Portrait 7

My own boy

Would it have been worthwhile after all?

If we had actually fucked, and we had had the most intense orgasms of our lives, and we had fallen madly in love with each other, and we had disregarded the shapes and the arrangements that must keep us apart, and we had elected to spend most of our time in each other, savouring each other's sperm, would it have been worth it, after all?

Last night I had left my phone on the bedside table, in silent mode. I was lying in bed and writing a story about a man who had been abandoned by a man who he had never been with. I needed to think about my choice of words in a particularly mundane phrase and my eyes wondered away from the notebook that I was writing in. And I saw the phone. And I looked at the screen. And there was one unanswered call, which had been aborted literally five seconds before. It was you, of course.

Of course, we never actually manage to speak to each other. We have never spoken. I keep trying every day, to no avail: there is no answer, ever. And you have now called me twice; in both cases I was at a loss for words and unable to answer.

And then I write these letters. Which you do not read. Which you will not read. And even if you did read them, you would still have no idea whose self-portrait I am painting or who I am lusting after. These pointless letters.

And yet it is not true that I merely lust after you. Love is the face of this addiction.

Iris