to the hours of wasted sunlight
snug blankets and uncombed hair
6:30 am. I wish there was a gentler vibrato to my cellphone. Don’t wanna wake up to a miniature earthquake every morning.Snooze.
6:35 am. Alarm dismiss.
8:20 am. My phone sulking and silent, my stomach rumbles in a murmur, inaudible but persistent.
9:00 am. My gut feeling is an ultimatum. I first look at my palm, say a quick prayer quicker and rush into the kitchen. Pan. Water. Top Ramen. My laptop’s fan is humming like in heavy labor, while booting.
Live from New York, it’s Saturday night!!!! I shut the door to my room, wrap myself in a blanket, lap my laptop up and eat out of the pan to my side watching Two worlds collide ft. Reba McIntire. 30 more minutes of SNL and I’m worried I’ll use the b-word again. Bored. I untangle my headphones and settle in to watch an episode of 30 rock – TGS hates women.
10ish my conscience quivers, I have to be at work before 10:45. I call my team lead and channel my early morning raspy tone into a nasal sick imitation seeking a leave. Granted!
You ever have one of those days? When you don’t want to show up. You don’t want to meet/talk/interact with a single person. You wanna shun all form of responsibility or social nicety and personal hygiene. You wanna be by yourself and just be? Well, I was going through something like that for a week and finally took a sick leave.
There’s a theory about men that I propose. It’s incontrovertible. Just like a man itches to pee right after he’s cum masturbating, there are things that he HAS to do when alone. Like watching porn. I’m off to youporngay,com
Feeling spent and oddly aware of my body, I fall asleep in the semi-darkness.
Time flies only when you’re having fun or sleeping. I did both and it was soon noon.
Imogen heap sings someone’s calling. It’s Amma, asking what I was doing. I said I didn’t go to work coz I was feeling under the weather. She worries, offers kitchen medicine, tells me about my sisters and their kids. I aw appropriately. She hangs up, but not before lamenting about when she might hold her son’s son.
I log on to quora to find some gay questionnaire to anonymously answer. What is the hardest thing about being gay?
I finish venting my anguish, wait for a full second before I call my friend who I suspect asked the question and tell him to check it. He does and upvotes.
I call a dear dear friend to check it too. He answers, abiding by the gay cliche, with more feeling. I feel accomplished. You see, he’s married and happy and gay. He married under parental pressure and does love his wife. Calls himself a practising heterosexual with a gay history and sensibility. We’ve had many discussions peppered with ‘What if’s. Before getting engaged he always would say, that given a choice, he’d marry a man. Now, he doesn’t answer questions like that, out of respect to his wife. His one guilty pleasure? He still has a planetromeo id that he uses to know the scene. I tell him that he should cheat. He laughs me off saying he’s fulfilled. Which is the cue to my self-pity session. He was once gay, in a happy relationship, quits being gay, embraces the nooni, is once again happy. I still haven’t had a serious date so far, and am essentially sexually non-proficient.
Since all my gay peers are sexually active and I shoot faster than Usain bolt, I call a married middle-aged guy for a rendezvous. Let me explain. I feel less insecure when I’m with an older guy who knows that a non-weird gay that looks like me would never sleep with him. The sex is always bad, lurking on the absolute worst. I guess I do it just to know for a fact that during those few minutes, I am attractive (to someone), unlike how my mirror thinks of me. He comes and cums. I clean up in disgust. He wants to snuggle. I don’t. But out of respect to his age, I comply, he talks with his mouth on my mouth, I try to look away from the greys in his eyebrows.
“You put too much emphasis on sex. Sex is not everything. Being in a relationship is much more.”
“I know, it’s much more. But sex IS important and I suck at s/f-ucking. You can’t be in a relationship without having sex at all.”
“You have less time having sex and more time being with that person. That is important.”
I retort that that line will seal the deal. I can’t imagine courting someone and telling them, we shall not have awesome coitus, but, hey, we’ll be good lovers. I tell him I have a client call to take on skype and see him to the door.
I latch the door. Hear his heavy footsteps down the stairs and squirm. Remember that scene where Dominique francon does not want to take a shower after Roark had role-played rape with her, in the raw need to keep whatever molecules of his remained on her body, intact and with her? I had the exact opposite of that feeling and took a long shower.
Thus ends the love-hate relationship with myself for a day. The window on the top left of my room sneaks in a few golden beams of the setting sun. I walk out of my house, without my specs taking in the trees in blurry delight. Sit down on a park bench and eat Lays in peace. The sun sets and the mosquitoes aren’t shy.
Scratching, I get up. Back to my prison with the clothes, ID and the Debit card. Tomorrow’s a work day.