Читать книгу Sunshine on an Open Tomb - Tim Kinsella - Страница 13

As the years accrue, increasingly I think about nothing at all except fucking with The Act of Love, while at the same time, I never feel like actually fucking with it.

Still, most nights crescendo the same: grinding my King Charles up against the flimsy closet door at The Other Greek Place.

I’d grunt and throw my head back and howl, biting at O’Malley over my shoulder while he spanked me.

It was all a wild performative ritual for my posse’s sake to wedge the slimmest gap between my flushed and fleshy self and my self-awareness of my ridiculous irrepressible impulses.

The Greek hooted gruff kudos from a few steps back.

Aaron guarded the door.

That spinning was always the last I remember before Aaron and That Mike would drag me to the backseat of my minivan.

And then the window cold against my forehead, the streets all tilting down on me, rushing at me.

Like some clueless, stuttering, cartoon pig Casanova flirting with a spiked hedgehog, I wrecked myself into completion for that woman.

That was her simple command.

Like how fire cultivates a forest’s floor, she just appeared.

My Diana.

One night, all at once, radiating her weaponized beauty in profile, she was hanging on that flimsy closet door, a sweaty beer bottle dangling from her grip, her slick skin stiff and thick as if she’d gotten a chill in her patriotic bikini, the moon low and huge behind her.

When I was 5 years old, I saw her face in my mind.

When I was 13, I was so confused that I couldn’t find her.

I was sick on my wedding day cuz it wasn’t her.

Trusted Reader, imagine a public touch between two men, strangers, nothing big, just a glancing touch on a bare forearm.

It’s impossible to translate even something so simple as that into language, to filter the charged ping of bone thru the troubled scrim of wordage.

But, I let someone in.

You ever been touched inappropriately, Scrupulous Reader, an unwanted touch?

It tears you in two.

You partition.

You set that touch moment aside and get on with the moil of your cycling days. It’s always Ash Wednesday or Tax Day or something.

But you never can integrate that touch moment into your smiley ho-hum, and all your impulses and habits bloom in response to it—everything.

That touch defines you.

Let The Barbarians drool.

My Diana was as real as anything’s ever been real to me.