/ DAY 76 /

I like sex; but honestly I haven’t had much the last year. I walked aimlessly through an orgy in Kuala Lumpur, tracing shadows on the wall. It was a little tedious and my eyes emptied ennui on all the eyes staring back at me, but all I wanted to get was a good outline of someone’s butt etched onto the plaster but cheeks kept rising and falling. I can’t complain, they were doing what they ere supposed to be doing and I was trying to be Tracey Emin in the corner.

In May, I let a boy who came from Barcelona call me guapo and then cum in 7 secs flat. I didn’t really mind, I was eyeing energy dancing naked on my neurons and hoping they’d transform into endless thought I could sink into his sheets on. I wasn’t always this way, I used to be 175.09% present from th first peak of penis to the pained looks you got when you said to me ‘yeah, i’ll totally hit you up on grindr again’. I stopped having an excuse to hang socks on door knobs and polish off someone’s knob–even the ones that ghost their energy rom your part 15, 30, 60, let’s be honest 3 hours, too early–because I got tired of sighing. Not panting, just sighing. Never got a good workout, except to run back into myself. And maybe my index digit got a workout but that’s only because I was furiously tracing the outline of my belly button because no one was listening to me.

I STARE AT THE FACE
LOOKING THROUGH MY EYES
I MOVE AT A PACE I CANNOT SURVIVE

I’M HAULING AWAY, I DO IT ALL THE TIME
LET LOVE AGE AND WATCH IT DIE

I always listened to people and I think for a long time I didn’t want to listen to myself but I wanted someone else to. I think my testicles were magnetized, pulled towards verbose people who wouldn’t pay me any quarter while we were vibrating on dime-powered beds in Bangkok. Sex used to be a pop of colour in my dark head but after awhile I noticed everyone I was with kept giving me side-eye every time I opened my mouth, so I’d lie back and not think of London but how there exposed nipples were shootting hues of a grey-scaled nightmare into the room. And at one point there was bed creaking but all I heard was the sound of distant shots and passing trucks. And I think the hum of traffic was all I was really hoping to find. I wanted white noise containing all the colors and streaming all the words I wanted to say non-stop along it’s soundwaves. I wanted to be liberated, and I wanted to fuck fearlessly but more than anything I wanted to end the mourning sound in me.

I WOKE TO THE SOUND OF DOGS
TO THE SOUND OF DISTANT SHOTS
AND PASSING TRUCKS

I took to Tinder to take care of my trauma in micro-doses of cock and carefree conseuence where I could try to be me again, even if I couldn’t hack it. It was ok, for a good long while. I had a standing reservation and a group of boys on my ho-tation, and I couldn’t be alone in my head so I took them into my sheets all of Saturday and Sunday and listened to them while exiting the conversation every time I got too real, too human for them. And I stopped letting them come to come when every moment was just black and white and I missed the brilliant reds and pastels of tittiliation and purple and blue shades of sad-man bonding. I gave up. Until I can have rainbows shooting out Nipples again and pLay drum solos on buttcheeks. Have my own kind of victory march over the pain to the percussive sound of spanking flesh.

WE WOKE WITH THE MOURNING SOUND

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