The Darkest Blue

0-1.jpeg

 

In honor of the placement of gallows beneath the water oaks in front of the cathedral over on Madison Street and to raise a glass to the sharecroppers’ holdings on seven dirty and dilapidated plantations to concede to the victors should they ever appear about the condolences offered the few by the very, very many and yes, considering the violations of several sanctioned guidelines in the absence of a princess on the precipice of demolition one can never get away from the cow-calling cacophony over which many disputes have gone on untested and unrefined until the the blister-winds of calculated indifference blow back the eyelids of the air droppers into a sea of what-have-you-ness to perpetuate a nightfall for the Reich Hall and all who would visit destruction on the planet and through which and in any appointed time to repent and resist and listen carefully outside the door for all to be counted there and to revolve one  more time around a principle that is yet to be proven and then moving on to question and challenge that righteous effort on the part off all who would see us saved from the apocalypse.

 

 

I’ve been falling in love pretty frequently lately. On Friday, I needed some pop-up so I decided on Ninja Taco outside the Phoenix. (Pop-ups are sidewalk restaurants in New Orleans) (Phoenix is a gay bar.) I got my tacos and went into the bar and ordered a Coca-Cola to wash them down. A small gaggle of faggots blithered in the front door. All heads (mostly gray) turn to survey the current fair. I don’t look. I won’t be one of the tongue waggers. In spite of myself, one young man does catch my attention. When he’s seen me, I realize he’s as interested in mine. Conversation begins around the tattoos on my arms.
HIM: How many you got?

ME: Twelve.
HIM: Yeah?

ME: Yeah.

And I give him a little tour of my ink.

ME: How many you got?

HIM: A few.
ME:  Show me one.

 

He lifts his shirt to show me a simple star stamped on his serratus anterior. His skin is creamy smooth and beautiful. He has a working man’s body. The hair on his chest and belly is dark brown and in the right place and in the right amount. The tattoo is simple enough to be taken in in three seconds. He starts to lower his shirt after five.

 

ME: Wait I’m not done yet.

 

He smiles and blushes at my flirting. He’s what the kids nowadays call “straight presenting.”

 

ME: So what’s your name?
HIM: It’s ______.
ME: ______?!  Well that’s my favorite name in the world!

HIM: You’re joking.
ME: It is now.
Again he blushes.
ME: So how do you spend your days, there, ______?

HIM: Huh?

ME: Where do your passions lie or, hell, how you make a livin’?

HIM: Oh! (and I would swear he was a little ashamed) I’m a fisherman. I’m a crab fisherman.

There was something so earnest about it. I would have been way less impressed if he’d turned out to be the chief astrophysicist on the planet. He sees how it lands with me if perhaps not completely understanding why.

 

HIM: Why, what do you do?
ME: I’m an artist, a writer. And a political activist. And everything I do, I do for the crab fishermen of the world.

He has no idea what I mean but has apparently decided it’s time for our first kiss and although I’m a little surprised at the confidence of this twenty-something I let him have what he wants and his kissing game is en pointe.

 

ME: Hey, listen here kiddo; I’d love nothing more than to drag you home and make your body feel good with mine tonight. But I’ve got a buddy coming in from out of town tomorrow morning and I…

HIM: (thinking I’m giving him the brush off) Alright, alright, I get it.
ME: Shut up and listen to me, Boy.

 

It gets his attention.

 

ME: This might be a major departure for me but I’d like to know just a little bit about you before I fuck your brains out. Why don’t we hook up after the weekend and choke back a couple beers and burgers before hopping in the sack?

HIM: Can I at least walk you to your car?

ME: Nope.

He seems genuine disappointed.

ME: But you can walk me to my truck.

 

We trade numbers and after a few minutes of him sitting on my tailgate with me standing between the thighs of his jeans, I tell him I have to go.

ME: Will I ever see you again, ______?
HIM: The boat goes out at 3am on Monday. I should be back midafternoon. You like sports bars?

ME: Love ‘em.

 

 

This is Tuesday and he slept in my arms last night.
I hope I never wash the smell of him off me.

 

 


About this entry