"If It Doesn't Feel Like Love. It's Not..."

MY FRIEND & HIS DOWN LOW LOVER

Myles E. Johnson
February 2, 2015

The best stories I have to tell are the ones that I have no business telling. Everyone has them, I suppose, those ghost stories or fables that are more unsettling because the protagonist is someone you know, if not you. This is one of those stories.

“Dark, tall, closeted, internet.” I only heard the object of my friend’s affection in parts because my ears don’t work when I am drunk. I like to think that I hear the important details, even if it is in a decidedly staccato style. “Long, wet, second, date, sex, protection.”

Admittedly, this isn’t my story, so from my perspective this relationship developed rather quickly. My friend’s staccato way of explaining his new lover became longer and more melodic like a Roberta Flack song or good poetry. “He sinks his teeth into my neck and I swear I can feel him turning my blood into lava and my heart sprouting velvet vessels.”

The space that filled our last conversation was that of regular friendly frivolous conversations, until one night my friend’s melodies turned into a malady. He said, “He’s in the closet. He has a girlfriend. He loves me, I know it, but he’s scared.”

I said, “He doesn’t want you.”

He said, “But he has me.”

My friend was a capsized ship with no hope of being returned to land. I could only look away or watch him sink into the sea. I watched from the watchtower, because sunken ships desire to either float or be admired if the former is a complete impossibility.

I watched my friend’s romance turn into a horror, and although horrifying, I thought of how unoriginal this narrative was. Boy meets boy, boy falls for boy, boy is in the closet, boy would rather pretend other boy is a toy instead of making an honest man of him.

Seasons passed, and my friend never met parents or close friends. He just continued to meet those same four walls he had begun to wish would liquefy and melt away, like his pride. The sex, according to my friend, became war-like. Erotic combat! According to my friend, even when kinks like food were added, it was still a war zone. They were grappling grapes that rolled over one another, waiting to see who busted first. Juices flowed, indeed. However, both were left scarred. He would say, “Sometimes, I moan louder than the pleasure insights me to in hopes that his wife might hear.”

His wife, a God that my friend sometimes believes in, or anything that would justify or liberate this forbidden love.  Alas, the pillows and cheap blankets caught all of my friend’s efforts to free himself.

As it goes, the man had soon stopped meeting up with my friend, pouring secrets into the back of his throat, and answering his phone calls. So it goes, the man that once was everything was nothing. Predictable, yes, but predictability does not eliminate sadness and I watched the tears roll down my friend’s cheeks that created the salt water filled ocean that he drowned himself in. My friend is still drowning, but I am sure eventually, he’ll swim and breathe well again. Or perhaps, he’ll go the even more predictable route and grow gills and learn how to breathe jade and cruelty instead of oxygen. I can’t tell, only time will.

Self-worth is such a discipline. Self-discipline in love knows that even when something feels promising, good, or different that if it doesn’t align with your spirit, you must know how to spit it out. You have to drink as much holy water and conquer as many yoga poses as it takes to internalize that “better” isn’t a hope for the future, but a decision you make in the present. As disenfranchised folks, it’s our responsibility to not fall into these emotional traps disguised as love, hope, or faith. Don’t fall for it, if for no other reason, but because you know these sordid stories have been told time and time before and it is time for something exciting and new.

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The hardest truth to acknowledge...

If if doesn't feel like love, then it's not.

"Fear Eats the Soul"