Paranoia

Say for the sake of argument I exist under constant scrutiny -- not hard to believe considering that the poor would be watched the closest as they tend to be the source of any unrest. As such, I worry for myself, as I seem to possess very dangerous qualities:  intelligence, a reverence for life, for freedom and for truth, skepticism, religious conviction, artistic leanings, no criminal record, am not materialistic or avaricious, and am kind and honest.  What saves me are my aversion to conflict and complacency -- I am near impossible to anger, meaning I am not some potential rebel or frustrated young revolutionary.  Then again, perhaps my even temper and emotional maturity are most threatening of all, for they leave few options for those looking to manipulate my behavior.  The best bet short of simply killing me (a stupid idea to kill someone so much as minutely accomplished in the arts and letters) is to manipulate my perception of reality.

My most dangerous attribute is that I can never help but ask the obvious.  The biggest risk I take is maintaining an antagonistic relationship to power.  My best defense and greatest vulnerability is my poverty.

Medical Ethics

I once had an argument with an ancient ex about the Hippocratic Oath, which includes, "Do no harm to anyone." He believed the Physician's Oath of 1948 supercedes it and is superior, which leaves behind the humble, simple ancient Greek wisdom to allow wide latitude to the physician in question's personal feelings, morals, ideology, and political beliefs. It allows him to, for example, prescribe something harmful like pain if he thinks it's healthy. Such a perfect shelter for the closet sadist, IMHO. It's like medicine becomes his little psychosexual playpen, hidden among nice-sounding platitudes that assuage the consciences of any possible onlookers. What do you think? I stick to my guns, and prefer the more restrictive Hippocrates.  After all, I found it very telling that the physician, upon observing his patient, just might not trust self-inflicted pain.  But of course, it wouldn't be about him or her...

It's ironic, really:  the 1948 Physician's Oath was written with Nazi atrocities in mind, yet nothing in its wording precludes their being repeated.  What was his point, I wonder?

I May Have Made A Mistake

I thought I'd be healthier and more balanced, a little more proper by standards I delusionally believe exist, if I stuck to a single sexual partner, which is what I'd been doing for the last several months.  Perhaps that's not right for me, though.

Last night, I returned to my roots:  I got back in touch with my inner slut.  I had a raunchy hook-up with somebodies new, and it was like old times again.  It felt kind of right for me.  And I think I know why.

Yes, the sex is awesome.  I'm pretty vanilla in the sack -- no bells or whistles -- but I'm mind-blowingly filthy, especially with frank, baggage-free, equally adventurous partners.  But what's truly grand is after:  when you strike up the conversation that introduces you to a real person, one with passions and stories and quirks of his own.  Yesterday, I met a man who will remain unnamed.  But in our conversation, a detailed portrait of a noteworthy human being emerged:  handsome, artistic, articulate, former smoker, one-time denizen of Boston, then New York.  Not as far as I could tell an animal person, perhaps not a foodie, and unsure as of this printing how much of a music lover, but deeply resonant with other people and a celebrant of the visual arts.  Generous.  Gracious.  Observant.  Who else knows this person exists?

When I was an indigent bed-hopper (as well as a entry-level job-holding, roommate having bed-hopper), I found that so many times my sexual partners found me the kind of person to whom they could open up without reservation.  Physical sex is a snap, doable with many a warm body, but momentary friendship of this sort takes a lot of courage with anyone else.  Apparently I make it very easy and non-threatening.  Once the guy has ascertained I'm not a typical objectify-your-ass and project my id-born fantasies onto the blank canvas you represent-type gay man, he would open up like a secret flower, revealing all sorts of idiosyncracies and traits.  And a history.  People love to talk to me, especially after we've fucked.  I think it's because I come across as genuinely interested, a true listener.  These men have so much power and confidence in themselves when they're around me, and I in turn am heartened and enriched for their autonomy and individuality.  I don't demand concessions; I demand that they get their own way.  I get the sense that this is rare, and my partners find it refreshing and liberating.

So many men throughout the years...  And some of the tales are harrowing indeed.  There's the adorkable flag dancer, the collector of outre toys, the British immigrant with an underwear fixation, the gardner, for sure.  But there have also been a couple of possible killers.  I've blown cops, I've coupled with convicted bank robbers.  Such a wealth of humanity represented in my sexual history (yes, which would make C. Everett Koop blanch and scramble for his batphone to the CDC.)

No matter.  I'm now reclaiming my sluthood, because in being a slut I half-unwittingly became the repository for some very precious characters and their stories, which no one else has heard, and should they go to Hell, I promise to keep my sins slight enough that I might still bear their intimate treasures up to Heaven to share with all the more boring people.  Just to make the latter jealous, and to make them regret that they shunned so many interesting and wonderful fellow humans in life.

Thank You, Everybody

For all the love.  Maybe I bitch too much, or toot my own horn, or do something indecent once in a while.  Maybe I'm too venemous, or a little stupid.  But for whatever reason, you saw fit to keep me around a little longer.  Thanks!

What I Heard

At first blush sounded sadistic yet squeamish.  Textbook evil:  sexual hang-ups, purity fixation, avarice, hunger for power, vanity, smugness, conceit, hypocrisy.  I wasn't allowed to notice the kiss-up/kick-down mentality, but I'm sure it went on.  Total domination:  totally gay, dude.  Anyway, I'm beginning to realize what I really heard:  frustration, need, pain.  What do I say?  This world has been rough on me, but I reacted differently.  I have a different disposition.  Yes, my life has purpose, direction, and all the buttercream frosting I could ask for.  It has all that because I didn't ask for it or expect it.  What words really need to be said?  I mourn the suffering of others, but I can't go overboard tossing a flailing fellow a life preserver, can I?  What can I do other than sympathize and offer love?  I'm a good person if the kind of people who aren't afraid to make eye contact are to be believed, and deserve the best life has to offer.  I wish I could do better at taking it to heart.  How does it follow that I inspire jealousy and resentment?  And how can I alleviate the suffering of others?  Or should I wish to?

Rant over.

EDITED TO ADD:  No, actually, I did in fact catch the compliments and well-wishing that occasionally came through, and I treasure it.

Life of Oharu

I've become a fallen old woman, pining away in a Buddhist temple, clawing at salvation:  some cheap, used-up whore.  What's become of the finery, the music, the handsome and generous gentlemen who would fall at my feet?  All is vanity -- my pride is a withered brown leaf skittering along the base of a stone lantern.  If only I'd replaced my beauty with wisdom as I lost the former!  Then again, wise and stupid alike, we are dust in the end.  What would it matter?

Woe is me.  A childhood truncated, parents shamed, no friends, no money, no respect or power.  I am fit for white cloth and a lonely end in a wooden cage.

The minutes tick on.  Oh why won't they finish?

I Got Something To Say...

Ha ha.  Jerri Blank aside, I kind of do.  Several years ago, there were some things going on that I thought were kind of fucked up.  People were attacking their fellow humans in the most disgusting way.  The least powerful had foisted upon them the blame for society's ills.  I listened to some prep school brat on the bus boast about assaulting a woman who's sin as he saw it was a weakness as I did.  I saw the irate, ingrown toenail-looking man so umbraged at that bitch who would hit the pipe rather than face him sober, but who himself could not even look in the mirror.  I saw extralegal sweeps of an impoverished neighborhood that mirrored the Times Square sweeps that left so many denizens stranded in the boroughs.  And when it was my turn to say something, when a woman I met advocated "trimming the fat," I replied, in so many words, fuck that.  A wind was blowing in 2009, and it flouted everything I've known to be human since we painted caves and hunted mammoths, and I, in my own small way, in a moment in time, took my own stand.

I've heard tell:  it's a war out there, we've seen wives beaten and babies neglected, murder, thievery, jankiness.  I've heard the tripe about self-indulgence, about the bitch who just doesn't get it, and being less than dignified answered it with a sarcastic, "Ay, papi.  I thought it was just candy.  I didn't know any better."

When I was homeless and close to death, and didn't have a person I could turn to, they were the ones who helped me out.  That's right:  drug-addled losers, addicts, hookers, homeless people, et alia, saved my life.  No matter how twisted and fucked up some of them were, they showed more compassion and understanding than nurses and doctors and cops who gave me shit for not being who they wanted to be -- though they themselves constantly fail.

To this day, I've got a lot wrong with me.  Then again, I didn't start out perfect, either.  I've got a smart mouth and grew up a little too fast.  I've got chronic health problems and have yet to beat my own issues with addiction.  But I've been shown a lot of love and support, and though that may not see me through, I've gotten it every step of the way, and am deeply grateful.  Every day it is ever present in my mind that my next moment may be my last.  For right now, I'm six feet above, not behind bars, and loved.  I never want that to end.

I guess I just wanted to put this out there, because I don't have a therapist, and I am only now for the first time telling anyone, in my own words, how some of that shit affected me.  Everybody else pisses and moans, whereas I've always tried to be like Smilla Jasperson, who likened complaining to a virus.  But I've got to be honest:  in many ways, I'm a broken man in the wake of all the drama.  But I'm still a man, and no man alive wants to take me on eye to eye.  I've got too much love, too much behind me, and too much to live for.  I cry all the time for how hard I know it is for so many out there, especially for people who never ever got a fair shot.  I cry too, for any self-described enemies, for their failure and hollowness and sheer self-loathing.  Maybe one day I'll cry for myself -- I have in the past.  I just thought I'd mention this stuff.  I know I'm nobody, started that way and will end that way, but once I got to do a thing that I knew was right, a little thing, but it made a big difference for a lot of people.

I want everyone to know I think I've got the gist of a lot of what you said over the years.  Thank you and you're welcome.