*

This tour might be the death of me. Sometimes I feel like enough of me's scar tissue that I might as well already be dead. Performing in and of itself doesn't even make me feel alive anymore-- nevermind being able to touch heaven. That connection's been fully severed, apparently. Like god finally completely giving up on me and not allowing me even those teasing torturous glimpses. Well, fuck you, too, then, I'd already given up on you once you let my family and friends die anyhow. I should've given up on you when you let Lorenzo happen. I REALLY should've given up on you when you let Ricky die how he did. I was way too fucking nice to you.

But anyway, I have to do a line before shows (and then rinse out my sinuses, etc) to perform even a facsimile of liveliness. I guess it works out. Sex has been nice again, at least. Hell, more than just nice. Clubbing thankfully works the same way it did a few years back, so no big deal-- in fact, so far, a LOT less stressful than a few years ago. And SO needed. UGH. All apologies to Jack, because he was (and likely is, somewhere, being) amazing and I never thought of him as less-than, just different, but GOD I missed this kind of cock. I rubbed dicks with the first someone I danced/kissed/groped, unable to take the feeling of that mutual throbbing for granted, my mouth watering from it-- and then he unzipped his jeans and let me feel him up and stick my face under one of his arms and I was in fucking heaven and FUCK I'm such a fucking faggot (like, that was before he even started feeling ME up...). When I was eighteen I remember writing half a page about the beauty of men's erections and I was SO embarrassed with myself for it that I crossed it all out (but I never tore the page out of that notebook and the crossing-out was pencil over ink-- I didn't want to know, I didn't like that I knew, but I knew). When I called myself a fucking faggot then, it was with the blunt force and sharp sting of my grandfather's belt-- not a welcome pain. I was curled up or bent over the kitchen table, back and sometimes backside exposed, trying not to flinch or cry but still filled with fear and shame. Now, well. I could write an entire essay on men's erections, but that'd cut into time I could be using causing said erections. (And I can take quite a bit more fucking pain now than what good ol' Granddad meted out to me, to boot)

I feel like I'd been waiting to let myself loose like this for awhile now-- nearly everything for so long was work or mourning or mournful work and I still wanted sex so much but I felt guilty for it, felt that doing anything besides steady monogamous dates was almost adding to the problem in a way (and then I was just... destroyed, for whatever reason, but at least I've been able to build myself back together relatively well-- well enough to work, well enough to fuck and have fun doing it). There's been so much anger and fear around "party gays" in some corners, blaming them (us?) for all this. Yelling outside of clubs like end-times preachers. I guess the plague's made us all a little crazier. And yet I still would find myself upset at their accusations even if they weren't levied at me. I always use condoms (outside of Jack), I've tested myself as regularly as makes sense/can be done discreetly (almost as much to reassure others as to reassure myself), I don't generally eat ass (just Jack’s), don’t even suck cock too much, but some stupid voice in the back of my head would still call me an evil selfish dirty plague rat for doing ANYTHING and sometimes still does. I'd worry that one of those guys would see me, recognize me, out me just out of spite and a sense of self-righteousness. And then of course, Ben hadn't liked me clubbing so much either-- an assumption that he couldn't satisfy me and I was punishing him for it, or that I was slipping away from him. So much was complete misery, he was away so much, and he felt insecure about one of the only things in my life outside of him that wasn't awful. Like he just wanted me sitting pretty by the fucking phone every night hoping he'd call. Fuck him.

Shows have been fine. I can't say I've been fully satisfied with my performances-- especially not of older material. Even outside of technical precision, it all feels almost rote to me. I'm going to turn thirty-seven this year and I want to die and I'm still singing cute little bubblegum tunes from seven years ago because they're "hits". We're old enough to be our own nostalgia act, and it’s not the nicest feeling or realization. Regardless of how I personally feel, though, the crowds are still huge, they're still loud, and it's not like the people in the nosebleeds can hear things exceptionally well anyway. Trying my best not to feel cynical about it all. Some days are harder than others. I suppose the positive about even the cynical days is that for once, I'm not beating the shit out of myself when things don't go perfectly. It's another day at work. Clock in, keep the customer satisfied, clock out. Whatever. That doesn’t stop it from feeling awful later, but there’s not much that really feels good right now anyway. It's whatever works, at this point.

The real saving grace in terms of performances has been Nate-- I mean, duh. For one, he sounds as beautiful as he always does. For another, GOD he's gorgeous... duh, again, I know, but it really is something else to see in action on stage. Next to it, next to him(...I'm also next to Jeffrey's keytar a lot, but that's another story). He was wearing the most perfectly tight jeans last night, with one horizontal slash underneath the right back pocket, wide enough to see skin through. Jesus christ-- and I somehow didn't pounce on him immediately after the show (and then he was busy, UGH). I couldn't stare for obvious reasons, but I would steal little looks at it, or at his arms, his hands, his fingers, the little showoffish smirk he gets when he knows he's nailed a part, the muscles in his arms/shoulders/back/chest/abs flexing, the sweat dripping off the curls hanging over his forehead, running down his neck, glittering in his chest hair (of course he still smells incredible, and of course I’ve already been shameless enough to breathe in whenever I lean over/he leans over me and god I don't care)....

For some reason neither of us has taken the first step towards each other. I know it's not because he isn't interested (and in turn, I'm of course quite interested). But things have been getting so close to flirting that it's driving me a little crazy. If he's trying to get me to crack first ugh he's doing too damn good a job. Maybe he's learned something about what the hell he's doing this time around. --Or maybe he's stalling exactly because he doesn't know. But he's still teasing my earrings and I swear one of these days I'm going to grab his wrist as soon as he reaches out to touch them and pin him to something and stick my face in one of his pits and lap up every fucking bit of sweat from it and hump his leg like a fucking dog-- fuck.

Now I'm in bed so I can think about these things and write about them and multitask a little while writing about them, at least. The jeans especially, UGH. Like, that's the kind of thing *I* used to wear to clubs. Does he actually know what he's fucking doing? And ugh, just that little slash of fabric, the way I could see such a perfect taste of skin through it (and the fact that it WAS skin, god, he's trying to drive me crazy isn't he, fuck I fucking hate him). Just that little hint of something has dozens of fantasies blossoming from it already, but hell, even just bending him over and licking it... sinking my teeth into it... And with that, I'll try and get some shut eye. And etcetera.

I mean, I know I need to think of the more serious things around Nate (and Walter). But I don't think I even have a chance for a talk about most of those things before I can prove this to myself (and to him). And, for more selfish reasons, I just want to feel good right now, in some fucking way. Alright? Can I have that? For a little while?

PS: On the last tour I started wearing our tour shirts on stage-- cut up in fun ways, not just as-is thick formless cotton. I've done that this time, too (alongside my leather, but it gets too hot for the jacket eventually)... and, without my prompting, so has Nate. Shredded up the middle. He wears nothing under 'em, just that beautiful chest and nothing else. Maybe I should do a couple like that for myself... with something else under it, maybe.

*

Jeff's little piano ballad from a few albums ago of all things made me nearly lose it tonight. "Of all things"-- really it's not so surprising as all that, I just wish it was. Gee, the song I was able to sing so well live for the first time because Ben was in front of me? I wonder why that would make me lose it. Truly a mystery for the ages. The first few nights, I was able to simply check out of it. Sung it like it was someone else's tune on a karaoke night at some bar. Which in itself was starting to greatly bother me; I know the crowd doesn't understand or notice half the effort I usually put into these things, I know I said I shouldn't care, but I fucking do and I hate that I do. So I sung it to Ben again, the way I usually would have in the past, because that's the way it sounds best, and the surge of emotion that filled me was close to overwhelming. It was like I was Julie again, for three minutes, but Julie was still shattered in pieces, Julie still felt like his body had turned inside out and all his nerves were on the outside screaming, and so the whole thing felt like I'd reached a hand down my throat, got a grip on my heart, and yanked it free, pulled it out of my mouth, had it bleeding in my grip for everyone to gawk at. For THAT fucking song. Not even anything truly beautiful. --Everybody said I sounded great, at least.

The rest of the set I felt lost, or like I was controlling my body remotely, like the words coming out of me weren't my own, like that horrible time with Jack, but I wasn't anyone else this time. Or maybe I was, if Jules Riley counts as someone else. But no one else noticed at the time, or if they did, they didn't say anything about it. Better than truly losing it and collapsing into sobs on stage or something equally mortifying. Even afterwards I felt like a ghost, but strangers in clubs don't know what that looks like. Jeff does, and he did notice after the show, I could tell he wanted to talk to me, wanted to ask what the matter was, if I was okay, and GOD I hate him. A guy that obnoxious really shouldn't be that perceptive. I can forgive Anna for it because she's one of the best people I know, and because she's my sister (I still feel like scum for being so unable to be a good uncle for Eli for long). I can tell, like Jack in the beginning, that he believes he can "fix" me in some way (poor Jack ended up having to weather me more than anything). That all he needs is to learn enough about me and try to be my friend enough and be a good enough "friend" and remember to keep his shitty little rat comments about how I walk or talk or dress appropriately outside of my earshot and one day I'll simply crack open and learn how to be Normal or whatever and it'll all be thanks to him and it'll be a beautiful cathartic cracking, a butterfly leaving a cocoon, and not a horrifying explosion of viscera. Moron.

Anyway. I could fuck the worst of it away but I'm still here at 3 AM feeling just as lost as I did earlier. If I wasn't writing this I feel as though I'd just be sitting up in bed staring at nothing til it's 7 and I have to "wake up". There's so much I don't want to think about but it's still all looming overhead anyway. Even if I wasn't so wired I think I'd still have trouble falling asleep because of that.

*

Nathan wore those jeans again and I didn't let the opportunity slip from me this time. I mean, it was those jeans and a leather jacket of his own over his bare chest... UGH. I couldn't help but give him some *REAL* stares every so often tonight-- the ones I'd give him if he was a gorgeous stranger standing across my way at a club. I mean, it wasn't a taped show or anything, and they were brief enough that Jeff didn't notice, so it's whatever. Nathan did, and that was the point. I let myself really feel his playing again, too... I realized I was almost too numb for it earlier. It's difficult for me now to get myself out of numb, even before shows. There's a sense of panic to feeling anything too strongly. Everything feels like it's on a razor's edge. But I let myself go, there. That was the language he still knew the most. But he'll learn the looks, too, if he doesn't know them already.

Anyway-- After the show I was ballsy enough to do what I'd dreamed of doing since he first wore them-- that is, slide my fingers into the rip near his ass and squeeze. Well, first I just asked him who he was wearing 'em for, which he got flustered and red over. So I kept playing with him. Told him that the tear beneath the pocket was an especially nice touch, ran a finger across the bit of skin showing and said that he should still be careful, that he'd grab more than just female attention with things like that. Ugh, the fact that I even touched him there so soon, nevermind how deliberate I was with it... There was such a high chance of this backfiring on me in so many ways and I was balancing on a thin edge between confidence and utter failure. In the beginning it was difficult to keep my heart from racing worrying how convincing I really was, but I knew I had to stuff all that down if I was going to get anywhere, especially with him. I had to just GO and hope for the best. Of course, he's also been just as forward with women as I was with him, there, if not more, and we’d done things together already-- but he was drunk, then. He was mostly sober, finally (coked up a bit, but I’m the equivalent).

it was so funny looking into his eyes once I flirted with him enough to feel him start to physically give into me, to see all the emotions pass thru them the less confident and more flustered he got; the more he realized that *I* was going to be the one driving this (and I was glad I was able to be so confident myself, that I didn't let fears of failure or awkwardness or my own brain stop me from trying for what I wanted). And while the realization that I was the one fucking driving this was an electric one, one that took my breath away for a moment, I knew I couldn’t feel it fully. Not at that point-- I was driving. I told him-- after I'd gripped his ass, dug my fingers into the skin, pulled him tight to me-- you probably thought you were gonna be the one doing all this to me, huh. Sorry. But I know what I’m doing here, and you still don’t, do you? He rolled his eyes, said "You're not fuckin' sorry, man.", kissed me to try and get some of his own confidence back, but I just pulled away a little, admitted my guilt with a smile and kissed him back harder. The electric feeling, and even stronger this time, but I still had to stow it. Couldn’t help but let out a little noise when I felt him kiss me back again, though. --Like: he's not stumbling drunk, he's barely had anything yet and he wants this. He wants me. He wants this. He wants me, over and over again, never able to quite believe it, going for it anyway, remembering how convincing I could be with other (younger) guys, trying to pretend a little like he was just another one--

It wasn't anything too serious or involved tonight-- he wouldn't have been ready for it in any case, and I want his first experience with that to be as nice as I can make it/as he’s willing to make it. So it was still something closer to what we had a few years ago, but with the promise of more. And ugh, it was still wonderful taking him in some dark little side alcove and pinning him there and just MAKING OUT. Ugh, the way he rubbed up against me, the hastiness in how he undid my belt, unzipped his and my pants, stroking us together (he's bigger, thicker, but I knew that already, and it just excited me and still does), biting his lip trying his best not to make any kind of sound (and still groaning out a little “aw, FUCK, man…” that drove me half-crazy), still getting lost in sliding and thrusting his cock against mine while I kept us steady, teasing him in his ear and biting it (that making him go at it even harder), clutching at each other, feeling and tasting his breath, just as lost in the smell of his sweat, face in his hair... he still came first, but barely. His kisses after were sweeter than I would have ever thought he could be[95], and for a short while I could just savor that moment-- of holding him (one hand still on his ass), breathing heavily together, coming down off a little high we gave each other.

I told him, at the very end of it all, that if he wanted anything heavier from me (--and I would LOVE to give it to him--) that it'd be courteous of him to be prepared for it, and that it’d be just as wonderful if he wore those jeans again for me (“They rev you up that much, huh?” Fuck yeah, they do). Somehow I'm confident it'll happen, and sooner rather than later. 'Til then, all I can do is try not to drive myself crazy thinking about it. Maybe easier said than done… wow.

*

[95]He still nipped the tip of my nose, with a laugh, before we went our separate ways– he always has to be a little cheeky.