Sunday, October 09, 2005


Mass of Self-Destruction

I'm so tired of being ruled over by my lust and desire. I hate homing in on every passable male, sizing them up and engaging in pursuit, like some sort of deranged sexual predator. (Even my own mother made the comment in Las Vegas that I'm "always on the prowl.") I'm so tired of being the pathetic cliché of the desperate, doughy middle-aged fag. The kind of caricature I always dreaded as a young man. Beyond my expectations for the expression of my sexuality, in my adolescence, I resolved to live an uncommon life. I've always had rather grandiose plans, but I'm not strictly speaking of fame or wealth or any such external trappings. I simply didn't want to sleepwalk through my life and place one preplanned foot in front of the other. I wanted to break out of the groove of expectation and forge my own path forward. Yet here I am, falling into the same tedious and boring patterns of reaction, rather than proaction, that I had always disdained.

Fantasy has always been an integral part of my life. It's why, I think, I ended up wanting to be a writer. I wasn't satisfied with empty vignettes in my mind. I made myself come up with elaborate scenarios and clever plot devices in which to express my taboo homosexual desires.

This morning in church, the music director captivated me during the Gospel Acclamation. (Yes, I can't even escape my lust and desire in church, which is why I go to the family-oriented Christ the King in Hollywood, rather than the "family"-oriented St. Victor's in West Hollywood.) He was handsome in a slightly nerdy kind of way, and I he had an incredibly sexy voice. I could see the passion for his music in him, and his friendly, open demeanor, without any accompanying attitude, despite his rather good looks. And I knew that he was perfect.

"The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want...I shall not want..."

Then my attention was fixed on the handsome, young guy sitting two rows in front of me. I was entranced by his broad, muscular back tapering to a narrow waist and pert ass. (In "Wrangler" brand slacks, no less. Things have certainly changed from my time if young hipsters are on the cutting edge of fashion in "Wrangler's.") He was adorable, yet he was also devout. He participated in the liturgy with no annoying self-conscious attention to whether or not he looked "cool." And I knew that he was perfect.

"The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want...I shall not want..."

Then I saw them both in my line of sight. Two "perfect" men right within my grasp, and yet infinitely out of my reach. Two men and two conflicting fantasies. And I wondered which of them could be "the one." But, you see, THAT is the real fantasy. I have, and have always had, this belief—a perverse form of faith—that one day the perfect man will come and usher in my perfect life, the way my life is supposed to be. I will never feel sad again. I will never feel alone again. All of the psychological pain and difficulties I have struggled with my entire life would just magically wash away. And that delusion is a poison, corrupting my ability to appreciate and enjoy the good things, the real things, I had in my past, or that I have now, or that I might be able to create for myself in the future.

"The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want...I shall not want..."

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