Observations

I happen to be in town for the August long-weekend, having purchased tickets to the traveling Cirque de Soleil show, Allegria.

It was last night - and may have changed my life. I want to be so incredibly fit that I can make that kind of magic happen with my body.

It was so impressive that it wasn't arousing. And this show involved many-a-shirtless man...

But my observations are more focused on the events that followed. I decided, with my friends, that I needed to be reminded that it is "ok to be gay" while I was in town - just enough to carry me through the next month of sexual prison.

So, off to the Rainbow Bar we went.

And I found the experience hilarious - and enjoyable for its hilarity - but so thoroughly immoral and disturbing that I had lost any interest in being there well before the night was over or the alcohol had worn off.

First of all, I hate going into a bar and being eye-raped by every single gay man in the establishment - being judged for my height, the colour of my hair, the size of my eyes mouth feet arms legs, the hair that pops out of my shirt, the brand of the shirt. I hate that they would smile at me in a way that they would never smile at somebody who may appear less attractive than I - and that I would never be permitted to know people who think that I am not their "type".

I hate being labelled for my sexuality the moment I walk onto the dance floor. I am forced into a niche market, with a specific purpose for a specific group of other people who have also been forced into a small niche. This is the gay pride that has developed?

I hate 19-year-old boys who know me from the University, become clingy because they recognize me/know my name/want to explore my body. I hate them even more when they are drunk. I hate them most when they are accompanied by numerous straight women who are effectively cockblocking them from contact with any other men in the bar, except for those who have enough compassion to give him a chance to be gay in the gay bar.

I danced with one of those 19-year-old boys last night. He was pathetic, and it broke my heart.

And I didn't even enjoy the dancing. I wasn't actually into it - despite the partial arrousal (can you blame me? I've been living in Val Marie for several months now...). Here I am, the hopeless romantic, imagining that all the eroticism of dancing in a bar happens automatically, and instead of being into the moment when it happens (even with somebody that I'd rather it not be happening with), I'm trying to remember the french translations for the five species of snake that live in Grasslands National Park.

I needed something to entertain me I suppose.

The most fun I had was dancing with my friend's female ex-roomate. We two-stepped for a time period. It felt like a more agreeable form of dancing to me. There was a sensuality, a sway, playfulness - it wasn't about getting as close as possible and feeling somebody else's penis rubbing against your leg. It was about the form, the pattern, the classic-ness.

I wish courting didn't have to involve going to the gay bar...

Spiders part 2.

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.

Yesterday, a friend of mine happened to come over for a bit. She and I have been friends since she was in kindergarten, so for about 17 years. My guess is that this friend is bisexual - she dabbles with temptation towards women, but can't imagine life without men. I can't imagine that kind of sexual torment.

She knows Brittany from Church - much the same way that I know Brittany. The two of them are a year younger than I, and ended up going to the same school for post-secondary education for a couple years. My friend became quite emotionally attached (perhaps even dependent) to Brittany - a dangerous thing to be; though it must be said that the two were never actually good friends.

Brittany is too conservative. My friend (Jen), is too liberal. They are both vocal, and both stubborn.

While she was over, Jen told me a story about a boy she was attracted to in her first year. He happened to be bisexual. Jen, rightfully, did not care - though, perhaps one could say that she should not have become so infatuated with him. Though, when Jen told Brittany of her attraction towards a self-professed bisexual man, Brittany condemned Jen for having been attracted to a creature with such twisted sexual desires (even though they would only account for a percentage of those desires).

Jen learned very quickly to stop talking about her love interests with Brittany.

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

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.