*

Another date with Jack. I was in the mood to play with him a little, so asked him over the phone if he did any kind of physical labor. He's an apprentice welder-- SO sexy, I wish I could watch him work, but I knew right then and there he’d smell fantastic because of it. But yes, I told him how sexy that was, and that I wanted him fresh from his job the next time I saw him, no shower no wipedown no nothing. That I was a very ~scent-oriented~ kind of guy, and him smelling so good the first time was really what got me going-- but that was dancing sweat, and I’d like to know all-day-at-work sweat. He was amused by it but was still a dear and did what I requested. Got to peel his sweaty undershirt off and stick my face in one of his pits as soon as he walked in and it was phenomenal (ugh, licking it was, too; I could tell at one point he'd gotten a little ticklish but he steeled his way through it for me). He cupped my hard-on and laughed-- "You weren't kidding, huh?" Oh, sweetheart, I am NOT someone who kids about what I want.

Him being younger and less experienced around the scene (for quite an interesting reason, outside of his age! And god, he’s probably too young to have experienced what it was like before the slow-moving hell it is now) got me in an odd, reminiscing sort of mood, then. Once we were sat down getting touchy-feely I told him I was on the track team throughout grade school n' a little of college, was around a bunch of other sweaty boys in little shorts all the time and I always thought locker rooms smelled divine but didn't quite conceptualize it as erotic yet. Realizing it then would've been dangerous for me, so it was something I put away in my mind as much as I could. Then, the summer of senior year, our school district hosted a track meet, and I fell hard for a boy on the other team. It was a bit of a magical thing; we both fell for each other and became friends the day we met. The second day, we kissed. The last day of the week, we raced against each other. I let him get ahead of me at the last second. I got my mother to drive him back to our house with us. We went upstairs to my room after I promised I'd shower after playing cards or something, locked the door, and started getting heavy.

--I was getting into my story by then, but at least Jack was, too, so I kept going: obviously, Josh smelled amazing. I thought he was cute before, but kissing him all over, smelling the sweat and sun in his skin, the extra sort of nice warm slightly-sour-slightly-musty-in-a-good-way musk in his pits, made me want him so bad I thought I'd go crazy, and I'd never allowed myself to experience something like that before, but it was such a powerful reaction that I couldn’t just ignore it or pretend it wasn’t there. There was no more room for fear or shame or doubt, even if it couldn't be the most perfect or clean thing. When he fucked me I felt smothered, enveloped in, embraced by, his smell. It was all before dinner, we had to be quiet, so he was trying his best not to rock my bed or make a mess, and I was biting that pillow of mine for dear life. And now I'm thirty-six and I still can't get enough of that smell. It's sex itself to me, its essence.

--By that point Jack had a hand down his pants. This and much of what came after was a lovely reminder of how damn good it can feel, how fun it can get to make a guy as desperate for me as possible, and especially when the guy in question is someone I actually LIKE, and I do like Jack. So I told him-- now, you don't smell exactly the same, of course. You didn't just come back from a day of running. But that's fine, because there are so many lovely variants of that smell. So what about you-- and I licked his pit again, licked and kissed his neck, breathed him in-- A windswept outdoorsiness. A little motor oil n’ grease. Metal. Blowtorch singe. Some of that workshop floor. I like it. I put a hand down his pants to meet his, felt how wet his boxer briefs were, and it was the dead opposite of how Shann's wetness would make me feel. Shann's wetness didn't smell the same, though, didn't smell like cum, and sex with her was still sex with a woman, regardless of the mental gymnastics I mustered in the beginning to imagine either of us as anything different. This, despite its own kinds of strangeness, hasn't required the same kind of desperate imagining. It's strange, it's different, but it's not non-erotic. He took my wrist, pulled my hand in to touch his dick-- what he calls it, and how could I not oblige-- and he said quiet in my ear, "I'm hard, too." (And he was!)

Eventually we did fuck each other again, but first, my scars got in the way. They did indeed heal ugly, and I honestly don't regret that, really, because it's a representation and reminder of how ugly everything with Ben ended-- my failures and internal ugliness made flesh-- but I knew it would make things like this more likely, and part of me was always bracing for it. He touched some of the deeper ones, got a concerned look on his face, opened his mouth to say something-- so I was quick on the draw. You probably know how it feels to hate yourself, don't you? To live a life filled with pain? He withdrew a little; I could tell I was making him even more nervous, that I had to bring things back on track. I told him it was alright. That it took me a long time to get to where I was, just like it took him a long time to get to where he was. That his scars were a lot nicer and represented something far nicer, but he still didn't have to worry about me and mine. That was the past, this was now-- what did he want to do now? I knew what I wanted to do. After that, it was smooth sailing. Well, more than smooth, honestly. I was worried I completely turned him off after all that, scared him away, but he kissed me strong, started feeling me up, and everything clicked again; he didn't treat me like some fragile object while he fucked me and I fucked him last this time (liked him even more because he didn't treat me like a fragile object), had him melting into the mattress drooling on the pillow, and the kisses before he left were deeper than the first time, passionate[76].

Fuck. That poor kid. He told me after the first time it wasn't going to be anything serious, but he's twenty-four and I am who I am. How many guys has he been with before me? How much did they do together? I mean, he's been confident enough, his technique's been good enough on either end, that I'm obviously not his first... Maybe this really can just be like Kyle (with, god willing, a far less awful end). A short-lived little candle flame. Letting him down easy by going on the road. The last time I entered a Kyle situation, there was still Ben. It was a band-aid to cover a temporary loneliness and various other griefs. There's no Ben this time, and I have no idea how long the loneliness I feel will last. Jack doesn't need that. But I need this, for now. Just a few damn hours a week where I'm not helplessly watching people die around me, where I don't have to work with pathetic despicable people (Mike n' Gabe notwithstanding of course-- and then Nathan's his own sort of problem, really), where nothing about the rest of my life exists, where I'm not so overwhelmed with anger that it numbs me, where I don't feel like I'm about to go completely insane, where I can give someone what they want and be who they need for awhile and it isn't overly complicated or stupid and it doesn't make me want to vomit, where I'm not Jules Riley, where I can just be Jules Rajani. Where I can still be good. For one fucking person.

PS: UGH he left behind his undershirt and I absolutely know it was on purpose. But did I smell it? Did I get off to it before bed? Guilty, and really, I’m “guilty” of something he was inviting anyway. Did I get off ON it? Now, now, that would be just rude!

PPS: My bed still smelled like him too and that was also wonderful-- after Ben left, even after I washed every last bit of bedding (not to mention the deep cleaning I had to arrange to get the cigarette stench from everything...), I still slept on the couch when I was able to sleep at all. But last night I slept in my bed for the first time since all that-- actually SLEPT, too-- able to just coast away on the flickering little bit of warmth his smell in my sheets made me feel.

*

The rare good days Nate has in the studio are a relief in various ways, but he still can't quite leave me alone for them, and I don't know how to feel about that. Working with Jeffrey feels like working with someone who feels like working with me is some ~noble act~ (when he isn't moping too much-- not to say he lets moping get in the way of working; he's the most dependable person here in that regard in quite a few respects and that's why he's still here). It's strange being around him after being around Kyle or Lou. They're both anchoring, in different ways. Jeff almost is-- he's perceptive and that can be good, but it can also be annoying, because he won't have anything truly helpful he can do with it outside of the purely musical. And of course, right now, he's uncomfortable around me for various reasons and it's palpable even though he doesn't say a word about it. Nathan... on good days, he works how he used to always work. Very free-form. If there's already a track laid down he's more restrained, of course, but he still does his best when he can just noodle his way there. He has to get into a sort of mental and emotional groove alongside a musical one. Once he's there, though, he's more free than ever. --Maybe the musical heaven I'm in with him isn't always the same one as the one I was in with Rick. Maybe it's not MINE, either. Maybe it's HIS, and I'm in it, or he lets me in... I remember, so long ago, thinking about how it sometimes seemed like his playing was the only place he could express a certain kind of tenderness. I think that's still true.

Even still, I'm envious of some of the more stupid parts of him. Ugh, really, I hate how Nathan is and I also love how Nathan is and I hate that I love how Nathan is. I hate how much I want it for myself (and I've realized a part of me always has). Both because I can never get it and because half of my friends would think so much less of me if they knew how much I wanted it. --That ability to just DO things and not have to give a single fuck about the aftermath. I've seen what it's done for him/to him in the long run and it isn't all rosy, but in the short term it beats the fuck out of what I've trapped myself in, and I don't think I have a long term left anymore. --And I'm always trapped in something, aren't I? Trapped but willing to bite my foot off, and then my other foot, and then my arm, other peoples' limbs if need be... etc. I remember, quite some time ago, Greg telling me that Walter thought I was like a fire. At this point I'd say I'm more like a caged, cornered animal. Something let out just to get hurt or hurt other animals to earn my keep. People say not to bite the hand that feeds but sometimes you don't know what the hand reaching in is there to do. You learn to bite because you learn the hand isn't usually there to feed you, or--even more likely-- the feeding has far too many strings attached to the point where it's still practically-speaking bite-and-run or starve.

I think about these things and I know Ben probably had a point in how worried he was about me. I just wish he knew I couldn't stop, had no means of stopping, have NEVER had any means of stopping, but especially not anymore. The breaks have worn off for me and I've just gotten really damn good at steering, and even worse, the sensation of having to steer like this thrills me as much as it fills me with panic. It wouldn't have been his fault if things ended badly for me. I remember telling him once-- when he told me that nothing good ever happens for "guys like us"-- that I didn't give a damn how bad things ended, that the most important thing was that we fought together til the end. I always thought he was so brave, and he was, in his own way, but his own fears got to him in the end anyway. I hope mine never get me again.

*

Jack's far more infatuated with me than he should be but what I'm doing with him is still far less stupid than doing anything with Nate and monumentally less stupid than doing anything with certain other men. Called him, said-- now Jack, you silly boy, I KNOW you left that shirt of yours with me on purpose. He was sheepish on the other end, which made me laugh. He said-- well, did you like it? I was quite honest about how much I did. That he could come over and pick it back up whenever he was free to. He told me to meet him instead-- closer to the Valley, out in the relative sticks. Asked him why and he wouldn't budge, tho I could hear the smile in his voice. I like him, so I humored him.

I met him on the outskirts of Bakersfield, where he was leaning against an old street light in leather n’ denim like he was looking to get cruised. Aww. Took my hand[77], walked me over to his bike. "So this is the place I'm from", he said, "It's boring as fuck, but it's awesome to drive through. So few people come around once you get to the outer limits like this, you can go fast as hell, and then you drive through an alfalfa field and--" It gets cooler all of a sudden. His eyes brightened-- "Right!!"-- was so excited someone else knew about it. He took my other hand, looked right into my eyes. "Ride with me?" Ugh, I could see the adoration in his eyes, the excitement, the happiness, and I could just as easily see myself crushing all of those things out of him one by one. But what could I do?

This was actually the first time I'd ever sat on the back of another guy's motorcycle (and I'm NOT about to ride on the back of Nathan's. I'll learn how to drive one myself before I do that). Guess I was just never into that scene as much as, say, Robby. I quickly grew to understand the appeal, even beyond the leather regalia and exaggerated masculine mystique. There was something so free about it, you could see and feel so much more of the nature around you, you felt almost one with it at times, and going as fast as Jack did gave me such a rush, even if it made my hair a complete mess by the end-- I really should've brought a hair tie, but I didn't know what I was getting into! Once we parked under a tree he apologized for the speed (heh), but he had nothing to be sorry for. He got some beers out from the little cooler he brought along, and we sat down under the shade of that old tree, him leaned against me, one of his hands on top of mine, the other doing its best to help fix my hair. Talked awhile and had our beers. He said he hoped he'd be sharing something new with me, but was happy I knew about the alfalfa thing anyway. I said: the motorcycle part was new! I told him I was from Carlton anyway, to the north, closer to but still not quite the middle of nowhere.

"How did you like it?" HA. I didn't like it at all. Driving there still gives me the creeps; even if the grasslands and the alfalfa and everything can be beautiful, it's a desolate kind of beautiful, and it still feels haunted. You look out over the expanse and it feels like it goes on forever. Like there's no escape. "Yeah, I got the fuck out as soon as I could. They were glad to see me go anyway. I was just the weird dyke freak.", he said. Ahhh, yes. I was my neighborhood's resident weird faggot freak. I also got the fuck out as soon as I could, though it took me awhile to really find myself. Beat myself up and did a lot of stupid shit first. "Maybe it sounds crazy, but I knew I wasn't a girl since I was old enough to think. I didn't have to really 'find' myself. A lot of guys aren't as lucky to start T (testosterone) as young as I did, but I wanted to figure myself out as soon as I could and I was close enough to San Fran to run off there soon as I graduated high school. Everything just felt WRONG all the time, ever since I was a little kid. I got noticed either for being too "boyish" or for things I hated I had. I was twelve and dudes would say things about my tits or try and grab them. Which would've sucked even if I was a girl, obviously, but it felt wrong in a whole different way for me. Even when I tried to have boyfriends, I'd feel sick when they touched me. I wanted boys' attention, but never the way any guy gave it to me."

I've had such a difficult time saying anything about my past (pasts? --different parts of it, siloed away--) to people I'd been close to for years, yet somehow-- the ridiculousness of my current situation, maybe, or how similar parts of our childhoods were-- I was surprisingly open with Jack and didn't suffer much ill effect from it (tho I still couldn’t look at him while I told him...). I told him that men would grab me, too-- we were both girlish boys, in our own separate ways. Both “wrong”, both, it seems, punishable by whatever means adult men cooked up in their heads. Something that marked us as usable, disposable. I told him that the only men that were nice to me were nice for the wrong reasons, and I only barely understood how wrong they were sometimes. Everything about how I was treated convinced me that I deserved it. That being what I was condemned me to it. That it was the best I could hope to get. That it took years for me to fully shed that particular shame, but I still hadn't shed the anger. That he probably had plenty to be angry about, too. That I didn't know what the hell could ever make it go away, but that this was a nice break from it for me and I hoped it was for him, too.

He kissed me then, another one of those passionate ones, and I'm quite nervous about how much he likes me now but at the time, in the moment, I couldn't help but drink it in, couldn't help but give him more of what he wanted. He brought me over to the most obscured side of the tree trunk, leaned me against it, knelt down, sucked me as passionately as he'd kissed me. Pulled me as close to him as possible, arms locked around my lower back or hands clutching at my ass when he wasn't cupping my balls, looking up at me every so often, like-- fuck. Like how I must’ve looked looking up at Ricky in that bathroom stall eleven years ago. A part of me panicked at the realization but the rest of me swallowed it down, focused on the feeling of Jack's mouth around me, his lips, his tongue.

I told him when I was close and he looked up at me again, told me he wanted my cum. Which sent another wave of panic through me. I said-- Jack. You know that's not a good idea. “When's the last time you got tested?" A month ago, maybe? "And did you fuck anyone else besides me since then?" No, but-- and he said please, whispered it, the look in his eyes unbearable. And then he was feeling me up so good, kissing my shaft up and down, licking it all the way to the tip, and he gave me that fucking look again and I grabbed his head and pushed him close again and I was cumming, and his mouth was around me, pulling the rest out of me, he’d been feeling himself up and he came. Odd mix of physical bliss and the edge of panic-- never quite over it, but looming.

I must've been noticeably quieter from then til the end of the ride back. Once we were back in Bakersfield he apologized, said he was caught up in the moment, that he hadn't expected to connect to me so easily. "I hope I didn't spook you back there." I was honest-- that he kind of did. But only because he himself didn't know what the hell he was getting into with me, and because I had friends who'd already died, and friends and acquaintances who were in the process of dying that I was currently helping care for, they were all far too young but he was younger still, and he still thought he could afford recklessness. Said we could talk again in another couple weeks. No phone calls in the meantime, no nothing. Just a little circuitbreak. Ugh, I still felt terrible looking at him trying his best not to crumple at the end. I could tell how guilty he felt. So I told him the motorcycle thing *was* cool as hell and was making me think about a lot, which was the truth (what is it with me and boys and motorcycles lately...). Thankfully that ended things on a better note.

This doesn't mean I'm not still an idiot. I am. We're both desperate for something, but I'm not sure it's the same thing, or if our things are compatable even in a temporary situation-- another reason I want time off; I need to think about it all. Outside of that, it was odd going down those awful dusty roads and not feeling nearly the same sense of dread I usually do. Maybe the motorcycle bit was novel enough to make me overlook the hell underneath the dust and desolation. I'm glad he has fond memories of the alfalfa. Mine are... complicated.

*

[76]And then afterward, like he’d noticed as much as I did, his last kisses were a quick playful trail of them up my nose.

[77]And the place was dead enough that it didn’t hit me with a sharp panic– I felt the beginnings of it pull at me, but was able to move past it. It was still the first time a guy’s held my hand in public since Rick. Are younger guys generally this much more bold about things? AIDS bringing out a “fuck it” sort of attitude, or just a youth I never got to experience personally?