The Mundane World

I could say my shrink made me write this, but what the fook. He's encouraged me to simply write down and spew, get shit off my chest so that it doesn't gather, and in the gathering, gain power. So I'll do my damnedest to simply write this entry. Pretend I'm Jack Kerouac -- had the worst high school crush on him in, well, high school. C'mon, we know what went on between him and Cassaday.

Over the summer, I was involved with a guy. At first, he said he didn't want a long-term relationship (having just gotten out of a three-way LTR, and having an ex-wife made it clear to him, he said, that he didn't want such a thing). Three weeks later, he said he loved me and wanted me to collar him. He had a nickname I gave him inked across his shoulders, on his back. He was the only man I played with during that time; truly the only man I was interested in. He said he wanted a monogamous relationship, that he wanted to be the only man who got my load (in so many words).

We played rough. I whipped him, I pierced him, I shoved my hand deep in his pussy and made him shoot hard. I stuck sounds in his cock, I electrocuted parts of him, I made him bleed and got his blood on my chest and belly, and goddamn did I fook him. I fooked him with my cock and balls full up in him. I fooked him good and goddamn I fooken liked it.

I started noticing certain changes in myself. I'd find myself thinking of him and I'd cuss. I'd hear a song and think of him. I'd see a pair of shorts he gave me and think of him, and goddamn I'd cuss. I'd cuss him, but mostly I cussed me. Because I could feel an attraction to him increasing. I could feel my own feelings for him develop; I am not always comfortable with this.

With me, cussing is always a sign I'm letting my guard down. A buddy of mine once said, "The tenderest hearts have the toughest armor," and fook, there it was, coming down, opening up, piece by piece. And this man kept saying he wanted to be the only man in my life, the only one for me and I was right there with him. I wanted him to be the only one.

I set aside a time to tell him my feelings. I said when I wanted to see him, that I had to get something off my chest. He asked if it was anything bad; I said no, it's all good, that I just need to say some stuff and I want to do it to his face.

I am not always comfortable being a passionate man. I enlisted in the USMC cuz I needed a job; I ended up fighting beside my buddies because I fooken loved them, not for love of country or sense of patriotic duty. I would not stand to let them come to harm, either in the field or in the mundane world. Marines wear our hearts on our sleeves, for all the world to see, although the world usually does not like to see it.

The world prefers its icons to remain iconic.

Early Saturday morning, around 0400, a message came to me via yahoo messsenger. A URL, a newspaper story, in which I had been quoted. A reporter came to the tattoo place when the man was getting my nickname for him inked on his back; wanted to do a story about Marines and tattoos.

I fooken hate reporters. I fooken HATE reporters, probably cuz I've worked in journalism, but more likely because of another part of my history I will not discuss here. Suffice it to say, I know how reporters are: they will write what they will, they will cant the story how they will, no matter how much nuance and subtlety a source may give them. So I had no trouble giving him a fake name, and letting him believe a particular scar on my body was due to a roadside bomb. I told a story to a storyteller. What I happily gave him were insights into why Marines ink their bodies; how Marines are, contrary to the popular myth, very open about why they do what they do, open about their love of their brothers. How Marines are feeling men, passionate men. It may get sloppy -- I'm not denying that -- but it is undeniable.

Suddenly, to this man, this man who wanted to be the only man for me, who wanted to wear my collar, I was a liar. And this reflected poorly on him, for he had little kids, 10-year-olds, who looked up to him in martial arts classes. HE TRUSTED ME!!! he said. And I lied. He did not look at the situation; anything I said in my defense, even as I spoke my piece to him -- online, which I fooken hate doing because it seems cowardly -- did not matter. Nothing mattered to him except the vehemence of his own feelings. He said he no longer wanted to talk to me, ever.

Three days later, I got an email from him, in which he said he did not wish to burn bridges. While any opportunities for a deeper relationship were gone, he wished to be friends. I thanked him for his grace. He wrote back saying I shouldn't thank him, that it was a mutual friend of ours who convinced him to forgive me. And wasn't this mutual friend a "hot little fucker."

Two days after that, he told me he was flying cross-country to meet this other man face to face. One week after that, he wrote to tell me what a great time he had in the sack, what a wonderfully kinky little fucker this little fucker is.

As for me, my heart was broken each time he told me about this new guy. One week, he loved me, wanted to be the only man who got my cock, my load, my intimacy. The next, he was off and away. Had I even existed? He had previously complained of how his own ex put him in the position of being relationship counselor for the third who had entered their relationship; and here I was, being put in the same position. This new man was active-duty military. "My feelings tell me my husband has deployed and I may never see him again," not even three weeks after he had said he loved me, my hand buried up in him, up his ass, feeling his heartbeat with my fingers, my lips pressed against his, grease and mucous dripping on my tattooed arm, my own heart quickly falling after his.

And I'm supposed to be open. How do I get any more open? My feelings are there for all to see; whose fault is it when those who see them do not acknowledge them, do not recognize them?