My head, my heart, my hips: different planes. I know things, I feel things, I want things.
I can keep myself from doing things. I can deny myself. I can live as a nun. I can know that everyone around me is terrible for me and not touch any of them. My will is strong. I use reason to argue myself out of things and people.
I left someone when I was still in love with him. My heart still burned for awhile. A couple of years. Then it was dead coals for a couple more. It took a while to get up and clean out the hearth.
But I cannot stop my body from its twinges. I can’t help what appeals to it. I love sweets and fats and salt and creeps and sleazes. I love long stringy tall angular dark men with weird mannerisms that seem dangerous and odd. Unsafe. Think Kafka’s Soldiers and Inspectors and Guards. That reads even more terrible than it was in my head. But unfortunately, accurate. (Gross.)
I have a terrible crush on The Jeremy Irons. I have had a crush on him for over twenty years. He may be a very nice man. I don’t know him. In my body’s mind, he is terribly creepy. Have you seen Dead Ringers? Or Reversal of Fortune? Both of them: a terrifying man. Great movies, too. But I don’t think good date movies. Unless you and your date met on craigslist with a very specific ad. And you would probably get a better reaction from your friends if you said you met in rehab–any kind of rehab–than if you told them what was in that ad. (Not judging, just saying. If you ever wonder if there is love–or at least, desire–enough in the world, cruise the craigslist ads for a little bit. Made a believer out of me. I think it was the missed connection that went something like: You took a shit in my mouth on the 6 train on Friday. I don’t know why they didn’t exchange numbers in the first place. But it gave me hope. And a little kid sense of ewwww.)
I think it goes back somewhat to the first man I found attractive, the first man who registered as male to me. He was tall and lanky, muscled, and might even count as stringy. With long hands and fingers and feet. Deep metallic voice, a stick hitting an empty oil drum. This body has always meant man to me as opposed to boy or female, even if I don’t end up with it romantically–I can separate the heart and the head from the hips. I’m not sure why the creepy part gets me. But it does. There’s something about the sleazy, creepy thing that makes my body snap like the telephone wires hitting in the wind. I get a strange jolt deep inside. It feels wrong, like I shouldn’t want it. But I do. I know some people have sexual fantasies they feel they shouldn’t have–where they are raped or beaten–and I know, you can’t always help what idea makes your hips quake. It doesn’t mean I want to be in a relationship with a creep.
I also really like The David Bowie. Not just the Thin White Duke (I think that was the most attractive Bowie), I’d fuck old man The David Bowie. His geriatric ass is still hot. All angles and skin and bones and cuts and stubble and paperclips and alcohol vapor and bits of receipts. I’d get his prescriptions and rub his wrinkly ass with IcyHot. That is, if elderly Mr. The Jeremy Irons won’t have me. I’ll cut your steaks! I’ll use The Google for you! (He’s only 65. That’s not that old. Probably has more pee-pee problems than a guy my age, but in a creepy, sleazy, nasty, godforsaken relationship, you’d just roll with that shit. I’d make his urologist appointments. The fuckswing and fucking machine would be in the den for all to see. But/and that’s also an inappropriate age difference: sleazy. Look at how I’ve defamed the object of my desire! But my The Jeremy Irons is nothing like the real person. Mine is a puppet made of a face and a voice. Mine is a golem.)
Nota bene: the man I am in love with is not creepy. He is not a sleaze. (I am the sleaze here. Everyone who knows me knows if you make a sleazy joke I will attempt to one up you. There are some people in my life sleazier than me, but not that many.) He is tall, but not shaped like a tapeworm made into a human being; you cannot see his viscera under his skin. His spine is comfortably under his skin and musculature. He is fair, which Grimm and others told me meant he was of he Good variety. He smiles readily. His heart is open–very open, so open that I had to learn to not be uneasy, for my chest has a scallop inside. Takes a lot to relax and come out, and even then, there’s so much shell.
And I am balanced with him. Head, and heart, and hips. It’s even. We match, the puzzle is the same. I found him, and no one had to shit in anyone’s mouth for it to happen. (He’s even offered to watch Brideshead Revisited with me. Yes, he knows. Of course he does!)
But something came up the other day and I was thinking about The Jeremy Irons’s narrow pale ass. Hm. Narrow. I’ll bet everything of his smells like old stale dead smoke, too. Even his hands. With his long, stained, bony fingers. Those deep, dead eyes.