Wednesday, Jul. 30, 2003 - 3:35 p.m.
What Could Have Been The Last Words

Wednesday, June 04, 2003

The cupcake boy is scrumptious.

Enrique and I stopped by last night, in hopes that he'd be working. He was. My cravings for a chocolate cupcake paled in comparison: I wanted the cupcake boy so bad. Speaking of bad, Enrique was naughty. When the cupcake boy—muscular, 20 or thereabouts, cherub face reminiscent of a young Rob Lowe—took our order, Enrique said "Um...I'll have one of...you!" The cupcake boy, of undetermined sexual orientation but probably straight, laughed, shot me a grin and said "You put him up to this, didn't ya!" I pleaded the fifth. Enrique ordered his cupcake; I ordered mine, 'Chocolate Desire'. (Had the cupcake boy been black, it would have been perfect. As it was, he still chortled when I made my selection.) Enrique asked what time the store closed. 11 pm. It was currently 9:30. I teased Enrique about going back later to pick this dream-boy up, but he went straight home.

I might have to go for another cupcake tonight, myself. Alone. At around 10:58 pm.

Thursday, June 05, 2003

On the bus home one night last week, too tired to get into my book, unusually, I looked around. Six or so interesting-looking young guys got on at the next stop. One I'd noticed before, a young chunky bearded guy, brunette, big hazel pond eyes.

He and his bespectacled slim friend got off at the skytrain station too and then onto the same car as me. I got a seat and they didn't. They were standing up right beside me, so I could gawk inconspicuously. The chunky brunette was a bit too chunky: I probably wouldn't sleep with him until he slims down a bit. His beard was unkempt, his hair was thinning a bit--no, not thinning, receding. But oh! Those butterscotch eyes!

He was wearing an untucked t-shirt with "Fucked Company" emblazoned across his chest. No big deal, except that then I noticed the work ID card clipped to the front pocket of his jeans. He wore this t-shirt to work? He must have an easy-going boss. His ID card showed a picture of him with longer hair. His name....

His name was Jesus. Jesus with fuck on his shirt.

They got off downtown. Then it was my turn to disembark and as I stood up to exit, as the skytrain sped the couple subterranean blocks to my stop, I noticed a young man farther down the car with short mousy brown hair streaked blond on top. Mouthwatering. I thought he was checking me out. I beamed brilliantly at him for a moment. Then I felt shy, thinking I’d misconstrued. I couldn't stop myself from looking over once or twice more, just to be sure. He did not glance back.

He left by the far door, and was soon walking ahead of me towards the escalators, up and out of the station. I watched his slim, perfect body wiggle in off-white corduroys, a fabulous tan-colored untucked shirt, an off-white jacket, brown leather shoes. Everything was perfect. I began to hate him, to imagine everything that must be detestable about this Perfect White Boy.

Outside the station, a derelict young man called out to him. The Perfect White Boy looked back annoyedly, and walked on without responding. I knew it: what a snot. The street guy asked me too on my way by, did I have a transfer I was finished with? Since I use a monthly pass, I did not. I was purposefully gracious, smiling inwardly at my superiority over the Perfect White Boy

The Perfect White Boy strode up the street. I resented every bouncey to and fro of his corduroyed butt. He got up to the next big intersection, a red light. I caught up. Didn't want to stand too close to him, but couldn't take my eyes off the streak of blond on his perfect head.

A homeless woman sat propped up against the lightpost. I'd noticed her earlier in the week. Some street person or other is always sitting against that lamppost, all seemingly trained by the same drama coach: with remorseful, dirty faces, they all hold hand-scrawled signs along the lines of "I made a mistake, please help". This one, a lady maybe 30-40 years of age with long stringy hair, had it down pat. I couldn't read her sign from where I stood, but her noticeably whiskered face was crumpled with contrition.

The Perfect White Boy was standing right beside her. He peered down and read her note, dug in his pocket and tossed some coin into her Starbucks paper cup. She squinted up, nodded tragically at him. Her head and shoulders began to spasm. She was crying. The light changed and everyone began to move. He looked down at her again, pausing, and with a warm—no, beatific—smile leaned over and in to squeeze her shoulder before stepping off the curb.

I could not look at her as I passed by. I could not look anywhere for a blinding radiant moment. My eyes welled up as I wondered when, pray tell, she’d last been touched by a gentle manly hand.

I continued up the street, watching the Perfect White Boy wiggle and weave on ahead.

Friday, June 06, 2003

One Saturday morning not long ago, the maids I get in twice a month had just arrived to clean my pig-sty of an apartment. They were getting started when I heard a mysterious, repetitive, distinctly squeaky noise. "What's that?" I asked the cleaning lady in the kitchen. She had no idea. I made my way to the bathroom to investigate. The other maid must be using a chamois cloth on the mirror or something, I thought. But her first words to me were, "What's that noise?"

My squinting ears led me back to the front hall. There on the floor was a little grey bird with a bright orange beak. Cheep. Cheep. Cheep.

How the hell did it get in? My windows had been closed since much earlier that morning. It must have come in with the maids. The bird flapped its way up off the floor and onto my clothes hamper full of clean laundry. I was opening the living room window when I heard its wings flapping again; I had my back turned, and I imagined the bird was going to fly right into me, beak-first or something. Jerking and ducking, I cried out. The maids laughed.

It took me a few minutes to locate the bird again. There it was, perched on the edge of an old Sidney Poitier videotape on the bottom shelf of my TV stand, impassive as a stone. I knelt down and clapped my hands at it a couple times and it didn't so much as flinch.

All of which made me wonder if the bird might in fact be tame, a pet belonging to someone on my floor. That would explain why it came in through the front door, wouldn’t it. I decided to check around.

I knocked at the suite of the young straight couple at the end of the hall. I’d certainly taken note of him before—strawberry blond, short-short hair, hunky, maybe 30; it was no accident that he was the first neighbor I headed for. The door opened and there he was, wearing a sweatshirt and grey boxers. I wasn't expecting that. He was friendly—as he always had been the few times we'd exchanged pleasantries in the hall—and he was also utterly, sexily unselfconscious about talking to me in his undies. He—they—didn't have a pet bird, I learned, nor did he think anyone else on our floor had one. Trying to avert my eyes from his crotch, from the outline of his ample, pendulous wares, I said I wanted to make sure the bird wasn’t somebody's pet before shooing it out the window. Moving as if to step out into the hall, he said, “Well, I could come and have a look at it, see if it looks tame or not.” My cock jumped up in my pants at this proposal, and I rued booking in the maids, today of all days. I explained that I had cleaning ladies in at the moment, and that I was sure I could manage on my own.

We chatted another minute, and I said goodbye and thanks to my handsome, barely-dressed, oh-so-helpful neighbor.

("You wanted to have a look at his bird, didn't ya!" laughed Joey when I phoned him later.)

Aborting the neighborhood survey at that point, I returned to my apartment, where the imperturbable maids were still cleaning and the imperturbable bird was still motionless on the video box. Enough was enough, I decided. Bravely, I picked up the movie, incredulous that the bird didn't instantly fly away, and slowly walked all the way over to the open window where I girlishly flung the videotape out the window. At that moment, of course, the bird took flight, veering back deep into my living room, landing on top of a framed picture on the wall.

Now I was shrieking, insane, flipped right out. At this point one of the maids intervened, offered to deal with the bird. What a relief. After a few tries she succeeded in cupping it in her hands and tossing it out the window. It flew across the street and out of sight.

Good riddance.

Since the traumatic episode, I have been imbued with a neighborliness that’s downright palpable. Would it be too clichéd to go knock at the hunk’s door again some day, to—oh, I don't know—borrow a cup of sugar? Or maybe some plumbing problem will befall me that he’d be kind enough to come take a look at. Ah, best case scenario: the window blind right beside my bed might malfunction—it could happen!—perhaps as soon as this very weekend: I just bet he has a knack for fixing that sort of thing.

Thursday, June 12, 2003

You know what I'd like, I said, lying on him, peering into his big brown eyes.

What.

I'd like you to slap me with that big cock.

He rolled his eyes, giggling. Really.

Really, I said.

I wormed my way down on the bed, stubble scraping the smooth lanky length of him. Rested my chin in the satin vee of his thighs, squinting to bring his dick into focus. Waiting.

He got a grip. Slap he went, Slap-slap-slap.

No, I said. Like this. I shoved his hand away, grabbed hold.

Thwack I went,Thwack....Thwack....THWACK !

Oh! he exclaimed, a gush of sharp breath.

Like that, I said, delirious and puckered, my own dick straining and throbbing against my underwear.

But didn't it hurt? he asked, looking guilty.

Oh yes, I said, beaming at him.

Monday, June 16, 2003

We were alone in the sauna for a minute at the end, but I was too shy. He walked out. In the shower I watched soap trail down his back to lick between his perfect buttcheeks.

At the locker, I said hello. The Korean boy blushed. We made locker room chitchat. Soon he was smiling at me. Black tousled hair danced drying and free on his head as he tucked himself into pastel yellow briefs.

Did you use weights, swim, or what did you do here tonight? (Weights. "I don't know how to swim.") How long have you lived here. (Five months.) What are you doing here? ("North of downtown".) No, what do you do? ("Sorry, could you speak slowly please.") Sorry, I mean, do you work? Study? ("Study English." )

I bade the beautiful Korean boy goodnight. Didn't introduce myself. Not yet. There would be time enough for that later, perhaps. It didn't matter. I danced my way home.

I've been with probably a half dozen guys in the past couple weeks. Tonight's inane conversation with the shy, pretty boy at the gym meant more, brought more of me out into the world, than all that sex put together.

Sex with beautiful men: it's become too easy.

Being friendly is more difficult: a happening between us that casts a wider, brighter glow.