A door to a memory corridor has opened. Allowing in just a little light, it is enough to navigate the first few feet of space, the first few memories. Dusty and musty, with cobwebs to tickle the ears, the place is dim, but if I concentrate enough and focus, I can find my way along the darkened hall, reaching portals to more distinct memory planes. Excavating such passages is sometimes dangerous work ~ there is something to be said for leaving things in the past. How does the saying go? When you dig up the past, all you get is dirty…
Twisted all my limbs for you
Two of them in knots and two of them in loops
Ribbons tied around like a noose
Wonder if I’ll ever get it loose
I don’t wanna bruise for you
Holding back my words until my face is blue
I don’t really care about your crew
You can tell ’em what you wanted to
Sometimes one needs to get down in the dirt, to play with the past so as to make sense of present predicaments. This is the year for nostalgia too, as we celebrate milestone birthdays and anniversaries, including the 30th anniversary of when I found the Boston condo and convinced my parents to invest in it (which turned into the most lucrative investment of their lives). Fall brings Boston back to mind, and with it countless memories of decades ago, when living there alone made a warrior out of me.
Bones are crushing, bones are crushing (pushin’ me)
Bodies touching, bodies touching (lovin’ me)
Blood is pumping, blood is pumping (pullin’ me)
Feeling nothing, feeling nothing (fuckin’ me)
Bones are crushing, bones are crushing (crushin’ me)
Bodies touching, bodies touching (touchin’ me)
Being a single gay guy in Boston in the 90’s was very different from what it must be like today. There were no social media or online hookup apps, so connecting with other gay men on the prowl was a game of hunting and gathering, with the high-stakes pay-off of not having to spend a night on your own. Back then the only way we had to connect was to pick up on a knowing glance, a look held just a little longer than normal, a smile and the crinkle of a kind pair of eyes. A dance of desire would ensue, usually ending up in someone’s apartment, an awkward introduction and quick dismissal of roommates, and the frantic frenzy of a desperate act of sex in the search for love. I wish I’d known then that sometimes the chase and the sexual act were a means and an end all of their own.
I’m done, I’m done, done doin’ back bends, I break and I snap
It’s no fun, no fun, pushed myself into a box while you held
Out a gun, I’m done, ooh-ah, ha-ha, ha, ha, ha-ah
I’m done, I’m done, oh-ah, ha-ha, ha, ha, ha-ah
Twisting all my bones like screws
Stretching my self-worth, just like you usually do
Caught you like the cold or a flu
Praying that I’ll someday be immune
Got me like a bad tattoo (ooh-ooh-ooh)
Always under skin, even when it gets removed (ooh)
Never get a chance to undo (ooh-ooh-ooh)
Positions that you forced my way into (ooh)
On rare occasions I did understand this, and on those evenings I could let down my persistent guard, give in to the sheer abandon of the night, and indulge in a primal release that would rival the tentative steps to love I was usually so careful to make. The body would give in to its pleasure, sensations falling around us like the petals of a peony that let go all at once ~ a cascade of orgiastic ecstasy, sending ripples deeper and deeper into the night. Come the morning, the only danger was in risking an emotional connection by sharing something raw and tender, something easily prevented by a hasty exit and utterances of empty promise.
Bones are crushing, bones are crushing (pushin’ me)
Bodies touching, bodies touching (lovin’ me)
Blood is pumping, blood is pumping (pullin’ me)
Feeling nothing, feeling nothing (fuckin’ me)
Bones are crushing, bones are crushing (crushin’ me)
Bodies touching, bodies touching (touchin’ me)
More often I was alone then, it being against my nature to be forward enough to invite anyone over with any regularity. I’d twist my internal justifications around in my head, contorting my feelings into something manageable, and almost convincing myself that it didn’t matter. There was a difference between being alone and being lonely, and I determined and insisted that I was only indulging in the former. To admit loneliness would have been to admit defeat. Ever the contortionist, even then, the mind led the body, and the body followed – undefeated.
I’m done, I’m done, done doin’ back bends, I break and I snap
It’s no fun, no fun, pushed myself into a box while you held out
A gun, I’m done, ooh-ah, ha-ha, ha, ha, ha-ah
I’m done, I’m done, ooh-ah, ha-ha, ha, ha, ha-ah
