You see, I want to experience love, and sex, and companionship, in ways that I suppose might only be written in books, or of course, in my own mental dialogue. I want to experience a kind of companionship resides in freedom. In the freedom to have not one, but many loves, many companions, many experiences. I am not talking about your run of the mill open relationships here. I am talking about having multiple people in my life who I care for with such passion that it rips at the seams of my self-identity—wanting to be exactly who I am and yet exactly who I think they would want me to be. I want to care for them all with so much passion that my very own stomach sinks to my knees with the very thought of being near them. Yet, despite my desire for such drama, such lust—I also want the relationships with these people to be so secure, so stable, so cherished, that we are each free, free to enjoy the love of others, and to exist apart not with anxiety, but with hope for each other to have beautiful experiences. These people will know every version of myself, and our connections will transcend all of the average, common, and popular stories of love. I feel to be the most transient version of myself, and yet most secure in my desire for this life I have attempted to describe to you—as unattainable as it may in fact be—when I am travelling. When I sit in airports or discover new cities, I think these thoughts. I feel not like the serious, responsible, monotonous person that I am likely to be, but like a new-aged (although perhaps retro) version of myself. It is when I travel, as I am currently doing, that I come to believe that all of these desires are not simply another transitional phase in my philosophy of love. I want to have many amazing partners and companions in my life. Maybe I want to love them all, or maybe I merely just wish to exist with each and every one of them.
Chuck. There is nothing I would rather do in this moment, than sit in a tent (or for a more realistic fantasy, to sit in my bed, or his) and read with him, paint with him, make music with him—fuck him. Yet, how will any of these things occur if his desires for relationships so sharply contrast mine? Will I even gain the pleasure of seeing him again, of having him forcefully pull me towards him, of silently (or not so silently) moaning at his very scent, given that I am sure he well has some idea the current situation that is my love life. And here I am, in an airport, on the way to North Dakota, to see another man, and I am so fully enthralled in my own thoughts about Chuck. Infatuation is really something isn’t it? You know, not that long ago, I thought I would never feel it again. I thought I would never feel the desire to touch a man’s body so much so that I thought of him when we were apart. I never thought that I would feel myself tremble has a man touched me, I never thought I would feel it ever again. I guess by now you might have some inkling of the mess I am in, of the exciting confusion that is engulfing my existence.
