"FLUX"

June 24: 12:25 AM

'Like Birds! Like birds they dance, like birds! '

With sounds vibrating through closeted space, what extra-terrestrial force makes these bodies move so? Are they lost in the noise of disco-queens wafting, screeching, commanding, or is this a primordial love call, sex allure, attracted strut? Their bodies jive, shake, and jump with sun bleached hair whirling outward in steps that are more airborne than earth-bound.

'Will they rise? Will they rise?'

Crowded together on a wooden, earth-colored floor, there are no worldly thoughts, no spoken words, and no realization of what one is - only mindless bodies losing themselves in the process ion toward evening's end. Tanned, healthy, unblemished youth in "Levi's," saris, and red handkerchiefs wrapped around necks and flagrantly hanging from back pockets are the plumage of this volatile, up-swing generation. Timel essness, now, and the movement of easy, uninhibited fast seconds is all there is to the total living of their lives.

'What else is there?'

With a beer in hand I stand against a wooden support beam, my shirt open to expose the hair on a masculine chest. I wear sandals and tight, faded jeans with a tear across the knee that tells I belong i n Provincetown. I am here for the same reason these ... these creatures from some distant place or 'planet' are - not to be alone. I have come to release myself and find bodily warmth on a late and chilly, Cape Cod evening . I do not want to go home by myself, but rather up ... and then down the slight incline on Commercial Street - with someone. I do not care who, actually, only that s/he be affectionate, reasonably attractive, physically desirable - simply, someone with whom I will find the 'ultimate pleasure.' I want to give of myself and say 'Yes, I want 'you' to 'take me' ... this way ... and ever so carefully that.'

I want 'you in' me. I want to be 'in you,' and I care to speak only of the anxious moment about to be. Through 'you' and your body I seek verification that I do exist - that I am - and only at the moment of orgasm, or when my hand rubs over your warm, firm thighs, will I know that is for sure.

The music, if one can so define a unrhythmic sequence of sounds, reaches a loud, unrefined decibel, and the murmur of smiling voices is obliterated within this framed, wooden shell of intense, other worldly vibes. And I feel good. My toe picks up the beat. My foot taps with incessant, amplified pounding very much like the exhausted beating of a traumatized heart. Slowly, the overpowering tranquility begins to rise like with the death of Scobie in "The Heart of the Matter." My calves take note and then my thighs - my leg moves in motion with the pulsating sounds. The charged juices move upward, ever upward, at an even faster pace. Rising toward the bo som like a beast of prey going for the throat, the swift acting poison circles cautiously. Taking the upper limbs first, with ease I am 'done-in' and my body is 'given over.' The venom reaches the brain and the sounds possess me.

I stare at a young girl, a young boy, a middle-aged man, and a woman in her fifties. I'm spoken to, ignored, smiled at, stepped on, winked at , and propositioned. All I hear, see, feel, speak, touch, is this crummy, dilapidated room, and the joint, contained being of mechanistic sounds and human flesh found there within.

The time approaches one o'clock. "Last call!" At first the words fall on deaf ears, and then ... like the slow dripping of blood increasing to a steady flow, the room begins to empty. Arms around waists, hands over ass, laughing, boisterously , arguing, softly speaking. The city fathers have predicated the evening must end, at least as far as "The Back Room" is concerned. All become one on one and apart to go their separate ways.

The lights come on and the last few bodies are slow to leave. They do not want to give up for there is no hurry.

'We care to speak yet. Though we have not spoken there are words that must be said.'

"Come on! Let's go! Everybody out! I've been here since seven, so please, man, let's go!"

The stragglers leave. The floor is empty - silent. The last of the bartenders checks the main floor, and turning to depart, flips the light switch. Only a single, yellow bulb remains burning in the center of the ceiling. Like a solitary sun in the dark heavens of the universe, the rays of artificial light do not begin to reach the far corners of 'that which is.' Against distant, black walls, several du sty, red boxes shine like space ships that read "EXIT."

June 24: 9:45 AM

I awake early in the morning. Today is to be my first full day of the season in Provincetown. The moment finds me alive and alone. I do not want to be by myself. And yet in order to write - I say I am a writer for this is how I spend a portion of each an d every day - I must have solitude in order to record my thoughts and observations. I find I have to spend many hours by myself for only then will the ideas in my mind find their way on to the blank sheets of white paper that often lie in disarray before me on an old, scratched and well used desk. When sharing my precious time with another being, I must use the spoken word, therefore I cannot be a writer and a liver at the same time. These must be separate.

Being alone during the daylight, writing hours is good, for I am productive. I find prolific ease in recording the reality and fantasies I perceive. But with another human next to me, be it in a chair or bed, this is not possible, for my thoughts of flowing are of quite a different kind. The person I am with is the embodiment of my life and the fulfillment of my desires - s/he is the reason why I live. And the why I should not spend my nights alone. S/he gives my menial existence validity.

I have two gods - day and night. Mind and to the release of my thoughts I devote my sunshine hours. Bodies, and the occasional person found there within, have the evening. When the sun is up I seek to be alone. At night I want to make love and screw myse lf into oblivion. In the dark I desire to give myself over to a wordless passion, a letting go of all that I am. Only in this way am I able to yield and live apart from my writing efforts and the heavy moods which often surround them.

So I take 'you' in my arms and hold 'you' close to my body. There is no reason for us to speak. And then slowly, ever so slowly, I leave go of your mouth, eyes, nose, ears, spit out your hair, and move down your warm. Anxious readiness. I listen to the heavy breathing and fast beating of your heart. My tongue finds way where my hands have already been - beneath your armpit, along your slim sides, and slowly, ever so slowly, again and again, around your firm breasts , down your chest toward the navel - and below. My body rises up to behold the object of my uncontrollable desire.

I leave go - come back - take - leave. I want and desire to savoir all - only not to want -to save all - only to want again. And I take - all of that which lies before me - to utter completion, and am done.

'You' lie still. Your body and mind are released through the pleasure of my mouth. I want 'you' this way and every other way for I need that which 'you' have to offer me. When 'you' are free and easy with your physical and mental being, with the same at rest and peace, then so am I. Your happiness is all that I seek. In this 'you' verify my existence. 'You' give me the knowledge that I live and have reason for living. But all of this is not enough. For in an hour, or fifteen minutes, or at the ending of a lifetime, 'you' will leave me. And then I will have nothing - again.

I do not want children, seek no monetary rewards beyond simple living, and no gravestone announcing that I have died. No, I want none of this. I only want to say, and in this way, that I have lived.

And I know that I have, for 'you' have made it so. Nevertheless, I seek more. I want others to know. As we are equal and ever so much alike, I want everyone to see with their minds ... and better still, feel with their fingers, that I existed. This, for me, is necessary. The why I fuck so much, and the why I write - with grand attempt at due-diligence.

Suddenly, out of my window, a gull flaps its wings, rising higher and higher with the slightest of smooth, gifted effort. The bird's sharp eyes look downward, yet the farther he directs himself up, the more he sees. He is white, the purest of white against an endless sky of blue over an ocean of limitless water.

And through flight he disappears.

June 24: 7:05 PM

What about me? I was born thirty odd years ago, had an uneventful childhood, loathed the system behind my youthful education, was stimulated in college, and anxiously awaited the opportune moment for my first sexual encounter. Another body intimately interacting with mine was all that I gave care about. As I grew older, however, I came to realize how nice the experience would be if once in a while there were to be a person inside. But since that did not happen very often, I did not let this fragility of the human condition concern me. I had more important things to do.

I have never believed myself to be interested 'only' in sex. There is much more to life and to date I have maintain I have done a reasonably good job of seeking this out. The situation is only that I need to fuck - desperately, wantonly, and instinctively often. I am driven by what lies between my legs and the various entryways of others this stimulatory force seeks out. My being is no different than anyone else's. In fact, I am just like 'you.'

When in my youth, I used to blame my parents for the aspects of my being I did not like, and of course, took all the credit for the good. I can't do that anymore, because I am older, now, and I know that whatever comes of my life, I and I alone am responsible, whether it be good or bad. No one is to blame for my many failings but me.

My father was a teacher of music - from tubas to composition. He was neither brilliant nor terribly naive. He was always running up debts by spending more than he made. The reason for his financial abandon was 'other' women and the knowledge he would always be bailed out by my mother. She was the poor, little rich girl who did whatever she could to put herself down. She was smart but never overly gutsy.

They loved one another for the first few years of their holy union and the ndecided to hateeach other until death would the mpart. He could never live up to her expectations norshe to his. It was not a marriage made in heaven. I used to dislike them both for bringing me into the world. Age has brought me byond that. They did what they had to do, and I now understand. Only let them relate to what I have to do.

So much for my parents and my past. All that is to be forgotten - at least for the moment.

June 24: Midnight

I return to "The Back Room" of "The Crown and Anchor Hotel." There is a smell of heat and sweat and the temperature is rising. Again, bodies let loose and beings in human flesh bared of their minds cast themselves about the floor. I have no interest in any of this. I tell myself get high ... and then higher yet. Have another beer and quickly find a body for an hour or for the night

'Body, body, bodies!'

I make sure my shirt is appropriately tucked in defining my reasonably decent build. I check to be sure the right number of buttons, all but one below the navel, are unbuttoned to properly expose my manliness . I feel the tightness of my jeans over the crack of my ass, and they are worn and torn in enough of the right places to attract attention. My scandals are real leather. A 'pick-up' will be easy. Boring, perhaps, but sex ... is well, necessary, is it not?

I spark up a nonsensical conversation with small talk that if I were not high, I most assuredly would not carry on. We speak of hometowns, places we've been, and bars, all the while knowing full well I truly don't give a damn and s/he probably doesn't either. But, I am here for one reason, and in order to get with 'it,' I must. 'I have no choice.'

"Hi!"

"Hi!"

"Where you from?"

"Ohio."

"I'm from Chicago. You have a name?"

"Kat."

"I'm Joel. How long you here for?"

"'Till Saturday. Maybe sooner. Might go to New York."

"If you don't get a chance to go there very often, you really should. There are some super shows on Broadway right now."

"Yeah, but if the weather stays sunny, I'd sooner have the tan."

"Where you stayin'?"

"The Ranch."

"I've heard about that place. Rather 'open,' I understand."

"It's nothing like everyone makes the place out to be."

'Boring, but necessary.'

"I hear they sleep eighty there, most of them sort of ... bunk style?"

"There's only about fifteen of us now, and it's not all that great."

"What you up to tonight?"

"Nothin' in particular ... at least not yet."

S/he smiles. Her/is hand lightly grasps my arm. I put mine around her/is waist.

"God, your bodies hot!"

"Is it?" S/he touches her/himself, checking to see if what I say is true. "Couple of double vodka martini's, couple of 'joints,' couple of more drinks, guess that'll do it every time."

I nod in anxious agreement.

"Well ... I've had my limit. Enough to drink for now. I live only a couple of blocks down, beyond "The Ranch," on Commercial Street. Would you like to come home with me?"

My body receives another once over. A smile. Another touch.

"Sure. Why not?"

S/he is short with rather mid-length, natural blond hair. About thirty. I find her/im cute, almost attractive, with an open smile. S/he is the kind of person I'd really find it easy to 'get it on' with.

And I do.

Very Early Morning

Dreams. They take me so far away, and then bring a body back. They remind me of the past and open up my future. Fast acting, turmolic, they offer no esacpe for always I must wake.

Copyright 2004

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