zen's journal

I've been wanting to post a journal entry for a bit, but haven't had a chance to come over.
Part of my problem is that I've installed Windows 2000 Pro., and I'm running into a wealth of glitches. I'm actually NOT going to talk tech here. Even though I love tech talk, I'm going to save that for the forums.

This post was edited by zen on Jun 07, 2004.

***WARNING...SOME ADULT CONTENT!!!***

I’m gay. I can’t say that I’ve said that all my life. In fact, it’s only been in the last 8 years, max, that I’ve come close to acknowledging that to myself.

When I was in school, I described my self as straight, although I knew deep down that I must be bisexual. In the 1980s, listening to Dr. Ruth Westheimer, I heard of the Kinsey Scale, of 1 to 10. I forget which end was the totally-straight, and which the totally gay end, but I self-identified as a 5 on that scale. The exact middle, I was, perhaps, the perfect bisexual.

In school, when younger, I told people that I was straight, and acted accordingly. Never wanted to give anyone the impression that I was anything but completely straight. I even tried to date a few times, but failed in my social life miserably. I think that I was, at some point, attracted to females. I did want to think that I was straight, even though my deep down feelings told me otherwise. And I also drank alot at that time.

Of course, I’ve always been fascinated by skin, and flesh of all types, and configurations. I love skin, preferably smooth, and hairless; although I can live with the right hair in the right places on male or female bodies. And truth be told, I love seeing nudity, and nakedness. Maybe I’m not a Kensey 5: perhaps I’m just a nudist!!

Any way, these days, for the most part I feel comfortable calling myself gay (within certain circles of course). I adore flesh. I love seeing naked guys. I “fav” nude dudes on DeviantArt. I regularly (well, more or less) go to gay porn sites. In my virtual life, I’m open about my sexuality. In real life, I’m less open; but if I trust the person, I won’t lie about it, and will tell the person of my orientation, eventually.

I think that since as long as I’ve been drawing, and doing artwork, I look at people wondering how they’re put together. So I’ve watched people for a long time, not necessarily for an erotic attraction, but just cause it’s what I’ve always done.

Lately, though, I’ve become fascinated again, about the female form. Actually, not just the form, but certain parts of the form. I’ve been thinking of the woman’s soft furry patch between her legs, and the wonderful shell-like parting of the vaginal lips, and labia glistening so pinky soft in the light of a setting sun. I’ve been thinking of not only dating, but the whole courtship thing, and dancing and being with a woman, and waking up with her, and looking into her beautiful brown, or soft slate grey eyes, and kissing her so profusely, and very inside of the soul of who she is. And Thinking of gettting naked with her, and holding and caressing every inch of her luscious body, warm with the heat of our breathing, and holding her tightly and rubbing every inch of her untill she shivvers and quivvers, and quakes from the anticipation of my touch on her lips, and neck, and the deep kiss, dark and long on her neck, and behind the ears, and down the neck, to breasts, ready with glistening sweat, and the feel, of my warm, soft lips on hers, as my fingers gently slid, oh-so-lovingly, soft and gentle down to her furry, lightly-haired mount of Venus, and inbetween, to that lovely, poetic, parting of the greater and minor lips, to its warm, and waiting conclusion.

So I went to the store to get some porn with naked ladies on the cover. I looked over all the magazines, and the babes were naked. And they looked hott, and I guarentee that I’d have seen their beavers split, and smiling...and I was going to get it; but there was just one problem. It just looked nasty, and, well, dirty. I left there without getting the books with the naked babes on the cover. It didn’t FEEL right. So then I’ve come to the following conclusion: I’m gay.

It had snowed a few, scant days before. There was still snow on the ground, piled, and congested, waiting for a Spring thaw that was not forthcoming. That day had been unseasonably cold, and biting. Windy, it strangely made me think of Detroit, a city I have yet to visit. In all its seasonal unrest, I never figured that I would not see the snow melt, only a week later.

March 15, 1993 was the year that I committed a crime, for which I went to jail. Actually, technically, it's prison, as it was a felony. I don't think that I can name one of my friends or associates at the time who would've thought that I would be the one to commit such a crime.

It started out early that morning with a tumultuous ride by mom to the town centre, so I could pick up my General Assistence check. After that, I caught the local bus to the package store and started my day's usual activity, drinking. It was about 3 pm by the time I got out of the pub in town. I met my soon-to-be-victim at about 5, shortly before going to the package store for some ginger brandy. I remember the prosecutor kept saying the words ginger brandy. They sounded so odd coming from his mouth

We drank, and then we walked out to the beach...and the rest, as they say, is history.

It's supposed to snow tonight, and turn to rain, and back to snow. Accumulations might reach 3 to 6 inches.

I try not to think of my victim, although it's difficult. My actions changed both our lives, and our families. I am forever sorry, and regret what I did. At this time every year, I think of him and say a prayer. Mostly I just ask for healing.

And it is at this time of the year that I say a prayer of thanksgiving, being grateful for another year...or at least another day, of sobriety.

Another day at work... <http://zen-.deviantart.com/journal/1897147/>
Journal Entry: Tue Feb 24, 2004, 3:31 AM

Mood: Still feeling dirty~

3:00am (my time)
I'm fading a bit, having just swigged half a bottle of Nyquil due to this stupid lingering cold-thingy. Noone's on tonight, even on my Buddy list, except for one very special guy [:)]. But then again, I'm not really up to talking to people anyway.

I was at a house today, doing an "estate call." That's basically when someone passes away, or goes into a convolescent home, and their estate has stuff that needs liquidating. That's one of the things that my job does. We liquidate estates, regardless of the size. Dad tells me, you've never seen anything like this before. He's absolutely right. I never had.

The shed doesn't look like much from the outside. Technically I think it's called the "out building" as it has two floors. Simple stuff outside, the remnants of items unfixable, or simple too old to bother with. Follow the old man, but the door does not open all the way. Upon stepping in, it's a completely different world. Everything is piled-up in one huge mound of crap. Actually, there's a walk-way between the towering mounts of stuff on either side. I say a prayer, like Moses parting the Seas, that it doesn't get restless while I'm poking through and decide to encapsulte me like Pharoe and his legions.

Our job on this one is the furniture. Another man has the paperwork.We all have different jobs on this one. So I'm given the country-style cupboard. It's full of glassware, but we're just taking the furniture. I have to get over to it--no menial task--then fill the boxes, and then find a flat places for all these boxes of glassware, and then set them down.

I start filling the boxes, but the door to the cupboard doesn't open all the way. The windows are practically useless, and I didn't bring a flashlight. In fact I also didn't bring gloves, or a much needed mask. Or a screwdriver to remove the hinges. I'm stuck--stuck like chuck.

And here's the shitty thing. I can't break the glass. Alot is crap, but a bunch of it is highly valuable Lemoges, or milk glass, or bottles with bubbles in it, and stuff that I don't know about, but just know it's got to be worth money. I have to be very careful with it all, because hell, I'm thinking of coming back to buy it myself.

So an hour later! it's cleared out. The old man had to help. Getting it out was a fucking nightmare. We had to coffin roll it, then twist-turn it. Unbelievable. But we did it. We got it. Into our van it went, but not before nearly tripping 10 times in 20 feet. The place was a fucking disaster. Dust and dirt, and shit--literally rat shit--everywhere.

But that's not the reason for writing this. The point is this: the man is now in a convolescent home. He's got Parkinson's or something. He daughter is taking care of his property and estate. This includes all the stuff in this out building. He boyfriend Joe is watching us, as he's the acting executor. I kept calling him the " cashier."

So, on the way over, it started getting good, as the old man's telling me about it. He says this guy was a bad man. He had pictures of boys. Naked boys. And he's in a gay club. By this point I'm thinking "Oh shit, NAMBLA." This can't be a good thing.

Then he says "sixteen, eighteen year old boys."

Oh, I think. At least it's not illegal.

But wait, this guy's a professor at a college. Those would be the ages of his students. It that right? He's got photos of guys the ages of his students?

It kept getting better. While I'm digging out the shit to get to the cupboard, I'm finding modelling clay, and plater-of-Paris. And stuff like that. So then I find these strip of dried plaster of Paris. I hold it up, and it is definitely the shape of a leg. I recognize the knee. And then I realize it's the entire leg all the way up to the buttock. Eww, I'm thinking and drop it...alright, not immediately.

And there's another strip, but more square shaped. It's the guy's chest; and this was one built motherfucker. Chest like a ... well, he was definitely no little boy.

And of course, all the while staring at me while I'm unloading this cupboard was a 4 foot high painting of a young man in his briefs. (Given a chance, I'd definitely have brought it home with him. He was just fucking hot, and no, he was definitely adult.)

We kept coming across all kinds of funky shit strewn in various places. I go upstares and find out what the modelling clay was used for. There's a mold, plaster "cast" of a guy's back side; his whole back from neck to knees. (with a cute little butt on top of it.) Upstairs is where all the art stuff was. Drawings, sketch pads, pencils, paints, the works.

This one was the most interesting and wierd "house call" that I've had to make yet. It's probably the nastiest one, in terms of working conditions. And honestly, can't remember the first, or last time of running into so much yummy stuff in one of these.

I was thinking on the way back, that hopefully when I get to be this guy's age, I'll be looking at dudes closer to my age than my grandkids age. (...but who the fuck knows? 18 year olds are just hott!)

More words to an unseen friend

I'm followed by ambulances
emblazoned by the glory of
my song

I'm singing like
there's no one
else alive.
I the last
one left standing,
Because I am

A sinner at the gates of
heaven, judged by God
and his legions

Faster than any other boy
has ever gone I fly
on wings of glory
sent ablaze by
my love

Swans and ducks
my audience
majestic
sees me off,
send me home
on the back of
angel's robes

There is no one left.
My life is empty
and over.

I'm singing like I alone
am left. My voice is raising
louder, louder
than any other boy
has sung before.

I sing now of you.

A voice once strong
waivers and cracks
lips bleed stress
words lose meaning,
becoming mere sounds,
noises, whimpers,
silence.

Begging, bowing
at those gates,
supplication
goes not forth,
and my prayers
whistle
out to sea.

~~For Robert,
inspired by Meatloaf.

I believe the expression is "on-line chemistry." I think everyone knows what that's called, even if they might call it something different. Some may even be "chat cheating" on their spouse or boy/girlfirend. It's where we find a very special person on-line that we connect with. We've matched chemistry with that person who met on-line.

There's a number of happy, fairy tale, and of course, some not so happy endings that've come from this new "social phenomena." We who post things online realize how different the virtual word is from our everyday, visceral experience. The internet is a much different way to meet people than the standard, tired "bar scene" or "after school activities." We actually get to know more about the other person than regular social situations allow.

I'm not going to go too far into the difference between real life, and computer worlds, but it is important for me to simply voice these thoughts. I've had to face this very wierd (for this 35 year old guy) phenomena.

Here I am, basically a shy, inverted man who had trouble in school and after with relationships...and drank them all away. Or, more important, drank to avoid them. So at this point in my life, 8 years clean and sober, I'm starting to learn some social skills. I now have a modicum or social graces, and the ability to convey feelings, thoughts, stories, loves, hates, and all sorts of normal and healthy interactions with people in the real world. It's about time, and it's about time that I start getting out there and meeting people.

Of course I have a boyfriend. He's my first. This isn't about him...but it kinda is. As a side note I'll say that I don't know where our future is. He's my first, and I struggle daily with the revelation that we're completely different people. So I'm in the process of looking for my soul-mate; because I'm not certain at all if that is the person I'm calling my Schweetie. Basically the whole point of this paragraph is that I'm confused about our future, and that's the only point that's important.

I've been posting online to a few different sites. One for my photos; one for writing; one for artwork; and one for my journal; (and about 50 for my porno :) ). In the past 3 weeks I finally got my messengers hooked-up. So I've been IM'ing folks that I've met at my artsite, and other places. This whole new work is incredible.

So I meet a person who I get along with. He's funny, and we talk about our problems, and stuff. So we all know where this goes. We hit it off, and he's just the most wonderful, charming individual. I start to get to know him, and we're intimate. We have to define our relationship, and things start to get sweltering, and blisteringly confused, and muddy, murky blues water fills our nostrils and we're just basically hooked on each other. I find that I NEED to talk to him to make my day complete. And I find that I need to talk to him to make me feel just a little better.

Enrique Iglaces (spelling I know) has a song called "I'm Addicted [to You]." I thought it was Queen when I first heard it, until I saw the video. He's no Freddy Mercury. What a thought: Baby, I am addicted to you.

I found myself last night waiting by my Buddy List, as some people wait by their phone. He said I'll IM you later when I'm done (with what he had to to.) I waited, did other things, but still I was waiting. Apparently he did IM me, I find out later, but that was at the very instance when my computer decides to fuck-up, and I have to shut 'er down. I saw the IM screen, but no name. Could've been anyone. I reboot, and then wait. I see his name, and wait. I wait a while longer, and check back with Buddy...and he's gone. Just like that.

I wrote a poem about this experience--more or less--and posted it to my writing site. I've titled it "Sorrow (A Love Poem)" I hate this shit cause it hurts. I find myself in some kind of love with someone I've never met, only written to. Welcome to the age of technology.

Baby I'm addicted...