dante woo / ars poetica \ not

listen

a f t e r w o r k , f r i d a y n i g h t , 1 9 9 8 . it's about 6:30am, drunk and so stoned that i don't know which of us is on top. there's a nine inch cock, thick and uncut, thrusting very slowly and deeply inside me, and the guy attached to it is holding me in spanish, muttering things that i can't understand and can barely make out. papi, he calls me, telling me how tight and good this ass is. he pulls me back till he's perched on his haunches and leans back, taking me with him, and then turns me around so that i'm sitting on him. he looks hurt and upset when i withdraw him from me. damn, if anyone's hurtin' it's me, yo. he holds me close in the morning and pushes himself back inside me.

c h r i s t m a s e v e , 1 9 9 8 . i walk into a church service for the first time since last christmas eve. i left a friend's holiday party for thisi don't belong at any sort of party in chelsea, at least so far, and i'm tired of flirting with asian guys who can't be bothered (by their own?), and i miss hearing npr on the radio of the car that my parents are taking me home in after coming home for the holidays, which i'm not doing for the first time. i'm dressed decently but not church clothes, but the people are cool as i walk in late and sit in the back. the music is better than i've expected or heard in a while - good organist, string quartet, small choir that sounds double their numbers. the priest or rector gives a sermon about love, vulnerability, openness, making home within oneself. the hymns aren't the usual christmas pageant fare, but the weird, cool ones that i play at home. i'm singing quietly along and my voice breaks and i'm crying.