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The last several years have been an interesting journey one might say. Or a hellish road trip.
That initial rapturous meeting with Charles. My passion - illness? - for femininity in androgynous guise causing me to make the huge mistake of pulling him into my life. The years with him as my body and mind were damaged.
Segueing almost invisibly from being in love with Charles to my romance with Alex. I could accept with something akin to contentment the separations for the pleasure of our ninety days together. Even the haunted awareness that politics and economics if nothing else meant our romance was on metered time didn’t keep it from feeling more than enough.
Now I have to face being alone.
No bossy bottom, no androgynous grace. No one to treat as special to make my prince or princess. No one to be strong for nor to lean on when I need their strength.
I don’t like most people. Of this I’m not ashamed. But the harder it is for you to enjoy something the more you value what gives you pleasure.
Honestly I don’t see that mutual being there for one another coming into my life again. The curse of aging. The burden of the accumulated imperfections.
Don’t misinterpret this. I’m not doomed. Nor will I spend my nights crying about what I don’t expect to have.
I’m just recording reality as I currently see it.
I think of one of the very few special people in my life. He lives outside New York City. A place with far, far more people than the entire state of North Carolina. My friend (shut up Felix) is far more desirable than me. Though no less if not demanding in affairs of the heart. The years it took him to find worthwhile companionship often read like reports from an anthropologist among the most narrowly restricted people on the earth.
So my potential luck here in a town of a sixth of a million, a much less diverse and open place seems to approach nullity.
Thankfully there are books, music and Netflix.