I like this guy. But our problems persist. Apparently, I’m a complicated, difficult ‘catch’, to quote a friend. Why? Just because I want to marry the Rabbi’s son? It’s a reference from Fiddler on the Roof. If you’re not a jew or a gay or a gay jew, then forget about it and read on.
Scott Capurro
GT September 2008
I met a handsome Brazilian in a sauna. He was so shy, I had to take him home before I could pack his ass like a drug mule. Talk about ‘liquid bombs’, but then he was being deflowered.
“You are my first,” he growled on all fours, whilst looking back at me; before my ego grew too large, I thought, well, let’s see if my dick touches both sides. And it did! In fact, the entire experience was stumbling and awkward and felt rushed, like my first time as well. Which, if not satisfying, was at least endearing.
English isn’t his first, or even second, language. And because yo hablo a bit of Spanish, and he’s eager to struggle through my tongue, we’ve quickly discovered a strange sort of linguistic trail all our very own, complete with guttural utterances that aren’t words at all. Like those Austrian cellar children discovered after decades of captivity, he snarls and chirps and whinges when he mispronounces my name, calling me Scotch, while I try desperately to push him back into bed as often as possible. His cock is 8 inches long. I need it inside me like it’s my liver.
There are so many warning signs. Or maybe my recent choice of romantic interests have been so convoluted, so misguided, that I trust myself even less than I trust him. I see patterns everywhere. He’s closeted and evangelical, like Martin, the hooker from Texas. He’s dark and swarthy and slightly resembles a monkey, like Maurino, the directionless Puerto Rican. And he’s manipulative, withholding sex while telling me he misses me, like Fat Matt, the bulimic waiter who stopped fucking or even liking me when we got close. Is Streisand right? Can we only recognize patterns, but not change them? Or has it gotten so bad that I’m now blindly quoting Deepak Chopra?
I trace ‘my gay love crisis’ in the steamy bathroom mirror. My shaved reflection looks serene, but I’m used to hiding my feelings. I realized I was gay at 4. At 12, when my sister informed me only faggots joined the swim team, my defenses went up and stayed up. I was tall and nerdy and desperately in need of a man’s approval. Too bad ‘nerdy’ isn’t hot when you’re 45.
I’ve had some success. John and I lived together for many years, but we were young and he was a top so I succumbed. We found solutions, because he was also generous and supportive. My first choice was my best.
Or maybe the Brazilian is great, and I’m scared. He has lovely eyes, green like pond leaves. I want to help him, he’s being stalked by a one-night stand that’s offered to marry him so he can stay in London, but when I write a grammatically correct email response full of rejection, the Brazilian tells me to “not send”.
“Tell him I might change my mind in a month or two.”
Maybe he’s trying to protect this veritable stranger’s feelings, letting him down lightly. Is the Brazilian kind? Or crafty?
“You said you wouldn’t change your mind. You said you never liked him.” I’m sounding like a disappointed teenager.
“Scotch, I need time. To think.”
He prepares to leave for his janitorial job, taking with him his boxed food from a supermarket. He eats crap. Every organic meal I serve is met with disdain. He grinds salt on already salted sautéed chicken, which is free range and was decapitated like, I dunno, yesterday, so it’s fucking expensive. Usually he falls asleep on the couch, giggling when I say I have to work.
“You don’t work,” he snickers. “You do yoga. You swim. I work.”
Fat Matt was jealous of me too. He’d pin me on my sofa, tickling me until I cried in pain and begged him to get off me. It wasn’t until after we broke up that I realized he’d been abusive.
I grab the Brazilian, trying to deep kiss him, but he pushes back my arms, which hurts. He’s 26 and solid, with a hairy belly that, though not photogenic, I adore. We struggle in the hallway, I’m hungry for his cock, I want to crawl inside his skin and fuck me the way he has, infrequently. Briefly. I want to fuck me for hours. I bite his earlobe and he brays.
Then he whispers, “You are boring,” and leaves me alone, under an orange ceiling shade. The kind of shade you see a lot of, near Brick Lane.