DRIVE (Part 5)
I was in a studio apartment, off Wilshire Boulevard, at 3 o’clock in the morning ith a convicted transgender felon, trying to get sucked for free. I was so anxious I began shaking like a leaf, as “she” rattled on about “her” boyfriend who was still in prison. Any fear left once I understood I was in the presence of a prison bitch; before I learned they can be just as worse, it not more, than regular inmates.
I waited for my turn, looking for a blind spot, a chink in the armor where I could make some suggestive move in the right direction towards my own gratification. As it spoke, it walked around the room, back and forth from kitchen to bathroom. It was skinny, a lanky, black, barely passable – depending on the time of day or night – acting like a woman with flamboyant gestures, but was obviously a man, with a physique similar to my first male lover.
Three hours of hollow conversation passed, and I was losing my interest. Whatever this “woman” could offer was now way overdue and hyped beyond her abilities to fulfill with any degree of satisfaction. I finally found my opening, but used it to leave, with a promise I would call. I never did.
Things dried up for a while; more empty phone calls to transgender prostitutes, listening to their voices, their temptations and pitches to get me to come over. I’d take them to bed like tangible memes I could touch and fondle in my sleep. When I did have money, I used them to further my pursuits, although I’d always try for something more, deeper, and without cost. I was a child of the eighties and teen movies were thirty-something women would bed teenagers “years beyond their age.”
One of these pubescent mindbenders was Private Lesson, a tale of a rich white man’s son and his affair with an older French maid, played by Sylvia Kristel. I never knew who name until I began writing this paragraph, yet her face and everything she symbolized to a young boy has been burned into my memory. I remember late nights, watching her as Emmanuelle, having her inhibitions torn away by force or romance, as she jet-setted around the world.
Those were the eighties, before the chemically induced fallout of the nineties, where sex and sexuality were softer and mature. There was real sex, fake sex, and even a thirteen year-old knew the difference. Playboy and “The Lifestyle” were still alive and we thought it would last forever. Breast were still real, before the same powers that lied to us about cd’s improving sound over lp’s made us gaga over Pam Anderson. Back when romance and sex were joined at the hip, but church and state made leering looks at one another across a Democratic minefield. In those days, a tall, skinny, phantom figured French woman was every boy’s dream.
“If you build it, he will come.” – Field of Dreams
I used to think that was the dumbest saying, and it was fueled by the success of the film putting it on everyone’s lips. Including advertising execs whose paychecks were made on the 101+ spoofs and discredits of something more profound. I didn’t pick up on what this saying, or statement, meant until Merlin explained to me how Buddhism, his Buddhism, works. To me, in combination with chanting, a person is placing their will upon the universe. Life is a single branch. Fate is the wind that blows it in either direction. The direction is random chance. Buddhism, chanting, is manipulating the wind to blow a certain way, so the branch leans in your desired direction. Manipulating that wind is taking action towards your desired outcome, not just sitting on your ass, or knees, waiting for it. Now, I wonder if the writer who wrote Field of Dreams was a Buddhist, because that line is perfect for it. Ray Kinsella, played by Kevin Costner, had to take action to get desired effect. He couldn’t just sit and wait for something. He had to go out there, do something, and risk everything, to get what he wanted.
See, it wasn’t enough to watch Private Lessons, not for me. I had to have it. I wanted it more than anything. My first pangs of lust didn’t start with the cute, freckled, red head – although she would appear, and forever brand me with that predisposition – which was my age and innocent. It started with Sylvia Kristel, Caren Kaye, and Jamie Lee Curtis.
I lost my virginity when I was seventeen, and it wasn’t to someone my age. She was three years older than me and lived in the same house with my father and I. And I’ve always been ashamed of what transpired between us, it lasted longer than it should have, years in fact. But, there’s no denying the truth of virginity, which binds the loser to their taker.
And, it was around this time, after having sex with men and failing to con transgender prostitutes into bed, that she reappeared to drive me even further into the ground.
JPG.
I waited for my turn, looking for a blind spot, a chink in the armor where I could make some suggestive move in the right direction towards my own gratification. As it spoke, it walked around the room, back and forth from kitchen to bathroom. It was skinny, a lanky, black, barely passable – depending on the time of day or night – acting like a woman with flamboyant gestures, but was obviously a man, with a physique similar to my first male lover.
Three hours of hollow conversation passed, and I was losing my interest. Whatever this “woman” could offer was now way overdue and hyped beyond her abilities to fulfill with any degree of satisfaction. I finally found my opening, but used it to leave, with a promise I would call. I never did.
Things dried up for a while; more empty phone calls to transgender prostitutes, listening to their voices, their temptations and pitches to get me to come over. I’d take them to bed like tangible memes I could touch and fondle in my sleep. When I did have money, I used them to further my pursuits, although I’d always try for something more, deeper, and without cost. I was a child of the eighties and teen movies were thirty-something women would bed teenagers “years beyond their age.”
One of these pubescent mindbenders was Private Lesson, a tale of a rich white man’s son and his affair with an older French maid, played by Sylvia Kristel. I never knew who name until I began writing this paragraph, yet her face and everything she symbolized to a young boy has been burned into my memory. I remember late nights, watching her as Emmanuelle, having her inhibitions torn away by force or romance, as she jet-setted around the world.
Those were the eighties, before the chemically induced fallout of the nineties, where sex and sexuality were softer and mature. There was real sex, fake sex, and even a thirteen year-old knew the difference. Playboy and “The Lifestyle” were still alive and we thought it would last forever. Breast were still real, before the same powers that lied to us about cd’s improving sound over lp’s made us gaga over Pam Anderson. Back when romance and sex were joined at the hip, but church and state made leering looks at one another across a Democratic minefield. In those days, a tall, skinny, phantom figured French woman was every boy’s dream.
“If you build it, he will come.” – Field of Dreams
I used to think that was the dumbest saying, and it was fueled by the success of the film putting it on everyone’s lips. Including advertising execs whose paychecks were made on the 101+ spoofs and discredits of something more profound. I didn’t pick up on what this saying, or statement, meant until Merlin explained to me how Buddhism, his Buddhism, works. To me, in combination with chanting, a person is placing their will upon the universe. Life is a single branch. Fate is the wind that blows it in either direction. The direction is random chance. Buddhism, chanting, is manipulating the wind to blow a certain way, so the branch leans in your desired direction. Manipulating that wind is taking action towards your desired outcome, not just sitting on your ass, or knees, waiting for it. Now, I wonder if the writer who wrote Field of Dreams was a Buddhist, because that line is perfect for it. Ray Kinsella, played by Kevin Costner, had to take action to get desired effect. He couldn’t just sit and wait for something. He had to go out there, do something, and risk everything, to get what he wanted.
See, it wasn’t enough to watch Private Lessons, not for me. I had to have it. I wanted it more than anything. My first pangs of lust didn’t start with the cute, freckled, red head – although she would appear, and forever brand me with that predisposition – which was my age and innocent. It started with Sylvia Kristel, Caren Kaye, and Jamie Lee Curtis.
I lost my virginity when I was seventeen, and it wasn’t to someone my age. She was three years older than me and lived in the same house with my father and I. And I’ve always been ashamed of what transpired between us, it lasted longer than it should have, years in fact. But, there’s no denying the truth of virginity, which binds the loser to their taker.
And, it was around this time, after having sex with men and failing to con transgender prostitutes into bed, that she reappeared to drive me even further into the ground.
JPG.
posted by QABBAL at 2:21 AM
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