Préambule
“It doesn’t have to be something particular,” Thom said, over the breakfast, a continuation of the old, stale talk, “It can be – random things. I don’t have to use lipstick to be effeminate.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“It doesn’t even have to be bold. I can just…play with my hair. Is that feminine?”
“Depends on how you define it.”
“No, how you define it. This is, after all, about you.”
“If your theory is right, then something you are already doing is feminine, and thus attractive to me. But I think your theory is shit.”
“Something I am already doing?”
“If you were 80 years old, a woman, wrinkly, with sunken voice, I think I would feel the same.”
“A woman!”
“If you were a man, too. In fact, I don’t see you as a gender.”
He thought for a moment.
“Then my physical body is unimportant to you.”
“No. It is important, but because it belongs to you, I would accept it in any form.”
“If you’d accept anything, my form actually loses value. You are basically insulting me over this nice breakfast.”
I am 18 and Thomas’s insecurity toward my affection for him is striking to the point where I would like to devour his wracked body; the way he shakes in the blue tones of our bedroom when I unveil his form, the nervous tremor in his hands and wide-open eyes following my hands is a thrill, and it makes me want to perpetuate his suffering for it pleases me so to see him on the verge of coming undone. I do not care for his form when he is not moving in the most fluid of ways, when he dances with his eyes closed and mouth half-open or plays his music in the tribute to his greatest fears. I do not care for the sharp line of his shoulders or his fine hair, and I do not care for his skin and lips; when he stands in front of the mirror and looks at me for approval I shrug, partly because I cannot feign interest and partly because I would like struggle with his conflicting perception of himself and conquer him when the time comes.
I’ve spotted him several minutes ago and now I follow his movement when my vision is not blocked by the crowd, I take note of his gestures, the ones I’ve seen numerous times before, and it pleases me to recognize them. I trace the line of his spine with my eyes, down, and then up again, then traveling along his jaw, then up the contour of his profile, his lips, his pale forehead. I would like him to come closer to me and I would like to use my hands, I’ve been feeling uncontrollable hunger these past few months, and Thom smiles quietly when he notices my eyes sweeping him.
How complex, I think, a human body is; it is generic in its first years, fine lines, sharp angles, it stretches and fills with time, and it batters with age. Thom breathes into my ear at night and laughs soundlessly when I trace my hand over his chest and stomach, smiles toothily when my thumb traces the white spot on his beard. I know that he is remembering out conversation of several decades ago and I know that he thinks he is getting his revenge; that I shallowly try to remember what he felt like then. I do not argue or restart the conversation because I would like him to believe that is true; because the way he shakes now is similar to the way he did then.
I do not explain him the agony of want that’s been only intensifying with the passing years, the fact that my movement is now more restrained and slow only because I’ve learned to control myself. Tracing my lips over his neck I remember how it felt five and 20 years ago, my hand strokes his thigh the same way I did when we were in our twenties, and thousands of episodes come up in my mind. I make love to the tens of versions of him, to all the stages his body’s been through; when I close my eyes it is him in the warm light of his room in his parent’s house, and it is him smiling at me pristinely when I caught him in my arms yesterday.
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