If I lost Charles

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Iíve let my doubts about my ability to maintain my life with my narrow-shouldered sweetheart leak through in my journal without ever following them up.

The other night it was Charles who brought up the problems in our life together. A rare and happy event. I donít mind being the supportive, patient one, the guy who somehow manages to make it work. Oh, lets face it, in my heart I may be ďandrogynous/masculineĒ but thereís an indestructible need to be the one who maintains. Perhaps the feminine one will have much of the power, but the butch one will shrug his shoulders and keep plugging away, surviving.

But not amount of manly will can survive without concrete evidence of the love of the beloved (much of this can readily be reversed or gender qualities removed but Iím nattering on about myself). I need affection. Someone who enjoys making out even if it doesnít lead to penetration. Too many of our recent weeks together have lacked this. Without a long history together, two and half years isnít a long time, the failures can easily kill the good days.

Iím not in any visible sense tough. Within Iím resilient and have more than most people the power of withstanding.

Why am I babbling on like this? (Although I hate weblogs that half-apologize for their words Iíll own it is a useful rhetorical ploy.)


When I think our, what shall I call it? Relationship always remains a word best left to mathematicians. Love? A movie I saw yesterday lied in saying that there were motion definitions for love in the dictionary than any other word (actually it is set.). Love is a slippery, rebellious, infinitely personal word. It implies too many different conditions. Not a fan of marriage in the abstract, Charles and I have combined our personal and economic destiny. Iíll use marriage because of its suggestions of interdependence, mutuality of hope and intent.

When it is dark regardless of the time of day, when Iím alone whoever may be near and I think what Iíll do if Charles and I part I wonder if there would be a next person. You might think my mind would only be in the pain of parting. I overdid that when my prior love died. Now Iíd be wise enough to tighten the muscles of my lower back and move on.

Older, scarred by years and foolish decisions my choices would be limited (no inspirational crap, please). You might expect that my imagination would incline toward another nelly guy. In reality it probably would. A bent wrist will probably always be able to bend my will.

In that unwanted future I find I think of women and crossdressers.

Why women? I donít know. Possibly it is that my most long lasting entanglement was with a woman. Perhaps it is that having only been with one woman thereís a sense of possibilities missed. Or even a stereotypical perception of women caring more about a lasting life together (which if false: how many neurotically romantic gay men have you known?). My own suspicion is that blended together is a sense of what might have been, perhaps with Siobhan, perhaps with many women.

Crossdressers? When I finally managed to sum up my discovery that guys in dressers werenít unattractive I said that I never had lots of sexual fantasies about them. I donít. Most likely I canít escape (or want to) my joy in a male body and a feminine personality. It isnít the chick with a dick thing. I like penises just fine. Iím happy enough to not worry about them if my partner doesnít want me to (I remember once being strongly aroused by a skinny blonde boy who told me he was indifferent to his penis).

In my original imaging of crossdressing I thought of gay guys whoíd stepped outside of gender norms. That proved false. Then again there are generic crossdressers and my ideal crossdresser. Falsely I canít think of a guy in a dress without seeing whimsy, playfulness, a joy in manipulation of the surface. And while my fantasy crossdresser would be genetically male s/heíd allow me to fulfill sexual aggression and personal compassion. Iíd get to be strong. Imaginary love is too compelling. And it is funny to have a weakness for seeming strong.

If I left Charles and felt like looking again Iíd probably do exactly what I did last time. Try to find someone my own age. My preference would be for a whoíd been a trashy queen at nineteen but had calmed down. But Iíd take advantage of my pansexuality to be open to any configuration. After all a 6í8Ē very butch black man was the guy I was most interested in until I heard Charlesí voice on the phone.


Quite so, quite so…I tend to reflect the callousness with which I surround myself onto the less deserving souls, as a means, perhaps, of granting deserving-ness to mine own.

essentially I was apologizing for having been a bitch.

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Pansexual Sodomite
Love and Lust
If I lost Charles
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