Memory is fleeting. And so we try to capture the past and the present. A face in a crowd, the light of the moon. Things one cannot hold on to.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Gabriel and I were lying on my bed last night, listening to Icelandic band Sigur Rós and talking about his latest sexual encounter.
"He wasn't handsome or cute," Gabriel said as he lit a cigarette. "He wasn't handsome at all."
I looked at him as he continued smoking. Gabriel was easily the more attractive one between us. Men were drawn to his boyish face and his eager smile. He could easily hook up with anyone but strangely he was drawn to ugly men.
"I let him fuck me from behind. I could hear him panting, I could feel his sweaty palms. His big fat belly kept slamming into my back, he was so heavy and it was very uncomfortable. But I liked it," he said.
Gabriel is fascinated with unsightly men. He said it reminded him of his fantasies when he was younger: ugly men fucking him and then paying for it afterward. Sweaty, balding, aging men whose loneliness he would somehow heal.
Gabriel, the archangel, whose name means "The Strength of God", bringing light and hope to the lonely.
He pictured them running their big, fat fingers across his face, whispering: "Baby, you were worth it."
"How did you feel afterwards?" I asked him.
"Afterwards? Nothing," Gabriel said. "He said he wanted to see me again but I told him I can't."
"Do you ever feel anything?" I said.
He shook his head.
"Are you happy?" I asked him.
"Are you?" he said, throwing the question back at me.
I wanted to say yes, I am. But I knew that wasn't what he wanted to hear. I didn't answer.
"Sometimes, it's hard to tell, isn't it?" Gabriel said.
I like stories. Whether they're of random strangers or close friends, people's stories hold me spellbound.
Every story leads us to an insight: Who are we? Why do we do the things we do? Why are we here, and not there?
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