Spiders part 1.

Hatred produces a web of fear.

My friend’s wedding is next weekend. This is the friend for whom I am acting as the Master’s of Ceremony.

I was thinking though, that this wedding acts as a landmark of shame for me. My friend, Brittany, is a homophobic princess of a human being that, as a result of my compounding fear and sense of increasing freedom, I am finding more and more difficult to enjoy spending time with. She talks about nothing worthwhile, and she gossips. She directs her life towards the possession of more grandiose things than those around her, and makes us all think that we should care.

She just doesn't seem to understand that I don't care about the colour of her car, or the brand of her shirt, or how much (or little) she paid for it. That stuff matters not.

But I do care about her wedding. This is the wedding that I was going to have a boyfriend for.

That is part one of the web this venomous friend of mine has constructed.

And so am I.

He is going back to Southern Ontario tomorrow morning. I may not see him again – ever.

My perfectly formed soon-to-be hairy man will leave me tomorrow before I have an opportunity to claim him just by telling him that I want to be his and I want him to be mine – and I want to be completely equal with him in relationship.

Tonight I took him out on a “date”. Neither of us looked at it as such, but my heart was racing as we approached my car and we drove away in a way that I can only imagine a heart races on a first date. On the drive out, I kept on catching the glint of the moonlight in his eyes, and saw a broken purity that demanded discovery.

I was going to go out to one of the trail heads to practice my Astronomical stuff. Looking through the telescope – lining it up to distant stars, and remembering the ancient myths of the night sky.

It was going to be perfect.

And then tonight had to be a full moon. Which meant that the night sky was almost as bright as that of the day – allowing me to see very few constellations, and even fewer stars. Ursa Major, as exciting as it is, is not really that exciting when there are so many more incredible sights to be seen in the stars.

This forced us to talk. Which brought all the mystery of this man to light.

He self-deprecates in a way that I am familiar with, and I realized how truly unattractive it is for somebody not to love themselves. In a sad way he reminded me of me – he said things about how he makes relationships that I could only relate to. He was feeling the need to settle down just to calm down his life – but he loved the randomness of his current life structure – he just doesn’t want to move again, and lose his friends again. That moon glint in his eye on the ride up was incredibly telling.

That being said, he was 19 – and entirely unattractive in a way that only 19 year olds who are at a dramatic crossroads can be. He feigned wisdom in a way that I hope I never did at his age – showing an understanding of the nuanced reality of the world, but never quite being able to articulate his limited understanding. For a young man who seems to dance through life in a nearly bohemian manner, his lack of poetry was disappointing.

By the end of our 90 minute visit, I may have been exhausted of him. I couldn’t even listen to him give me “advice” on whether or not I should stay in Val Marie doing the best job in the world for a couple more months.

And yet tonight it took every ounce of strength that I had left in my exhausted little body to not turn around from walking down the hallway to my room, wrap him in my arms, tell his injured soul that everything was going to be ok just so that I could force myself through his barrier of pride and shame, and invite him to my room to cuddle, and talk about nothing for a few hours. I would listen to him give me advice, but actually be lost in his eyes, nodding when he stopped speaking, and nestling into his chest.

On the way back from the Astronomy site, we were talking about our senses. He said he is definitely a sight person. I admitted I was a touch person - I love the experience of touch. He said that my wife would appreciate that.

He is straight.

And so am I. In Val-Marie.

Canada's second class world.

Canada seems to imagine that the people who live outside of it's borders are less valuable than those who live within it. A little twisted.

Canada has had white-asbestos banned from being an ingredient in the construction of homes, offices, factories (indeed, anything being built at all) for nearly a whole generation. This is because of the link between extraction and direct contact with the chemical and the acquisition of rare cancers.

But, somehow the numerous asbestos mines that dot Canada's Eastern regions have remained opening, operating, and frighteningly prosperous.

The customers of Canada's banned, carcinogenic, white-asbestos are those who live in countries who do not have building restrictions including the use of asbestos. So, we are no longer using our own cancer causing agents, but sending them elsewhere, so that we may profit from the product without having to witness its numerous detrimental effects. We also don't have to pay for the treatment.

They are poor. They are black/red/yellow/orange/not-white. They are not Canadians.

They are attempting to build up their infrastructure. It only seems fair that we give them a little bit of disease in the process. (Oh, how I love living very well off)

And I've thought about this (a great deal?). Just as I feel that companies should be forced to pay for the environmental effects of garbage and litter caused by their packaging (and poor stewardship), I think companies that expose people (employees and otherwise) to dangerous chemicals must be prepared to subsidize and pay for the treatment. I am certain this would have numerous detrimental effects that I haven't thought through, but I would like to imagine a world where the retail market makes up for its numerous mistakes.

But, I do need to put more effort into avoiding dreams.

__________________________________

On a side note - and speaking of dreaming...

Alex now walks around my house without a shirt on. He is just in the process of having hairs spurt out of his chest.

I don't think I can count how many times I have caught myself imagining my teeth nibbling his nipples as I traverse the canyon of his chest on my journey from his mouth to his ________ (fill in the blank), using my tongue as a rudder feeling the currents of his body beneath the ship of my body.

He makes comments that could only be understood as double-entendre by a monster as talented in manipulation as I am. I struggle not the blush.

And put every effort that I can into not blurting out my dastardly, exploratory intentions for his body.

Thank god he has irritable bowel syndrome. Aside from being unattractive, I'd hate to pleasure him so much that he would lose control...

Irritable Bowel Syndrome

Earlier this week I watched a "gay interest" film entitled Boy Culture. Earlier this summer I read a novel entitled A Single Man. Both were interesting, and both featured protagonists whose mind was often momentarily infiltrated by the audience. Telltale moments of passion and temptation, like...

"I didn't know whether to turn on all the water faucets in the apartment or jump in the shower with him."

or

"I watched him walking around the room, admiring my furnishings in his toga-like towel, imagining what the full body of the glimpsed glory of man hidden beneath truly could be."

And I've realized that this is what my internal communication has become. These momentary temptations, where I allow myself to communicate everything I wish I could see just a little clearer - just a little longer - just a little more. When you produce these incredible fantasies of being collected into the arms of hercules, kissed as though all of the power of creation were being forced into your mouth, and then ______________(fill in the blank).


This weekend, my room-mates friends from Southern Ontario have arrived. They are energetic, friendly, charming and charismatic. The best eye candy I've seen in town for quite some time (Brock, when will bailing be done so that you can come back to town). A little bit younger than me, but only by a few years.

One of them is named Alex. He wears loose skinny jeans, like a hipster. He's friendly, relatively knowledgeable. Seems to emanate with that false "realness" that everybody over 22 knows is actually just a man that enjoys beer more frequently than he should and has, at his young age, already managed to develop some telltale physical signs of alcohol induced aging. Also, my guess would be he smokes weed. He probably has a tattoo (which I wouldn't mind finding).

And, judging by his ability to grow facial hair, he surely has body hair (which means that exploring would be possible).

He is a good body shape. Nice eyes. Nice smile - sexy smile. An ass that fits into the pockets of his jeans just perfectly - a little round, but not obscenely large. A nice feature to grab.

Thank goodness for irritable bowel syndrome.

He told me today that he was afflicted by this - and that he could tell me some pretty ridiculous shitting stories.

This, my friends, is what we call "realness".

danger, danger will robinson!

I can feel it happening again. I am becoming slightly more daring in my interactions with people in Val Marie.

I am aroused.
This is dangerous.

How much longer do I allow myself to care?

The best part of my job isn’t exactly the men that I work with, but I won’t deny that there are a few choice specimens of the human species who work in my office and by some product of chance were born with dicks and the ability to grow facial hair. One who works in a section of the park 150 kilometers away came to the office today.

Looking for my manager.

He has blue eyes, and a masculinity that refuses to shave his face of the six-day 5 o’clock shadow. He is tall, but not so tall that it distracts. Slender, lean, perhaps a bit muscular but not so much that it is his most defining feature. You can tell by the way that clothing hangs off of his body that he likes a good beer every now and then – there is a hint of a bit of fat.

“Do you know where Kathy is?”

- Yeah, she’s in a meeting in Kathryn’s office. Let me go grad her for you.”

That is what I did – off into the office room to collect my manager for this man that I thoroughly enjoy stealing glances at. When I came back out, Kathy close behind, my eye candy that is so rarely in my west block environment was bending over reading the titles of books in our Prairie Revegetation section of the office library.

He is a biologist – plants specifically. This is the kind of thing he likes to study. Plant revegetation is his primary role over in the east block, aside from general maintenance.

His body bends just perfectly to suggest that beneath his mud-encrusted denim lies a cute, hairy, potentially beautiful ass.

His name is Brynn. Who wouldn’t want that name to roll off their tongue for the rest of their life? – My husband’s name is Brynn.

Holy fuck I need to masturbate. Silently. So that nobody has any inkling that I am gay.

I wonder if he realizes that every time I look up at him and earnestly ask what it is that I should do with my life, I am really asking if he would be willing to leave his wife and travel the world with me, exploring the cultures and vistas of our sprawling planet just as I would like to explore the intricacies of his skin hair body teeth lips fingers penis tongue anus.

Nobody would have to know except for him, the walls - the mattress. I won't mention it ever. I'll just shine forever like a constellation slowly rotating around the planet telling everybody about the events that have happened thousands of years away and the events that will happen and that should and shouldn't happen, and people will try and understand them just as they do the stars - construct false stories and myths that only hint at the greatness of the truth. I'll be happy.

Instead though I'll ask him for help.

and all his glory...

I can’t believe I was so foolish.

You’d think that I would’ve known better than to think that my parents would just have this figured out. They don’t have the slightest idea of the world that I live in everyday, and the constant reminders that are sent my way to continue to push me outside.

And how desperately I need them to stand up to that misogynistic, only slightly-veiled homophobic brother of mine.

His behaviour is insulting and threatening.

And my parents tell me that he will change his behaviour if I tell him that I find it insulting, or degrading, or hurtful. If I tell him I am gay, then he will know not to behave in the manner that he does around me.

My question is whether or not his behaviour around me matters that much – and why knowing I am gay should change his behaviour in any considerable way. Shouldn’t he being expected to have the integrity to act like a respectful person regardless?

My brother will only find out I am gay when my wedding approaches. And that is if I send him an invitation.

Until then, he will continue to make comments like this:

“The only reason a guy hangs out with that many women is to chase tail.”

And after my wedding, he will no longer make comments like that around me.

Which, really, brings to question whether or not telling him is worth it. Is it my job to change people, even those who are close to me, or should I just expect that people should get the sensitivity of oppression without being told?

Goodbye my Friend.

This is one of those moments in life that I hate. An event I wish didn't happen.

I have just seen the back cover of another fantastic book, set it down, and can expect to not pick it up again for quite some time.

And now I have to make an investment into another book and hope against hope that it is at least as good. Maybe even halfway transformative.

Thank you Mr. McCarthy and your story about Old Men.

Damn you Val Marie

I’ve got to stop allowing myself to do this.

I can’t keep on crawling into my cold bed at night, opening up my computer, clicking Quicktime and watching Glee. My psyche can’t handle it.

The Glee magic has affected me – infected me.

It hits me every night, and makes me feel so much more normal. Proud. Ready to conquer the world from the pedestal of my double mattress. Declaring myself for the gobbling hordes of 135 Val Marian residents and getting through by my own constitution and the bumping vitality of show tunes. Damn you Val Marie (I will preach from above the Whitemud Grocery Store) - Damn you and all that I have allowed you to do to me. I am gay.

And then I stay awake. For hours. Thinking of all the obstacles that are between me and there.

I feel like darkness. For hours.

And then I wake up, step out of the kingdom of my room into a hallway teeming with activity that comes with communal living. I realize I am even more alone out here than I am in my cave and away from my pedestal. I try to turn on a light for work - show some energy (and I'm well trained at faking this energy) - but day by day I lose more spirit.

I feel like darkness. For hours.

Remembering that Glee tells me to be myself.

And remembering that I will never get to be anything but straight in Val Marie.

Music and Love

I watched him lean over the pool table.

I think my tongue was licking the backside of my teeth in anticipation of that glimmer of lower back that would occasionally show as his shirt gently lifted above his pant.

Disappointment. He didn't need to lean over all that far for this shot.

"I listen to Metal."

Oh. You must be the only one in town. - He has decent muscles on his forearms. Through his shirt his biceps are just barely noticeable; he doesn't have man boobs. Hell, could it be that this man has pectorals? This man is in good shape.

His name is Peter.

"Pretty much."

I don't imagine there are many metal shows in town that you make it out to. - My turn. I miss my shot. I'm really not good at this game, but its pretty much the only time you get to watch straight men bend over. See their asses fill the fullness of their pant.

I'm getting good at playing the straight game again these days. I can even play pool with some degree of ability. Wait a minute - did that thought just come to my mind? What have I allowed my world to turn me into; somebody who only keeps myself in a box? Damnit, I'm a mess...

"Nope. But I lived a couple of years in Edmonton. That was a good place." - He sipped his rum and coke. Me, my beer. He shot. Missed - told me something about metal music. Apparently he chooses not to listen to heavy metal music, something about how its not good enough - impossible to hear the lyrics, bad intentions focused on making lots of noise rather than making music. He sounds very particular.

Finger Eleven came on the radio.

"I've seen these guys live. They are really good." Oh, really? In this moment I decided he knew nothing about metal music. Maybe in this country-dominated town this is metal music, but this isn't metal music. He is very fortunate that he looks good - I judge harshly on music.

I'm very fortunate that I can keep my gaze quite well guarded. I pass him the cue. I think it is his turn again. We talk about how Canada Day tired both of us out.

He wears those jeans that you don't see out here very often. They aren't Wranglers. More like a baggy jean - but not so baggy to fall below the waste-line. There is a calculated utility to these jeans - he can wear them to work comfortably, without feeling the pressure to show off the full beauty of his leg as a rancher. I wonder what he does.

Does this man have some image problem? Wearing jeans like that - a t-shirt. He just doesn't quite fit in here. He even trims his beard. He leans over the pool table. Xbox underwear. I don't see much of a farmer's tan.

I can't allow myself to judge him by his undergarment fashion. Its frugal clothing - bought at WalMart. A money saver - no reason to be concerned with spending when buying work clothes for Val Marie. Who is going to see you other than the locals?

The way these pants fall of his body makes it seem like he has a really big dick. Not fair, and a total fib. I've seen pants like this before. I could wear my pants like that. Stop.

I turn to my team partner and we start talking about tattoo plans. I've got some ideas. She does too. Somebody probably thinks we're flirting. She probably thinks we're flirting - she is guarded. She has a boyfriend. I'm pretty damn sure I'm not flirting.

I'm starting to hope that she doesn't think I'm flirting, but that others in the bar do. There is a lot of pressure to be in a relationship in this town, even as a summer student. A lot of pressure to be straight in this town too. I'm not going to do either, but I'm very good at putting on a poker face. Years of training that has started to crumble back; a physical and mental landslide that makes every movement ache.

The conversation in the bar has shifted. I overhear something.

"Oh yeah! Brock has never had a girlfriend!"

My ears perk up. Stop. Don't imagine this. Stop.

This man's name is Peter. No doubt, he is a man. And, despite his pants, his gait is more attractive than that of a rancher who has had his legs spread around the shoulders of a horse for most of his life.

Stop.