Monday, May. 13, 2002 - 10:34 p.m.
Quite Contrary

Outside the subway station, four grungy folks beat on their drums. This was a week ago, Friday after work, a sunny spring evening pounded into a new shape by the sound. Mesmerized, I wandered over to stare and listen and vibrate along. Two bearded drummers perched on the ledge in ragged, colorful sweaters (made of hemp? soiled from tree-hugging?). Leaning against The Bay across from them, a slender light-skinned black or Native drummer, luxuriantly ponytailed, and a tanned young woman, smiling as she thumped. The drummers had claimed a stretch of busy sidewalk; with varying degrees of hesitation and self-consciousness, pedestrians hurried through the middle of their performance.

I tossed a toonie into the pot and stood there infused by the pitapat. It was almost erotic. The beat catapulted beneath my skin.

And then I saw him, a sharp-dressed, beautiful young man, plunked down on the ledge between the bearded drummers. Navy dress pants, white dress shirt under black vest. He sat there with his eyes shut, a black leather zippered-up organizer in his hand. He did not move a muscle or open his eyes for the few minutes I watched.

He looked to be meditating. He wasn’t really there at all. And he was so obviously some yuppy guy, shamanistically hijacked on his way home from work. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. With no visual evidence to back up my imagination, I imagined his hard-on. But it was probably just me. And mine.

My reaction to the meditating man drummed up a memory.

One night back in Toronto, Alex and I went to a performance of Tibetan monks, chanting. It was incredible. The monks surprised us by being young and hunky beneath colorful robes, robes the cut of which bared biceps and muscular shoulders. Sitting in the audience, I smiled at my inappropriate arousal. I did not feel spiritually uplifted or inspired; I was horny.

Typical.

Later that night, after a bite to eat, Alex and I headed up the street to the male stripper bar, Remington’s. We joked about our evening’s incongruous unfolding. As one young man after another got naked up on stage, I turned calm. While I enjoyed many of the performances, I did not get a hard-on. My fantasies were decidedly non-erotic; I wondered about these beautiful guys’ emotions, their inner lives, what brought them to this line of work. I got curious about the hungry-eyed spectators surrounding me. The room filled up with indescribable energies I wanted to name, or tame, or suck down deep into my body.

My nexus—rare as it is—with sacred space or energy is profoundly sexual; erotic enthusiasm occasionally grazes the divine.

I’m an odd fellow; my life has been strange. But my body, my body is a drum and oh life’s wondrous converse sounds!