I always start again.
But each time I am different, it is different, different from the time before and the time before that.
But I start again.
It can be unnerving, as when the conversation with the boy in the corner store does not get off the ground and no one I see turns me on.
But I have got to get through that.
Worse is the feeling that whatever I do, it is not going to work out.
And that seems to be substantiated when I blow it with my next pickup and the sex is dead.
The sharp edge is dull. Going to the gym doesn't seem to be worth it or really very important.
I start again, but after a while desire becomes an ache or not even that, the memory of an ache.
He was a kid, twenty-six at the oldest, wearing a leather jacket, tight jeans, motor cycle boots. He had a lean chest, a trace of baby fat on his face. His hair was cropped shorter than I like it, but it emphasized the perfection of his skull. I thought, this is where the snows of yesteryear are.
Do you know me?
What? I said.
You just smiled at me, when our eyes met.
I didn't realize I had, I said smiling, drawn in to where I had been sure I was forever to be kept out.
You're sweet, he said.
You don't know me, I said.
The way his eyes got under mine when he said maybe he did made me believe him.
Listen to my eyes, he said.
He knew the need he caused in me, and that need became all I was.
He lived in a small place on Hudson Street.
It was freshly painted, all white, clean and very neat, wood floors, hardly any furniture, a bed, a desk, a lamp, a small separate kitchen. There were jars of grains, nuts, spices, and dried fruits standing on exposed wood shelves lining the wall.
You like to cook, I said.
He nodded his head. I followed him to the bedroom.
He shut the door, turned, and took me in his arms. He pressed his lips to mine in a ferocious and irresistible kiss. It devoured me. I sprung back at him with equal appetite.
You astonish me, I said.
Not anymore than you astonish me, he said with a beautiful grin.
How long have you been married? he said.
You can tell?
How long? he repeated, nodding his head.
Too long, I said.
Come on, he said.
Twenty years, I answered.
She was standing in front of me arguing with the bus driver, and I was on the steps watching, waiting to drop my exact change in the till.
I sat down in the only seat, next to her.
You don't know what it's like, she said, turning to me.
Like what's like? I said.
Not to be respected because you're a woman.
But I did.
Although I am not a woman, I am not really a man either. Although I am eligible for male privilege, and the deference accorded to males is sometimes at first afforded to me, I soon disqualify myself without even trying.
I did not say anything but only listened, intent on the way she moved her lips as she spoke.
She was tending bar in a topless place. It was no matter to me what she did.
She seemed to be made strong by defiance.
She had an hour before her shift. She asked me to go for coffee. I got off the bus when she did.
She was a painter. The apartment had the lingering smell of oil paint and turpentine perfuming it. It wasn't far from here, on Jones Street.
I should open the windows, she said. I hope it doesn't bother you, she said, indicating the smell by a flourish of her left hand through the air.
No, I said. Is that, pointing to the canvass on an easel in the corner, I said, something you did?
I'm working on it now, she said. But it keeps changing.
It was a female nude sitting on the edge of a bed in a gaudy room with a gold and burgundy quilted wall paper. She was staring straight ahead with an expression that suggested pain and also resignation, a madonna without a child. Outside, you could see a forest through the arch of the window; a lion in the middle distance was watching her.
She was seeing something, but who knew where?
I exhaled slowly as I turned away from it.
She handed me a vodka and tonic.
This is not coffee, I said.
Coffee will keep you from sleeping.
But I'm not going to sleep, I said.
No? she said; not even with me? she said. Clasping her hands behind my neck and leaning back, she looked pseudo-menacingly into my eyes.
It did not excite me, but I joined in her kiss; I felt my head ache, but I could not withdraw.
I could not get away. We built a jail.
We decorated the jail and fought in the jail, and even made love in the jail. But our hearts knew it was a jail.
Every now and then, I looked out and saw your shadow and ached with desire and trembled at desire.
My shadow?
I think so, I said.
But I was not there.
That is why it was only a shadow, I smiled.
I am more than just your idea, he said.
Yes, I said. More.
He took my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles and then the inside of my wrist.
I sighed.
He looked at me with love but questioningly.
It's not a prison, I said smiling.
That's what you think, he said. I intend to keep a pretty firm grip on you.
He did not let me respond but started teasing my mouth with his until I was dying for his kisses and straining my entire body towards him.
What we don't accomplish in life we confess into existence in fiction.
That's why you write?
That's why I write, I said; maybe. Maybe it's just a way of singing to myself. Writers are wastrels.
The kid looked at me and shook his head, cocked it and smiled a shy smile.
I wish I knew what to do for you, he said.
[When you write, please put story name in subject slot. Thanks.]