James Dean

I don't really know when it happened: when I first laid eyes on you, or when you smiled at me, or maybe when I first saw the way you moved as you gathered the ingredients for my java-chip mocha Frappucino -- but none of that matters when you've fallen in love with somebody, does it? It doesn't matter how or when, it just matters that you are.

I think what really got me is your voice -- whisper-soft, cool and confident. It reminded me of one of those old movie-screen idols, the ones from the fan magazines. Like James Dean. Tall and thin, and elegant. Mysterious. And beautiful.

You really are beautiful, you know. The way you move, the way you smile. The way you drag on cigarettes when you're sitting out at one of those little tables in front of Starbucks. Sometimes I watch you when you don't know that I'm looking, and you grin to yourself and I wonder what you're thinking about. I want so badly to know what makes you smile that way, so that maybe I could.

I memorized what your car looks like. It's the brown, tattered one with all the bumper stickers. I picture you driving it sometimes, blowing smoke rings at passing cars. Cool, and carefree, maybe playing an Eagles song. That's how I imagine you, anyway.

To tell the truth, my heart jumps every time you come through my line at the grocery store to buy cigarettes. It jumps every time you speak in my direction, your lips forming words that sometimes I can't even process. God, you move just like a swan -- graceful, like liquid. How does a person get to move like that? I never have. I'm too short, and my shoulders are too broad. You just glide, almost like you're floating.

I think about you all the time. Even when I'm making out with my girlfriend, fondling her breasts, so soft and small. I hate the way she smells -- like must and powder. When I'm kissing her, I just imagine I'm kissing you. That makes it easier to take usually.

It makes me sad when I don't see your car as I'm driving in to work. It makes me sad to know you're off somewhere, free, and I'm stuck pulling carts in from the parking lot and bagging the groceries of old women and other people that aren't you. My only consolation is knowing that you'll be back at work again another day, and that I can wander off to Starbucks on my lunch break and you'll be behind the counter. I go over and over in my head what I'll say to you when I see you next, but of course it all comes out wrong when the time comes.

Every now and then, I profess my love to you when I'm all by myself -- in the car, or falling asleep in bed late at night. I think about making love to you, and how it would feel to have you next to me. Your warm, brown skin against mine, tracing the curve of your shoulders. Whispering things to you in the dark.

You're my James Dean. You'll be my James Dean forever. Just out of reach, ephemeral, a vision of impossible perfection. A mirage shining on a hot summer blacktop, gone just as quickly as it takes for a cloud to pass over the sun.

Status Update

I'm not sure why you stopped calling. It must have been something I said. Was it that joke I made about Haiti? I guess it was a little too soon.

Still, I feel like we made a really great connection when we were together. I liked to think we were dating, even though we only went out twice. That's what I told other people anyway -- that we were dating.

I'm trying to pinpoint the exact moment you stopped being interested. I go over and over it in my mind, like a carousel. I remember you actually laughed at the Haiti joke (it wasn't really that offensive), so maybe it wasn't that. Was it because I was having a bad hair day the last time you saw me? I'm sorry if that bothered you -- my hair doesn't react that well to dry weather. I should probably invest in some leave-in conditioner.

Maybe I'm too feminine for you? I know my voice is high, and that I say the word "like" a lot. Some would say that's not a feminine characteristic I guess, but I would beg to differ on that. Sometimes when I hear my voice played back to me, it almost makes me want to cry.

It could've been, too -- looking back -- the fact that my stomach was grumbling after dinner when we were watching TV. I know the associations to be made with a growling stomach aren't all that pleasant or sexy to think about (it's just one small step to an extremely embarrassing situation, really). Sometimes I tend to eat too much when I'm nervous. I'll admit I need to work on that.

But you did act as if you liked me, and I really did feel a connection. I still remember the way you stroked the back of my neck as I was driving you home on our last date. I felt like that meant something.

If you give me another chance, I really feel like things will be different next time. People have often said it takes awhile to really get to know me. Sometimes I like to pretend it's because I'm really deep, but I don't think that's really the reason.

Still, I can't help but notice that you've been commenting on my Facebook status updates lately. Are you trying to send me a signal, or are you just feeling guilty? The last one in particular really made me feel like maybe you were still interested. Am I just misreading things again?

I want you to know that I think your status updates are really funny. I liked the one where you made a joke about Sarah Palin and Hillary Clinton engaging in a cage match. I laughed out loud when I read it -- I just want you to know that. I hope you saw the comment I left -- it took me awhile to come up with it, to be honest. A couple of hours I think.

Maybe this is the way it was supposed to happen for us. My friend told me once not to worry, that relationships aren't linear and sometimes people circle back around. I'm not sure if she actually meant it, but that actually gave me a lot of hope. I hope and believe what she said applies to us.

I am getting a little nervous now, though. You haven't left any comments on any of my status updates in the last couple of weeks. On the one hand, I'd like to think that's just because you haven't been on Facebook lately, except I know that isn't true because I saw those pictures you posted of your birthday party. It looked like it was a lot of fun! You have so many friends. I guess you just forgot to include me on the Evite.

But still I wonder and I wait. I think that in the end it will all work out between us; I really do. One day I picture us laughing together, telling each other silly stories about how we tried to get the other person's attention but were afraid to do anything too drastic. I picture us doing this at a dinner party, with a bunch of our mutual friends, over wine and maybe some appetizers. To be honest (I hope this doesn't weird you out), I've even pictured us on a beach somewhere in tuxedoes, smiling as we pin red-rose boutonnieres on each others' lapels. I think that image was planted in my head after I saw a Chemistry.com sidebar ad on my Facebook home page with two guys doing the same thing. One of them looked a lot like you.

I think I'm finally starting to get you, though. I hope this isn't weird, but I've been spending a lot of time on your Facebook profile. I like hearing about you, and looking at your photos from summer camp when you were a kid. Did your friends really call you "Smelly Pants"? That's really funny. It also doesn't make me feel quite so insecure about that whole stomach thing from the other night.

Of everything I've learned about you, though, most of all I've learned that you really like to laugh. So funny that your favorite movie is "Anchorman" -- it's definitely in my Top Ten! Maybe we can watch it together one day, and quote the lines before the actors actually say them. We could make popcorn too, and cuddle until one of us falls asleep.

Anyway, through it all I'm really glad we've been able to remain Facebook friends, even if we do never see each other in person anymore. I'm sure that will change soon. Did I ever tell you how much I love your smile? It really is magnificent.

For the Record

My "Cum Dump" entry is not about me, it's based on a person I used to know, who posted a real Craig's List ad selling himself as a "cum dump" after his boyfriend moved away. In a broader sense, it's about the gay psyche, and the tendency for some gay men to dull their pain and sense of worthlessness through sex. This guy I knew defined himself through his relationship, and when it ended I think he went a little crazy. I think we can all (at least gay men) relate to this feeling, though not necessarily in the extreme sense depicted below. I don't know what happened to the guy in question, but I hope he got better and I wish him the best.

As for myself, I'm actually pretty happy. Just for the record.

Cum Dump

I just got my heart broken and I'm so depressed. I don't have anyone now, really, not anyone that cares. This guy, you see, he told me he loved me. He told me his world wouldn't be complete without me. And now he's gone, and I'm nothing.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I mean, he's an actor. Actors are cruel by nature, that's what my mother always used to tell me. Fly by night, fairweather lovers. I should've listened to her. If I had, I wouldn't be in the state I'm in. I'm so alone.

He went to New York City, that bustle of humanity. He told me he was gonna be a star. The worst part of it is, I believed him when he said it. Someday, I'm gonna see his name in lights, surrounded by more lights, on a marquee someplace. And I'll still be a nobody.

I have dreams of my own, you know. Dreams that I once held in high regard. I used to wake up singing. I was my own fuel. Now they're just lingering, but they're ghosts mostly. They haunt me, like the memory of The One That Got Away. That's what I'm calling him now. My dreams are dead. I don't wake up early anymore.

Now I'm unemployed. I sit in coffee shops, drinking drinks I can't afford. I go to movies sometimes too, all by myself. Romantic comedies mostly, because they make me feel better. At least until the lovers get together in the end; that makes me sad because I know I don't have that. Sometimes, in the dark, after the final frame, I sit still all the way through the credits. The ushers kicked me out once. They told me they needed to clean it for the next show. I went home and cried over a plate of cold pasta.

Now the only thing I can do to dull my pain is watch old reruns of "I Love Lucy". I really like that episode where they're trying to eat all the chocolate off the conveyor belt because they can't keep up. That's kind of how I felt with him, my actor ex-boyfriend. I couldn't keep up with him, because he knew I didn't have the light. He wasn't drawn to me anymore. I guess I've always been boring.

He's probably on Broadway now or guest-starring on episodes of sitcoms, or maybe he's in a cat food commercial. I don't turn on the TV anymore. I used to Google him and follow his every move on his MySpace page, but it just hurt too much. I would see him posing in pictures, with lots of other people, and they would all look so beautiful, like they were having so much fun. I pictured them having lots of inside-jokes and ribbing each other in good humor over drinks. Champagne flutes maybe. I don't go on his MySpace page anymore. I deleted my account. I don't think he noticed.

But these dreams, these dreams. I still hold onto them, but they're so light sometimes I can almost feel them floating away, up into the clouds. Maybe dreams weren't meant for people like me.

I'm just so lonely, you know? I wonder sometimes if anyone else ever feels lonely. Sometimes I think I'm the only one in the world. My next-door neighbor said hi to me yesterday. I said hi back, but I'm too shy to start a conversation. I listen to him watching TV, and talking on the phone through the wall sometimes. He comes and goes often, not like me. I just sit here and stare mostly, and wonder what it all means. Sometimes I sit in the dark and nothing goes through my head but air and street sounds.

I just need a release. That's why I'm leaving this Craig's List ad. I'm sorry to give you all that back-story. I guess I just wanted to let it all go one last time before moving on and becoming what I was meant to be. I'm comfortable with the notion that this is all there is. If there is a God, I think this is what he intended for me.

I want to be your cum dump. I want it in my mouth, in my nose, in my ears. I want it all over my body, in every orifice. I want it dripping down my back like hot wax. I want it on my legs, and my feet. I want to roll around in it. I want it to consume me. I want you to stand over me and let it all out. You don't have to love me. You don't even have to touch me. I just want to be your cum dump.

Writer's Block

Songs That Keep Me Sad

A lot of people listen to happy music when they're feeling sad, but I've always been a wallower. Here are my favorite songs to wallow to.

Sigur Ros, "Njosnovelin (Untitled #4)"



Explosions in the Sky, "Your Hand in Mine"



Band of Horses, "The Funeral"



Beck, "Lost Cause"



Bon Iver, "Flume"



The Innocence Mission, "Brotherhood of Man"



Patsy Cline, "She's Got You"



The Raveonettes, "Dead Sound"



The Shins, "New Slang"



Smashing Pumpkins, "Farewell and Goodnight"



Yeah Yeah Yeahs, "Maps"



Radiohead, "Let Down"

Kerosene

You picked me up on the side of the road
In the rain
Half-moon eyes and kerosene stare
As I opened the door and got in
We moved, but it wasn't very far

Words tumble out, and float away
Caught up in my own device
I didn't know how lightly you tread
I didn't know.

I keep the spring loaded still.
I was sleeping before, when you snuck by
And took my limbs.

Bitterest of lessons
Kerosene can light a path or burn it away.

You left me stranded this time