Friday, Aug. 09, 2002 - 11:55 p.m.
Fuckable; Knowable

Notes on Rahim

I'd never met J.C.'s friend Rahim before, but once I did last Friday I remembered him from the clubs back where I used to live. What a cutie! Tall, over six feet, size thirteen shoes, and a mischievous "come fuck me" gleam in his bedroom-brown eyes. Oh yes, and let's not forget about those bee-stung lips. Yeesh. Within approximately five minutes, I adored him utterly. Like Truman, Rahim is 20 and fairly newly out of the closet. A Canadian-born Muslim, he’s also a university student.

Rahim took a shine to me, too; but not in that way, I don’t think. With five of us living in my apartment all weekend, and the busy nightclub itineraries and consequent late hours these young-uns were keeping, someone was always having a nap, or at least trying to, or else taking a shower. Thus, delightfully, everyone was in various states of undress or redress or in-between-dress. I spent much of the weekend lounging around in my housecoat, and a couple hours after Rahim arrived Friday he remarked to J.C., about yours truly, "Aww, he's a sweetie. Look at him in that robe with all us young men around him: kind of like a gay Hugh Hefner, doncha think?"

It stuck. Rahim called me 'Heff' all weekend. I loved it. "So long as everyone knows it's not short for 'hefty,' eh?" I clarified.

Speaking of names, last weekend I made one of the most politically-incorrect slips of the tongue ever. Saturday we were all out shopping (I bought a new pair of designer jeans, a major event as I consider myself, usually, to be fashion-unconscious), and I called Rahim by name, by his real name, I mean. But I hadn't quite gotten it down pat yet. So the name I called out wasn't his, exactly; what I called out was the name of an Islamic fundamentalist terrorist organization that sounds slightly like sweet Rahim's real name.

Oops.

I was mortified, but thankfully Rahim thought it was funny.

Perhaps it's a gay thing, but it's certainly a Queerscribe thing, being so preoccupied and curious and focused on the erotic dynamics between myself and whatever new, attractive gay man I meet. I didn't get caught up in that too much with Rahim. I mean, he's gorgeous but I really didn't concern myself too much about whether he was attracted to me. Likely, he is predominantly interested in guys his own age, and that was the beginning and the end of my analysis. This felt good. So a certain refreshing and utterly delightful comfort grew up between us quick quickly, a touchy-feely affection akin to what I have with both J.C. and Enrique; I was smiling all weekend, let me tell ya.

Oh, yeah, there was that one moment, just hours before Rahim's stay at my place ended; Enrique and I were watching TV on the pulled-out pull-out couch in the living room when he sauntered up to us, a sassy look in his eye, and said, "Okay, guys, I'm outta here in a bit. So if you want to have sex with me it's now or never!"

Umpf! My cock jumped up in my pants—thankfully, said reaction unfurled beneath the blankets—but neither Enrique or I said anything. I knew already that Rahim and Enrique fooled around once, one drunken night six months or so ago, and I simply assumed this brash flirtation was aimed at him. Enrique giggled shyly; Rahim lay down beside him and cuddled up while the three of us watched TV.

"Thanks Heff," Rahim said, in parting later, arms wrapped around me.

To which I replied, caught off guard by the catch in my throat, that he could come back and stay with me any old time.

A Bit More on Truman

This shy 20 year old Asian-Canadian fellow—athletic body a potent reflection of his enthusiasm for roller-blading and tennis and what-not—definitely intrigued me as well. He wore sleeveless shirts all weekend, showing off meaty biceps; relaxing at my place, he tended to cup his hands behind his head, and oh my fucking god those armpits!

I nearly had a heart attack the first night: after the boys got home from the bar, Truman had a shower. I was already in bed, and the sound of the running water stimulated my bladder. I was all set to pee in the kitchen sink when he finally vacated the bathroom, towel wrapped low on his hips as he smiled at me coyly. Yowsa.

Not only were there too many people around all weekend to act on the mutual interest, but Truman’s bashfulness was such that I was never sure enough of said mutuality to initiate anything. There were his occasionally prolonged glances, gazes held a delicious extra few seconds, and his almost-but-not-quite-flirtatious comebacks to my almost-but-not-quite-flirtatious comments. But I was the host, I kept reminding myself. How might I feel in his young just-out-of-the-closet shoes, recipient of (unwanted?) advances from someone I barely knew and upon whose hospitality I was depending? The circumstances simply weren't right.

All this thwarted what would have been my usual seductive schtick. Instead, what happened was I got to know him a bit, and he me. So that when we finally hugged, a goodbye embrace on his last night in town, it meant something, something wholly different.

Truman too promises he'll come back to visit. I hope so; there is more there—not only to lick, but to learn.

J.C., J.C., J.C., J.C.

Have I mentioned, lately, that I love J.C.? My god, I hadn't laid eyes on him in almost a year; as mentioned, he hasn't failed any in the interval. Interesting, though: I noticed that I did not experience a visceral attraction to him this time. I mean, good god, he's a luscious young man, but the connection we have now has transcended my dirty mind, or something.

More than desire, I feel such a tender awe and respect for the guy, what he's doing with his life. Back home, he's started doing some volunteer cooking at a soup kitchen, and next month he embarks on an eight-month volunteer program that's going to take him from one end of the country to another. I am so proud of him. He mentioned that he's interested in getting into the helping field professionally; we didn't get a chance to talk about that in-depth, but I was blown away at these aspirations.

When I listen to myself going on and on about J.C., I sometimes worry that my enthusiasm comes across as dotage. I know this guy pretty well—he's one of my closest friends—and, yeah, I was in lust and in love with him for a long while too. But I think I see him pretty clearly now, flaws and all. Sure, I sing his praises, and I guess I've done quite a bit to help him out but that part too feels right—like, if I gave him money instead of occasionally loaning it to him, or whatever, then I’d be worried.

I was doing a reality check about my relationship with J.C. in my private journal the other day; I wrote something like, Sure, I champion him. But who else in his life does? And who doesn't need someone to champion them?

Tradition dictates that no mention of this lovely man would be complete without at least a passing reference to his humongous dick.

You see, for a long time now I’ve been wanting to get a photo of J.C. against a certain local backdrop; without the slightest bit of scheming on my part, we happened to walk by this landmark Monday afternoon and I just happened to have my camera. It’s nothing special, just a free-standing sign advertising a hot dog vendor down by the water. I did have to scheme slightly to get J.C. to pose beside this sign while I took my pictures; I was tight-lipped about why I wanted him to stand right there, but luckily he did not bother to peer over and read what it said.

Not until I’d taken my pictures.

You should have heard him laugh. And laugh and laugh.

“Mr. Tube Steak.”

Enrique is a Gift From God

Oh my god, he is such a sweetheart! I mean, really. We just click. He’s so friendly and easy to get along with, and we are having an absolute blast as temporary roommates. He’ll be looking for a place to live for September, and starts his schooling then too. Enrique spoils me, truth be told: always cooking and cleaning and looking after me. I appreciate all that, but what I value more is how easy he is to talk to. We can talk serious shit, and then be almost peeing our pants laughing a minute later. I love making him laugh that adorable, Latin-accented laugh.

He’s a beautiful young guy, too: woof! He’s been working out a lot lately, and looks terrific. But I dealt with my attraction to him last year when he was here, and I don’t think of him sexually anymore. Enrique goes for guys his own age or younger, so I’d be shocked if he thought of me that way either. It’s funny, because earlier this week Joey wondered aloud if Enrique might be getting a crush on me. I was taken aback at the suggestion, and having considered it, I really don’t think that’s what’s going on.

What’s going on, I think, is that Enrique’s feeling more and more comfortable with me, and I with him, as friends. We’re getting to be close. It’s not complicated by an overt sexual dynamic; I mean, I ’d be floored if there was any of that going on for him. Floored.

It just means so fucking much to have him back here. His friendship soothes and excites me, both. Am I blessed or what?

Reminder

I love having sex with attractive young men: oh yes I do! But sometimes—often, in fact—an erotic agenda precludes possibilities for hugs and playfulness, for connectedness beyond the hormonal moment.

I don’t have to de-emphasize sex in order to explore my adorations. I need only bring the heart more in line with the hard-on.

I’m going to keep fucking up and—this is not always the same thing—I'm going to keep blissing out on bodies. But I’m also going to keep learning and stretching and loving, too.