SHAVINGS FROM MY HEAD

Slumped in the chair, once again, David began to reexamine the components of his life. Even more than his body, his mind ached to be touched.
He thought of his outlets: his friends, how little they knew of him. How little anyone really knew of him. For years, it felt as if he’d traveled through life with a heightened sensitvity of everything around him. As if he were fingering life---a desirable object---without really holding it. His mind was being slowly killed off. Sex was the assassin.
He wanted to desire and be desired in a different way. A bigger way.
On the table next to his easy chair, his cell phone---a shiny sliver of connection---rumbled and danced atop a stack of books and magazines.
“Hello.”
“Hey playa’” his friend Dominick broadcast into the receiver.
“Hey.”
“What going on?”
“Nothin’…just reading. You?”
“Looking to hook up tonight. I need to get some. It’s been a whole week since I did the bone dance and I need to practice my moves!”
“What about that nice guy you met last week…the one from the carwash? I thought you were gonna try and actually go on a real date.”
“Naw…I’m going for quantity. He’s nice and all, but it’s time to wash the car again. Ya know what I mean?”
Actually, he didn’t. The concept seemed foreign. The currency of desire seemed valueless to Dominick, or any of his friends for that matter.
“You still there?”
“Yeah…just thinking.”
“So…you in for tonight?”
He surveyed the room, his eyes falling on the stack of books and magazines. Seclusion seemed worse, gloomy.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I’ll come by to get you around ten. Cool?”
“Sure. Fine…whatever.”

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Throughout the bar---like every other time---nothing had changed. The dense thicket of men moved, rubbed, and swayed---their sexual rhythm forming an ebb and flow that made David feel as if he were drowning in desire. Other men’s desire.
Equal carnivorous actions accompanied the thump and grind of the deafening music. The beat was the same, everything the same.

“Yum”, said Dominick, pushing his baseball cap to the back of his head. “Check out the gym stud in the red t-shirt. Woof”
“Cute. Go for it.”
They all looked identical, he thought to himself as he watched Dominick disappear into the sea of gyrating men, the strobe lights flashing shots of color over his body. The business of boys had become a tired, mind-numbing investment. It seemed as if sex were all there was.
Where am I going to find a renaissance man? He wondered while his eyes explored the horny pack. Do they even still exist?

The rest was a blur. And then it was tomorrow.

The usual Sunday routine: potent coffee, his favorite Brooks Brothers boxers, The New York Times, Debussy and Stan Getz intermingling in the cd player---their only interruption, the standard sounds of the neighborhood. Current events complete, he searched under the pile of newspapers for the local fag-rag---to digest the musings of the man who made him think each month.

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As usual the cartoon is colorful, provocative, shiny, familiar.
As he begins to read, David’s senses respond. The words feel precise, vulnerable, humorous. Between the lines there’s a certain attentiveness.
Exposure, he thinks to himself, and continues to read.
Once finished, as always, his mind is reeling---stimulated with thoughts.
He wonders about the unseen author. All he knows is the head---shaved, filled with observations.
Intellectual scenarios emerge from the distant corners of his mind as he let’s the magazine slip from his fingers and fall to the floor. His eyes close, his mind roams to forgotten places, ignored places.
Is he younger or older…taller or shorter…less body hair or more….brawny or slim?
An image begins to form: skin smooth and tight.
Bronze and creamy collide low on the waist---cutting the treasure trail of dark hair from available to VIP.
The tattooed head of a small cartoon character peeks out from the folds of the bed sheet. A creamy face peppered with a beard comes into focus: cornflower eyes and a gleaming smile book ended by dimples.
Muscular legs scissor out from under the sheet, then fold back onto themselves at the knee. Powerful, welcoming arms hold the book he’s reading. David’s favorite book: Middlesex.
The paperback comes to rest over a mound of manliness. David wants to discuss the book, but no words come out, only more images.
He envisions another kind of day: A renaissance day: The same potent coffee, The New York Times, only now they read to each other. The music is different: comfortable, new music, their music, music from a concert they’ve been to.
Next, a shower. Hungry, slippery fingers, steamy, seals sliding. A colliding, soapy game of body braille—every sector a new word, every sound revealing a harmonious melody, every kiss a seal of approval. Art in motion.
Then real art. Museum art---the kind they get lost in---becoming part of the paintings. Side by side, they sit on a large bench---their thighs touching, their faces toward the drawings. Sketches from DiVinci…..

R-I-N-G!...R-I-N-G! The abrasive tone of the telephone brings him back to reality. R-I-N-G!
“Hello.”
“Hey Bro. Wanna go find boys later?”
The cartooned column stares up at him from the floor. Exposure he thinks again. Different exposure.
“Naw. I’m in.”


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The warmth of the ebony laptop transferred a certain energy---giving a carefree motion to his fingers. With each tap of the keys an unabashed excitement gave form to every sentence….

… Just wanted to let you know how much I look forward to reading your column. It always makes me reexamine my life.
The latest one about exposing yourself made me think about the fact that most of my gay friends really don't know anything about me. Maybe I should rephrase this - they really don't want to know anything about me. All they care about is sex and the next one they are going to lay. What's up with this? What happened to passion and romance? Should I commit myself to a museum? I find myself dumbing myself down to be accepted and in the process losing most of my best attributes. I worked hard on my education and I love what I do. I will read anything in front of me and can get lost in museums for days. I'm well traveled and have a zest for life. Like you, I go through life with a heightened sensitivity to everything around me and this somehow works against me in social situations. Where do I find a renaissance man? Other than you, do they still exist? I have so much to share and no takers. I know I have to take responsibility for my own situation but I see so much of me in you as I read your musings.
A devoted reader

The luminescent glow of the computer screen emphasized his outlook, the words bathing his face in liberty. He sat back in his chair and hit the return key. It was gone, spit out into the vortex. Lost perhaps. Yet he felt anything but lost. Something had happened.
The paradigm of his life had suddenly shifted.
He’d revived a lost attitude, revisited a forgotten world---a world of desire---filled with the things that made him whole. He’d become reacquainted with his appetite for expansion. Once again a man at the center of his universe, he’d reconciled with a vital part of his being: his imagination. And along with that came the most essential tool for any renaissance man: an exposed heart.

Labels: the value of desire