an anxious hurry. I'm not certain I properly said goodbye. Me and Carter eventually fell out of touch though I did get him copies of the photos before that point. That makes me feel nice.