Semen and Tears

When we met, I had no money. She approached me in the high school cafeteria where I sat in the windowsill by myself, minding my business, thinking greater thoughts than what conversations were being had over tater tots. She had long, beautiful hair and warm and curious eyes. Beautiful eyes, she had. I wanted to keep them forever, fixed on me so that I could see her perfect eyes with lids that cover the just the top of her iris.

I told her I sat there because I didn't really want to be around anyone. I didn't. Life wasn't easy for me, and I was young to deal with it. She had heard that I was a kid that had run away from home, like actually run away from home and not come back. She ended up being valedictorian, I ended up dropping out, but we had some sort of magical bond that was bigger than can be described. I do feel, though, looking back on it that I poisoned that bond and my antics did break it.

Well, obviously I was back, held back a grade, and had spent my young journey through roadtrips to Louisiana and Athens, GA, college dorms and University libraries. I stole clean socks and underwear, sometimes shirts and that from the laundry rooms in the apartment buildings. I learned along the way that sometimes girls do want you to kiss them and touch them, that alcohol was a nihilist pote, and that one can survive with next to nothing so long as one has faith in g-d and oneself.

We were young lovers. We watched Caligula together late at night in her lovely home and made out on her sofa. I would reach down her pants and feel her soft wetness. She wasn't embarrassed. For a long time, she wouldn't fuck me. She sucked me off and I drank her in. We fell asleep naked and satisfied on her sofa and her mother came out in the middle of the night, woke her up and protected us from her father. What a sight it must have been for her mother. Two naked perfect bodies entwined, sharing breath, clothing scattered between the television and the sofa. I wasn't sure whether to be scared or amused.

School ended for her, and she went to Providence to go to Brown. I flung myself at NYC, stayed with a friend at his family's for a couple of weeks and then my welcome was expired. I slept on subways, on rooftops, in boiler rooms because it was cold. My resolve was tested and so was my faith. Soon, though, it was provided that I had the job and money to rent a room. I had become a part of the living, vibrating machine that is New York. From my little room in Harlem on 135th street, I worked connections and countless faxes for a job. I didn't know how to lie right yet when it came to being a candidate for a job. I was stealing internet access from an account I found logged in at CUNY, up above St. Nicholas park. I did have a phone, and that was my only bill. I lived on 200.00 a week.

While she first went to Brown I was in her heart. I made a point to visit and remind her that our bodies and breaths fit so well together. Mary's mom gave me valium because I was nervous to be a fish in such a foreign pond, but I took most of that on the train. I made a mess of that visit. After fighting my way into a job in Norwalk, CT, an old conspirator called me at work to tell me that we would start a company. "That's great. How do we go about it?" He had a client lined up and all we needed were all the legalities of a business entity. Erik's mother was very helpful, and wielded the reputation of one of the most prestigious lawfirms. Our contracts would bore even Victor Hugo.

Suddenly, I began to make a lot of money. I had thousands of dollars. It just kept coming. I worked, I billed, they paid, and an accountant handled the IRS. Oh, now I just had to fuck her properly. The arrangements were made and I came up. We went to one of the finer restaurants and I ordered ostrich carpaccio. Her cheeks were flushed with the bit of wine she had. I ordered a 30 dollar snifter of JW Blue. This seemed to amuse her. She had always known me as poor. She saw something in me that she liked, but I did not have the money or status her family would expect. We went back to her house.

I remember vividly her laying on her bed, her skin a toned white with lovely red flushing and perfect breasts. She just laid there while I stared at her, hard, my breath still smelling of whiskey. I slid up her body and into her. She made a womans perfect cry of pleasure. She was really hot for me. "Come inside me. I want you to come inside me." For a girl who usually used to have me pull out and come on her chest, this was the most sexually laden plea I have ever heard. She said the words like she was in pain, like she needed me to relieve her.

Her breasts were pink, her cheeks were flushed, and I felt her come. Still, I could not release myself. Believe me, if there would be anything I could do to fill her with my semen I would, but, as she had described me, I was a stately lover. Even if I fucked her like I was going to break her, I would be distracted by the phoniness of it. Oh she was real about it all, it was just me that couldn't. The more I became aware of it the more impossible it became. All that ostrich and Johnny Walker Blue got me nothing more than a woman to finally give me what I wanted, only so that I couldn't take it.

I did love that girl, and had for a long spell. For a time after, she was the forefront of my sexual appetite. I thought of cab rides where I put my hand up her dress to find the softest, soaking flesh and she flashed me a grin, "I told you to watch out." We had our good times but she wanted other ones. She told me she was a virgin. I never believed her, but why would she lie?

She did show me love, and I could see the pain in her eyes, hear it in her voice as she had to part ways with me as I grew sicker in this world. Some of it was rough, the words and the actions, but I think I always knew that she did care. When she sucked me off, she swallowed my semen and in so made a communion with me. I sat on a bench with her at Rehoboth beach, following her by hitchhiking, not sleeping, and all to spend some time with her. There were fireflies and butterflies and a magic of youth that I refuse to wash away as foolishness. As I sat near her, afraid to kiss her, afraid to touch her hand, I showed my heart to her and the lengths I would go to to be with her.

At some point, she decided, and with fair reason, that she would fuck some other young man using a lie to get rid of me from the house she was taking care of. I'm not sure that the young man had much of her heart, but it was an act of finality. I got the point. She either had some oats to sew or just wanted me to go. I was sick. It made sense. Poppies had robbed me of my soul, my love, and all the blessings my faith had bestowed upon me. She deserved better, and the Universe gave generously to her.

The Universe handled me in another way. I had to go through miles and miles, cross oceans and borders and back to arrive not 30 miles from the garden of my youth. When we were younger, when she was in Spain, she wrote me a few letters. She was lonely. I was overwhelmed with emotion and tears fell on my page. So in love, I had adopted feminine dramatics. I wished more than anything that I could be there with her. I prayed that somehow I would be, that her soul be comforted, and that she laugh and smile. Many years later I made it to Spain. She had long since returned to the United States.

I broke a child's aluminum and plastic reclining patio chair while standing on it thinking it would hold my weight. Her friends ferociously incriminated me and it was a grave transgression. If I could find a place to buy another I would, but the way they treated me, and that she defended nothing but the chair left me to realize that it was me in this world with its absurdity. The morning after she lied to clear me out so she could sleep with some boy she called demanding to have it be replaced. I had a girl in my bed and told her on the phone to go fuck herself, I had company.

When I was in Barcelona I went to a bullfight. It was a sick affair, a brutal celebration of death, and a comedy of the pain of a beast. Sometimes I feel like that lesser beast and the celebration of pain and humiliation by spectators is no less sick of an affair. Flambouyance and viciousness. It makes my mind see women and men laughing at awkwardness and social falls. What might they say if they were able to feel welcome?

What might I say to her if I were able to feel welcome. I brought her miso soup when she was sick and shot two bags of dope in her bathroom. She pounded on the door demanding to know why it was locked. "Privacy," I answered. We sat on a familiar sofa and looked out at the city. Time had changed, and so had we. The last I remember seeing her was that day. Her father and family have political interests and I'm a volatile character. Still, to this day, I love those times with her.