What Is Broken Can't Be Fixed.

What Is Broken Can’t Be Fixed.


March 20th, was the anniversary of Paul’s death. I can’t fix that. I can’t glue pieces of memory together and bring him back. I have already tried and failed.

For months, I saw his body as he looked the day he died. He was three times his healthy size, patches of brown blood pooling on his yellow arms and legs. His skin now a clown’s fat suit puffed up and out with poisonous tumor cells and fluid released as all his organs shut down. I saw Paul suspended four feet above me no matter what time of day. There he was, above the bed or hovering over Bunny as she took a poop in the backyard.

Next to me, lying flat on the bed, a life-sized doll, a mannequin so to speak, took the general shape of Paul but with no facial features or hair. It took in and exhaled air much like the ventilator Paul was on the day he died. Paul’s lungs filled with artificial air, and then emptied, his chest keeping metronome perfect time, up and down, up and down, accompanied by the primitive clank of a machine. I thought that if I loved him enough, if I suffered more, if I was willing to sacrifice even my own life; the mannequin would melt into his facial features, limbs would animate with spreading veins and arteries, tendons, and growing skin. He returns to life.

I loved him as much as I could. I am still suffering. I would slice myself raw or swing from my second floor beams if it meant Paul could pick up where he left off.

The mannequin did not grow skin or push out ears. Instead, it faded and was absorbed by my green flannel sheets.

Love ripped away and body broken is an insane man’s recipe for nightmares.

I didn’t mean to fall in love with someone this past year but I did. He fell too or so he whispers and sometimes yells when I am inside him. We met while we were in a million jagged pieces. Alone, we escaped to a fantasy world made of porn, silicone lube, piss, disease-exchange, cock rings, hot breath and secrets shared. We created a world of understanding and free from loneliness. The painful realities of recent death and failed marriage are left behind by fused bodies, tears for despicable acts, and wet, all-consuming kisses. We imagined ourselves well during these six, eight, or ten hour marathons once or twice a week. An impenetrable fortress made of body grease, burning candles, cigarette smoke, alcohol and Red Bull. He has done the worst possible things you can do to someone you love, (not to me), and I still love him. I tortured him with manic episodes and he did not give up.

Hours when we were loved despite the fact, in his words, that we were, “hot messes”.

Unfortunately, what would have made for a passionate and romantic read in a grocery store romance novel is as they say, “not destined to be”. We are not going to sweep each other off the floor and onto our feet, hold hands while we watch the sun rise and heal our shattered lives, one loving piece at a time. It looks like there will be no happy ending in this trashy novel, just plain, old-fashioned and worn out drama. Sexual marathons of nearly obscene passion and breathy exclamations of love are not enough to put these two back together again.

There are fights that fuel passion. Then there is reality which bleeds it out. It has been a year and One selects and adds another player as back-up; he hopes this new man will pull him out of his misery by moving him into his life and apartment. A human life jacket, giving him the neat and steady life he craves as he hunts for chemically induced depravity. The other cannot rescue himself. He loves this One but wants no order or domesticity, no weight to keep him from drifting out of life. If this love fails, he cuts another notch into his lifeline.

When escape turns to love with no foreseeable future beyond one night, no permanent break from madness, damaged men respond with guilt, anger, violence and jealousy. Shattered pieces of complicated lives eventually repel one another like atoms of identical matter and equal charge. Love and sexual highs become a pipe bomb stuffed with explosives, nails and pieces of glass, shattering everything around it into sharper, smaller and more lethal pieces.

What is broken can’t be fixed. It is a shame because the opposite outcome was never more needed by any two people.

LOVE IN THE TIME OF SICKNESS

LOVE IN THE TIME OF SICKNESS
Rant and Blog
By Guy aka Crownless Prince Timon

Platitudes tell us “love makes the world go ‘round” and “love heals all wounds”. Whoever created these seemingly honest statements was not speaking of romance of course, obsessive or otherwise. They were in the, “Feed the Children”, circle of love and not in the gladiator ring being ripped apart by a hungry lion.

Course I could make less painful choices. As Bunny my pug knows, I’ve had quite a few “strange uncles” visit during the past year. One of them might even have been “appropriate” for me to get to know better but I went for the tried and true; a booze-guzzling, Ritalin popping, self-absorbed, depressed and anti-social, chronic masturbator.

To be fair, he is also one of the funniest, most original, generous, tender, street-smart, non-judgmental, sexy, best lovers and best new friends that I have ever had. In other words, he is complicated and maybe I am more than a little confused. He brought me out of an uptight, self-hating, grief-stricken, suicidal, lonely, manhunt and dick-dock sexual insanity, ex-prostitute style of passionless sex with absolutely no hope for tenderness, and into a brand new, velvet-lined, hell.

I like to call him J Low Low because like J”Lo, he gathers and rules his subjects with his exotic ass. He is also charming, very attractive while not extraordinary, looks like a star especially when he’s fading, and can fill you up with a superficial joy even if you can’t for the life of you remember a word of the song he just sang to you.

Like J’Lo, he is also a master of hype. Outside, he is all smiles, jokes and sex. Inside, he is a sad, nearly broken, beaten-up man, who will forever be looking for enough love to feel less like an empty shell with soft, pretty skin wrapped around it. He will be the first to seduce and say “I love you” but he will never accept or believe you when you say it, in fact he will punish you for even suggesting it.

I am exactly like him of course. Some of the chemically related character traits may be in remission but the rest is the same. Add with me, an obsessive and insane notion that I can make people do what I want by hitting them where it truly hurts the most. I once told J Low Low that I didn’t think he had any feelings, that he was, “just a hole to be filled with sex, booze and drugs” and if he, “couldn’t give me sexual satisfaction then he was absolutely worthless.” Words from anger, maybe so, but I meant them, right down to my core. How could this hot mess be a complete human being with an emotional and intellectual life? It was not possible. All honest feeling being destroyed by Stoly.

I am a complete and bitter fuck.

This was months ago and I didn’t think I loved him or even wanted him as a friend back then and that should have been the end of it. He didn’t speak to me for five weeks. I started to see him as a man and miss his touch in a way no amount of Wellbutrin, Zyprexa, attention, Red Bull or sex could make go away. I drove by his house for no reason. Painted and developed photos of him. I even cried once. It snuck up on me and I have no idea how it happened or when I saw more with my eyes than with my dick.

Last November, he told me he couldn’t, “see his life without me” and I told him the same.

It makes me think of the title of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s book, “Love in the Time of Cholera”, or to paraphrase, “Love in the Time of Sickness.” Not much good comes of two sickos in what they can feel as love. This kind of love risks destroying everyone and every shred of humanity in its path. It threatens making me foam at the mouth; break him and myself into the smallest possible pieces and spin myself into nothingness.

What happened or what was always there but unseen?

First, we became three-dimensional, oxygen-breathing porn. The moments of genuine, eye-locking love, while glorious and still present, were overwhelmed and consumed by the need to self-destruct in one way or another. He took more Ritalin and I began to feel like a crack whore. He came over more and more but stopped cumming. I fucked angrier and angrier and with more danger. Everything, including love, became nothing more than sweaty, ordinary compulsion. He needed more and more. I needed more and more...

Second, J Low Low said, (granted it was during a two-day Ritalin binge), that he was attracted to someone else, “a new friend” and the real ouch began with three small words, “I like him” and ripped me open with , “I want something different.” Then he held me, looked in my eyes, kissed me with a long tongue and said, “You’re my best man. Look what you do to me.”

All this destruction came in one shallow breath.

That same night, he asked me to blind-fold, tie him up, beat, and fuck him.” I did the first three. I couldn’t fuck him. Love, passion and care disappeared with his eyes wrapped in a black silk blindfold and wrists and ankles bound with white cord. I punched, slapped, and spit on him in reality and not in sex play. I was going to hurt him bad. He asked me not to hit him in the same place and I ignored him, pretended it was part of the game. He begged me to fuck him with “sirs” and “pleases” and I told him I hated him and I wouldn’t, “fuck a hole where an army of disgusting pigs had already been.” Sounds like sex play. Feels like real life.

I cut the ropes off with scissors and said I had to stop.

I love him. I wish he would disappear. I wish I could hold him prisoner and kiss him forever.

SELF-DESTRUCT

SELF-DESTRUCT

(A helium filled Gulliver, I am tied to the ground with a web of ropes.)

I love to smoke. By all accounts, it is deadly.

Without any self-pity; I cannot find any real reason to waste time with smoker’s guilt or make life more comfortable for you. Don’t breathe my air, walk in my space or kiss me.

I have been smoking at least a pack a day for well over twenty-five years. I smoke menthol.

I quit smoking as soon as Paul was diagnosed with Lymphoma. I wanted every possible moment with him in case he died and he did. There was no good reason to remain a non-smoker.

With sex, I do some things that the CDC says I shouldn’t do.

I don’t like vegetables much. Some are okay but only eat them when someone else cooks or coaxes me to do so.

I drink so much coffee and Red Bull that my stomach crawls up my esophagus and burns my tongue.

I have used aspartame, cyclamates, splenda…, etc., since I was four or five years-old. I eat four to six popsicles, (sugar-laden, not sugar-free), every night before I go to bed.

I hate to sleep.

The list of big and little self-destructive “habits” goes on and on…

There are riskier “habits”, even more self-destructive because I keep them secret.

Is this my lame interpretation of a common death-wish? My way of taking up speed-racing, boxing, mountain-climbing or free-falling from 20,000 feet?

Until Paul died, I was afraid of death. Since early childhood, I had lived life in a panic, convinced that I was already dying and would die, if not tomorrow, then sometime very soon. This terror drove me to manic “fits” so excruciatingly painful only the sight of my own blood could stop them. At four or five, I stuck my pinky finger into the high speed blades of my mom’s white electric mixer. I did everything you weren’t supposed to do…stuck a key into an electric outlet, swam right after lunch, touched the iron when it was hot….

In adolescence and adulthood, I found more efficient and sometimes pleasurable ways to self-destruct with bottles, pipes and pin pricks. I sabotaged some, if not all of my relationships and ignored, “career opportunities”, by dabbling in the darker side of service work.

Success is an anchor to the earth.

With the love of the friends who did not run away when I pushed them and during the almost eight years of Paul; I touched ground more often than I spun up, up, and away.

When Paul died what was fragile, split wide open, and frayed ropes, snapped clean off. No fear of death and no desire for longevity.

I know it is criminal with so many who dream of shaking their canes at speeding cars of teenagers or negligent homeowners who do not shovel their walks.

Direct and immediate participation in suicide is not an option.

Besides, there are still some very tight ropes.

1. Medication, without it; I would fly right off planet earth.

2. I work out to remain attractive, to get sex; endorphins are a bi-product of both activities.

3. I don’t drink or do non-prescription drugs to keep a last promise.

4. My friends are gold.

5. My dog is platinum.

6. I love to dance and I love to work. Sometimes both at the same time.

7. My memories of one person are stronger than all other memories combined.

8. I have one small, itching, wonder.

Does an unknown “something”, follow an unimaginable death and an affair with self-destruction? If you survive, are you, with great effort and torn muscle, pulled backed down to solid earth?

Tethered and secure, are you left with a desire to live well and not just a long time?

Jerk of the Week

Jerk of the week is me. I deserve to be hung. I hurt someone and I knew it would hurt. He only wanted to know me, a day every week, have a friend, someone he trusted... He said things I wanted to hear, did things that closed wounds. I didn't want to be healed so I denied his very existence. Perhaps the most painful thing you can do is freeze, erase a person. They are not there. I am the only that matters.

I am a sorry ass now. Crownless Prince Wolf