Jack had his own reasons for not having anyone around for the holidays, so I went over to his place for New Year's. I honestly wasn't in the mood to have my dick sucked or anything heavy at all (woke up feeling achey and awful-- not sick, just really starting to feel older sometimes regardless of whatever exercise I do), and I told him so in advance-- I'd still be happy to see him, though, and I was. And his hair is BEAUTIFUL now... even more than I imagined. He shaves the sides, but that's fine; the rest is still gorgeous honey blond ringlets, UGH I couldn't keep my hands or face away from them once I got drunk. And we did have a silly amount of wine-- glasses of it at first, but eventually we dropped all pretenses of it being anything but a binge and ended up passing the bottle back and forth while we talked with the TV on (Why yes, I do currently feel terrible, as well). He hasn't talked to his family since he became a man. He's Polish, and they're also very Catholic, so he had an awful time with that. Holidays could be better, and he thought the music was beautiful. Everyone was mostly more pleasant, there was good food around, mulled cider he could sneak cupfuls of-- like the good parts of my holiday experiences minus the bad (well, he also got dresses and dolls he'd never want to use, increasingly the more clear it was he didn’t want them, “trying to hide me in a pile of pink”, he said).
He used to hate having his hair this length, too, but of course he never had it styled in a way he wanted or chose. He didn't know whether he was going to go through with my request that he grow it out, but keeping the sides buzzed made it "him" enough. He said his hair was one of the things that kept him the most tied to girlhood and the expectations of it, and shaving it all off was one of the most freeing things he'd ever done for himself up 'til that point-- so I did tell him that he really could shave it if he needed to, but he was insistent that he wanted to keep it for awhile. "It's so hot that you love it so much. And you don't love it like they did." Oh, GOD no. They probably saw you like a little porcelain doll of an "angel". When I call a man angelic it's not really about the innocence, for me.
Church is... something I remember surprisingly little details of, for myself-- outside of a beautiful St. Michael-The-Archangel window you could see perfectly from the choir booth. I think that's burned into my memory forever. It was the first time I saw a depiction of a man that made me feel... well, I was too young to be aroused. It was more of a swelling feeling in my chest. Forgetting to breathe for awhile. Whoever the artist was had given him the most beautiful statuesque face but a stern gaze, of course, the gaze of someone protecting someone else, the gaze of someone doing that by plunging his sword into a serpent's neck and stepping on its head. As graphic as it was beautiful (and Mom was always baffled by my Francis Bacon prints! Obviously not as baroque, but still its own sort of beautiful-and-ugly). And that depiction of him also had beautiful ringlet curls, and they served as a halo of sorts, and that window was placed in the east, so the sun would come through it in the morning... I don't remember much about church beyond singing and staring at him.
Anyway. Since we were mostly complaining about our various ~childhood traumas~, I also told him about my grandfather, his beat-and-weep routine, everyone and everything in the house being blanketed over by this feeling of ambient terror whenever he was around. How he was marginally more pleasant during the holidays, but usually made up for the deficit later. All that fun stuff. We were drunk enough by that point that Jack raised up the bottle, said "FUCK your grandpa!" and took a swig (and I in turn said "fuck your parents!" and took my own swig). I always appreciate when someone knows I don’t want a pity party. Sometimes when you complain you're just trying to say: FUCK 'EM!
The talking eventually did devolve to kissing and a bit extra --I was just with-it enough to remember how Robby refused to do anything kinky with me when we were drunk together all that time ago, so there was none of that, even if Jack did slip and call me Sir a few times (silly boy). But yes, no full sex, certainly no SM, just talking, drinking, holding each other, playing with his hair, watching the stupid ball "drop" and throwing wrappers and crumpled up papers at the TV, and kissing and feeling each other increasingly naked yet increasingly lazily until we passed out in a pile on his couch. I know I was silly myself, acting his age when I'm more than halfway thru my thirties. It still felt nice to let loose and be stupid for a moment before the year starts to be stupid to us.
PS: He asked for a collar and leash for a late christmas present. ...Well, then.
Still a little lingering childishness-- smoked pot for the first time in years. It’s gotten stronger, I think! Or I’m just old. Jack and I shared a couple joints-- he rolled 'em, very well, and that was something I DID like in a man, once upon a time… a dexterity of the mouth and fingers, maybe. Ha (Greg could roll a great joint...). Hopefully my yard’s big enough that the smell didn’t blow onto people much. I’d alternate between worrying about that or about camera freaks hiding in the bushes and bursting out laughing over the idea of worrying about that or about anything else, and more generally, between despairing and laughing over all the fucking absurdities of my life right now.
Thankfully Jack turned things towards sex, because I HAD forgotten how nice sex can feel when you’re stoned. Better for bottoming, really (not so predictable what it does to my dick), and very much doesn’t match the mood to do any serious whipping or bondage or whatever, but neither of us minded. His hair did far more predictable things to my dick, and I was high enough to rub it in that hair before he sucked me (high enough to be stupid enough to tell him I could cum in it if it wouldn't make an awful mess). And it was still nice biting him. And I did that all the way down to his ass before eating it-- and I know that feels AMAZING when you’re high, so gave him a good time (and told him I used to love smoking and getting eaten out when I was a pretty young thing) alternating between that+feeling him up, fingering him, fucking him. Stayed tangled up with him after, stroking and kissing his hair, talking about various silly stoned things. Was hard to leave the bed, then hard to leave the bath. Made out awhile there, too, before he told me, still silly and stoned himself, that I was still pretty.
--Which made me laugh at first, and I did thank him (even though it was bullshit), but had to admit that it was something I never knew how to feel about, that I had dear friends and a wonderful mentor that encouraged me to lean into it, but so much of the rest of my life made that so difficult, and some people wanted to keep me pretty for their own selfish reasons, and that made it even more confusing. And I knew I couldn’t ever pass for straight anyway. Not for long. Not even if I tried as hard as I could. And it always eventually made me feel sick inside when I tried, even though there were times I truly wanted to try, and I DID try my best, and even though I’ve often HAD to try, for certain lengths of time, and even though I have to in a more subtle way all the time when I’m at work in public-facing capacities, and I know I’m not the only one that has to do that, SO many people have to do that, for so much less money, and it’s probably silly to complain, isn’t it, but-- Pot still makes me ramble.
“Well, you know *I* like you. You’re pretty in leather, even. And I still wanna lick your boots. I mean… part of the reason I wanna lick your boots is because you’re that pretty in leather. It’s a “yes Ma’am” kinda pretty, not girly-pretty.” You’re saying I’m like a dominatrix?? “You’re like if a dominatrix was a man!” So just. A dom... “NO! I mean-- yes? But no-- you don't do it for HIRE, right?" NO??-- "RIGHT, so, like-- I know you’re Sir, and that’s hot, and the fact that you’re borderline-“yes Ma’am” pretty and I “yes, Sir” you makes it even more hot honestly, like holy shit, but, yknow—” He also rambled when he was high. In my case, I solved that problem by playing with his lips ‘til he sucked my fingers.
We did eventually get out of the bathtub.
Rehearsals have been more painful than I expected-- and I expected them to be difficult. I forgot how much of our damn catalogue I was singing to Ben, how much that fact colored everything, brought my performances to the next level, made things possible when I feared my voice was too tired for it. I can't sing most of them to him anymore. I don't know what to fill the empty space in with yet. Well, sometimes, with some of the songs, it's more like I know what I want to fill it in with, and it would be an extremely stupid idea. I've tried Ricky for some of them, and that's worked well enough. I've put myself in the shoes of a man who really would love whatever woman he's talking about, and that's worked for a few more. Nothing consistent, though.
Beyond that, at this point, I can tell how different my voice is when I try to sing things from, say, '79. The alto side of my range used to be entirely effortless. For the past couple years, it's been a bit more rough, but generally passable. On my own album I never stayed in that range for an entire song-- for the PR side of things I talked about it like trying on different vocal characters, and that WAS part of it for sure, but it was also trying to preserve what I had left. What I have left has somehow dwindled even further. Falsetto's more difficult to get to or control with enough power behind it. The rasp I first noticed a couple years back has really nestled itself in, to the extent it's sometimes noticeable when I speak, as well. And I'll never know if I did this to myself or if Walter did this to me or if Nathan did, or if all of us did it, or if one particular one of us did it to me more than another, or anything. If it was obviously and clearly just one of us it would be so much fucking easier.
The idea of surgery still makes me nervous, though-- singers have gotten surgeries like that and their voices were irreparably ruined or good but still with diminished range. If a surgery’s botched I just lose everything. My voice now is somewhat different but still recognizable. I can sing the old stuff well enough. I still have some of my woman voices, even if they're more present-day Tina Turner than Donna Summer these days. My voice still connects well with everyone else. It connects well enough with Nate. If I can hold onto all that, I'm fine. It's still awful, though, going from day to day never quite knowing what I'm going to get from myself (even moreso than is typical, that is). I guess the whole of my life is like that right now.
I think Nate could tell I've been having a more difficult time with things, too. I'm not sure what to think about that. I don't want that to be TOO visible. Especially not to him. But he thankfully hasn't said anything with words-- it's just been with music. During a downtime recently he went into that chorus we both love, the one where we can most easily join our worlds together, and I sang along with it, because that's what I do, and I almost lost it. Not because I couldn't pull it off-- I KNOW I was pulling it off. It was more like his playing was reaching somewhere gently, kindly, inside of me that I'd nevertheless locked behind a door. His playing was a knocking on that door. Not an urgent one, not an angry one or a desperate one, but a careful request. And I knew I'd have to let him in there if I wanted this to work. And I didn't fucking want to. I was fucking done with anyone touching me[90] and especially him. I was going to be the one touching HIM, if he wanted anything from me. --But, no. I needed to let him in and trust that I could handle it. At least with music, I can trust he won't do anything stupid with me (at least, not anymore). That made it easier.
Not to say I still didn't almost cry (and I hope to god he didn't notice...). But I was able to power through it. And then things were okay, again, for a little while. And I could feel that request as something almost innocent. Not quite, but not anything dangerous, either. Holding my hand, the way he could; me holding his back, the way I could. Gripping just a little. A suggestion of firmness within all the softness, but only a suggestion. It progressed to something a bit less innocent, though maybe only on my part. The firmness-within-softness became less about hand holding and more about kissing him, running a hand under his shirt, up his chest, feeling his pecs. Either the both of us knew things were getting a little too heady or something else distracted him, because Nate moved on to something else soon after, with a little smile and giggle to himself.
Ugh, it's such a good thing Jack's hair is SUCH a different color from Nathan's. I think I'd make him shave it again if his hair was darker. As it is, I'm SO spoiled right now... I don't know whose hair is more beautiful. In a perfect world, I could just have both of them and be done with it, have my face in one's hair and my hand in the other's, but they'd both hate that. And UGH he'd be terrible about Jack anyway. Absolutely terrible. A complete child. I just know it. It's for the best those worlds remain separate.
Even tho Phil's choice (Bob something-or-other) got instated as Road Manager I was able to get Eoin in as his second. So fuck you and die Phillip, and fuck you, Walter. I'd almost say fuck Eoin, 'cause he tried to back down way too damn early like Ben would've and got QUITE frustrated with me that I wouldn't let him, but in the end he did what was necessary and only really bitched about me, to me, later. But having people who can tell you they think you're headed off the rails, even if they're nervous to do so, is good, in the end. I know. It's hard to swallow down the awful flash of rage I get these days when any kind of roadblock (or resemblance of a roadblock) occurs, but I'm getting better at it as I'm getting more used to the reaction happening. God I wish I didn't even feel it. I don't know if it's part of the numbness or something else, but I know it's crushed me into something so two-dimensional. So unreal. Nothing feels quite real, honestly. Sometimes I just feel like I'm on the other side of the glass from everything.
I hate that Eoin's able to see that I'm breaking, though-- he knows me well enough to be able to tell. I asked him if he was afraid of me and he said yes, but more that he's afraid FOR me. Fuck (he said that Ben was, too, but that's old news). I told him that I was trying and that I'd be alright eventually. He knows what a blow it was to me (and, of course, to US) losing Ben-- not just from an emotional standpoint but a work/business perspective as well. I'm doing quite a bit on my own now, come to think. An ever-complicated balancing act. The thought of stopping any of it feels worse than keeping it all up, though. The idea of giving myself more free time is just repulsive to me right now. If I stop I might just stop forever and I can’t do that yet. I don't want to leave anything left undone.
PS: For now, none of this eats into my time with Jack. Things feel good, again, with him. I have something, still.
I truly had no idea how political skipping the whole music video process would be. We were and are behind schedule as it is, a promise of releasing concert footage as videos later seemed like an appropriate compromise, especially given the quality of our shows– but no, apparently it all has to be some anti-MTV statement or whatever. Like we’re fucking luddites or something (...and thank you Jeff for telling me what the fuck a “luddite” is). So every interview has to have a question about it, of course. At LEAST one! Each time is more annoying than the last. Like yes, Jeffrey and I each have our own canned responses to it, but they still get SO boring to parrot out, and it's all for something SO dumb. God everything is so fucking stupid and it just gets more stupid each day.
Was able to vent to Jack about it later-- verbally, eventually, but in far more entertaining ways before then. I technically still had work to do, and I thought I could get some done as long as Jack was leashed under my desk naked and hot enough about it (he really does look hot with the collar. I was expecting it to be too hokey. And it is kinda hokey, but he sells it), but I got thru a few sheafs of paperwork before I pulled him up to crotch-level, and got thru another few while stroking his hair, pushing his head around, stealing looks at him licking and kissing me thru my pants, looking up and begging with his eyes before I caved, dragged him out, bent him over my desk, "punished" him for "interrupting" me, and more or less fucked the daylights out of him and felt SO much better (it was getting harder and harder to actually read anyhow, and not just because of Jack, and I wasn't about to ask HIM to help me read anything). And he was so cute immediately after, panting, sighing, laughing, looking up at me with a happily surprised, pleased, sated grin. We cleaned up and had some jacuzzi wines once he could get up. And THEN I told him about my stupid day and the various absurdities of my job[91]. He had some of his own to tell me-- some idiot he works with screwed up an entire section of work, their whole little group of apprentices was blamed for it, fixing it took hours. Always the little guy that gets fucked, huh? So I poured him another glass of wine for that.
Had dinner; Jack insisted on doing the dishes after. Asked me if he could put a tape of his own on while he did so, and when I answered in the affirmative he told me it was by a band called the Replacements, and he preambled putting the tape into the deck with various warnings about how the frontman can’t sing and how he knows that but he likes it anyway and the riffs are really nice but if I couldn’t get past the vocals he really understood and he was sorry, and-- sweetheart, just hit play on the damn thing (I said-- and that if I didn’t like it, I’d just find something to torture him back with later). And it turned out to be fun stuff! Kinda punk but more melodic (and very good melodies!), some sixties throwback in the shuffle-like tempos and guitar tone. It’s very true that the poor guy they have singing can’t sing but it’s not THAT bad, and at its worst they’d still be a great bar band (the punkiness means bad singing is expected anyway).
...God, I whipped the kid and fucked him senseless, and there he was half an hour later bopping around my kitchen like nothing had happened. Sub nights for me, on the other hand… well, the whole night’s booked for it for a reason. Hell, even nights with Jack, I’m sore the next day… oh, well. Still funny watching him spring back so fast, and still, admittedly, with a touch of envy as well. It's funny that he apparently thought I wouldn't enjoy any music where the vocalist wasn't some sort of ~virtuoso~ or whatever, though. I think having Kate Bush be the first thing I played for him in the car gave him the wrong idea, but anyway, I did tease him a little about it later, about how did he really think my standards were THAT exacting? And he blushed. "U-um. For singing, I guess, yeah." I told him I loved when he sang along with things when we danced, and that wasn't "perfect" by any stretch. "How is it not? --I mean, I KNOW it sucks. But tell me how it sucks." You're looking for a ~critique from a professional~, then? An even deeper blush, a shy grin, a big nod.
Off-key, more often than not. Sharp more than flat. Certainly not close to "tone-deaf", though even that's more trainable than people think (another blush at "trainable", ha). You don't know where your actual range is, and you err on the high side with a weak falsetto, probably from years of experience of your voice going that way more easily. --I notice the same when he speaks, and told him so-- he's not used to it, it cracks, he's embarrassed, he goes higher up because it won't crack there at least, but likely doesn't sound the way he'd like. And I also told him that I had no idea how injecting testosterone was supposed to work-- it was a miracle to me his voice sounded the way it did at all-- but a lot of the difficulties he was having were similar to the difficulties a boy would have as a singer as he hits puberty. Quite a few years of awkwardness as vocal cords thicken, the larynx settles lower, etc. I have no idea where he is in all that, or if he can even get out of the awkward teenager phase, vocally. But the more I talked about it with him the more interested I was in trying to get him somewhere smoother, somewhere more comfortable. Yet another thing on my plate, I know, but it would only be on the days I'd see him anyway, and he's very interested in it.
Jules Rajani, teaching a guy how to sing and talk more like a man... yet another thing about my life this past year that sounds like a joke.
[90]Jack notwithstanding, but even with him, I tell him when he can touch me. And how, and where. And he listens. Partially for submissive reasons, but also because he understands. He tells me when, how, and where I can touch him, too. Sometimes I worry Nathan would consider something like that cold, or passionless, or boring. And how to explain to him how damn fucking nice a feeling it is to only be touched when and how and where you want to be and know that for a certainty? The more I do things like this with Jack the more I think about how much responsibility there is to it, and how little Nathan seems to care for that responsibility. I have quite a few ideas and fantasies regarding how to deal with that, but until I can try even one of them, it's a frustration, and not an enjoyable one.
[91]“It DOES kinda make you look old.”, He said. UGH. He understands the labor angle, which makes me feel better about deciding on that tack for Jeff and myself during interviews about it all. (And Jack enjoys that I'm older; he’s said it’s part of why he’d fantasized about me being dominant with him from so early on, but still)