The following piece is minimal, experimental, and autobiographical. And an homage to a Charles Bukowski poem. Thanks for reading.
*All characters are 18 or older.*
*****
I'm in love with the sweetest bad boy in town. He knows this, but if I ever say the words, he'll have to run away.
We met in a seedy bar, where he was the drummer for a band that played for beer and whatever tips patrons stuffed into the pitcher in front of the mic stand. I stood closer to the stage than I might have normally, being the type of person you see haunting the back of a room. But not because I was entranced by the bassist with a pretty face and perfect hair, or the singer/lead guitarist with his raspy raw sex appeal, or even the backup singer/guitarist with boyish curls and full-colored tattoo sleeves.
It was for that rare creature in the back, almost hidden behind his seven-piece drum kit. His hands were a blur of rhythm and syncopated chaos, long brown curls thrown in front of his face while he bobbed his head as if it were an extension of his instrument. I could tell that he was rather tall, lanky, every piece of clothing shredded and stained. I was smitten.
After their set, I bought him a drink. And then another. We sat in the courtyard, chain smoking and talking. He held his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing so hard that he deformed the filter. This was how we could tell our butts apart from then on- one was squished flat, the other a perfect cylinder.
The pads of his fingers were broad, permanently blackened from auto-grease. He said that when he wasn't beating on things to make noise, he was a mechanic. Though his felony convictions made it difficult to find steady work.
I noticed little things about him others might not have picked up on- his shy demeanor like that of a colt, the way his eyes widened when he laughed, how he'd drum on his thigh even when he wasn't nervous, and how he never once pulled out his cell phone.
Later, I would learn that if I had done so, to say check a text, he would have considered it a personal affront. Just as if I'd ordered an imported beer.
But I liked this about him. The contrast of his ease and rigidity. Like a Buddhist monk who wants to start a Revolution. And I liked the way we were obviously both attracted to one another, but neither of us had to comment on it, toss in meaningless compliments, ask questions people only ask because they're afraid of silence.
We talked until the bar closed, and then he had to break down equipment and help the band load and unload the van. Before I left, he came up to me with a Sharpie and held out his arm.
"Write down your number."
"Why? So you can never call me?"
"So I can give you drumming lessons."
"Is that what they're calling it these days?"
But he did call me. And true to his word, when I visited him in his basement apartment, he gave me a drumming lesson of sorts. I sat in his lap and held the sticks. He operated the bass and high-hat with his feet, and me with his hands, demonstrating the techniques of Neil Peart, Dave Krusen, John Bohnam, Lars Ulrich.
Then we smoked some more weed and undressed each other into bed. He didn't think he was beautiful, but I did because he was. Not just his cock, or his well-defined arms and chest. His face was a grieving angel's; torso modeled after the statue of David; a back that rippled like a bird flapping invisible wings; every line a thoughtful, economic stroke of grace.
And though we hadn't professed any feelings, or defined what our relationship was or was to be, we made love. Pure love- all the sacred kissing and slow caresses and the profane slamming and swearing and that sublime state in the middle where you're two humans enjoying one of the most quantifiable pieces of evidence that there is something divine in this universe. We looked into each other's eyes and smiled. Yes, that feels so good, you inside of me, right here, right there, don't stop, stop!
I craved the flavor of his hard flesh, his abundant cum. And he ate of my body, all of me that is pink and glistening. We were lovers and humans and animals and souls together in his sheets.
Outside of his sheets we are something like friends. Friends with benefits it is too crass and barely accurate. He's more like a brother who's not related. He picks on me like my brother does. The car I drive, the music I play, the television shows I watch, my timidity when we are trying something daring with no audience but each other.
We don't only hang out to make love or fuck, depending on our mood, but I'd never call it dating. We'd meet up for dinner at the Waffle House, sneak into a movie, skateboard under the moonlight, make sushi in my kitchen, swim in the river near my house, go to the fair and get on every ride. It was fun, but we weren't holding hands and giving each other googly eyes. We were two kids left alone for the weekend, breaking all the rules.
He'd often accuse me of being too self-conscious, caring about what the world thought. Usually these accusations came after he'd behaved like a rebellious teenager, despite being several years older than me. He'd curse loudly in public, pick fights with strangers, get us thrown out of places, speed down the highway while smoking a bowl, walk into a church to bum a light from the vigil candles. He practically lived in a black tee shirt, black shorts, black boots and a black motorcycle jacket, like it was the only suitable dress for a nihilist.
But for all his rough edges, his heart was so bare that it hurt me. I wanted to make him a new rib-cage for it to live in. We'd both had a rough life, and would share stories in the dark. Not comparing, not commiserating, not confessing or even complaining. We were showing each other the parts of our bodies that can't be seen. The secrets our skin has swallowed. The blood that never spilled, though many tears had. And the tears that never spilled even when the blood had.
But not anymore. Not when we were together.
We never said to each other "I'm sorry" or "you didn't deserve that". We didn't need to. And for our sins there were no hail Mary's to be said, or Our Father's. There was no Mother of Mercy. Our fathers had forsaken us. We were like Judas of Iscariot. We'd washed our hands so we wouldn't dirty our silver. But we kept one another from making a noose- and that was where Jesus had failed his closest disciple.
We haven't spoken for a while, but I call him for the same favor he's done for me for four years running.
