Many things were mislabeled as admiration. A deep yearning to emulate, to be, to feel like, to possess the body of, to speak like, to smell like, to attract girls like, to have soft hands like… to be with. There was a magazine ad for cologne that was burnt into the back of my eyelids. Water flowing across his smooth chest down his chiseled torso and forming a little tidal pool below his waist. He, sitting in a stream. Me, desperately trying to unbend the light through the eddies and to make visible his below-the-waist. Admiration. Look how attractive he is to women, I wish I could be that attractive. I wish I could have his white skin, and his blonde hair, and his copper-stubble chiseled jaw. A real man.
There was Ewan McGregor in The Pillow Book that one Friday night. Watched with finger on [CH +] button. There was no remote, or no batteries. I don’t remember. But I sat close to the TV and lowered the volume. My heart throbbed in my ears the first time he presented himself to the publisher, wearing nothing but calligraphy. And the second time, and the time after that. My chest labored. The fiery hair below his waist,##THIS PART IS CENSORED##. I was rapt. I wanted… something. Wanted for something, acutely. Painfully. I didn’t understand what…. the scene where he seduces his publisher (a man). Two men in bed. I did not understand what they were doing. But it captured me. I couldn’t explain it.
(c) me, btw.
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