September 27th, 2002 - 1.36 am
Evenings with good friends can leave you cracked open, with love pouring out of you. But sometimes, when you’re that opened up, along with the love, some other feelings come pouring out.
Like last night. L and I were at her place I was “doing homework” and she was making salsa for her Spanish class. Mostly, we were talking, just us, something we haven’t done in a while. It was comfortable and perfect and there was one point, where I just wanted to be able to pour all of the love and peace I was feeling into her. I hope someday she knows that. I don’t want to be just overprotective and funny, I hope the people I love know how intensely I love them.
Tonight was fun too. SK, L and I watched part of Must See TV, then we went out with EH, then went to see Sweet Home Alabama, you know, the new Reese Witherspoon flick that looked so so cute on TV? (We’re total girls). It was cute. Within the first five minutes, there was this big black fashion designer. Gay. Obviously. L poked me and giggled and I smiled, because usually I would be losing my mind. I am so attracted to black men, and usually I am quite charmed by gay ones.
And that got me thinking, you know? Of course, that got me thinking about Jesse. God. I wonder sometimes why I miss him so much. That seems cold, but think about it. I was only ever with him twice. I only knew him a little bitty while. Less than a year. But when he died, my world was rocked.
The thing is. . . the thing is. He made me feel so safe. He wasn’t feminine at all. I mean, he could obviously play the part of the stereotypical camp gay guy, but he prided himself on being a man who liked men. Being gay didn’t cancel out his masculinity. He used to joke that he was just using me, because sometimes, he liked people thinking we were together, because he felt like he could take care of me, and I wasn’t about to tell him otherwise. I remember this one perfect moment. Walking down the street in New York City, feeling slightly overwhelmed, and having him reach for my hand, and putting it on the crook of his arm, tucking me in to him, so I didn’t fall on the icy streets. He wasn’t a bulky guy, but he was tall, defined, and when he put my hand on his arm, I felt the muscles working and I imagined I felt the blood coursing through his veins, and he felt so strong, so alive. He was sick then. But I didn’t know it and I felt like no one could hurt me, nothing could get me, like I was a child. I remember telling him things I’d never told anybody, I remember crying, and for the first time in a long time, not feeling raw or exposed, but rather, feeling like a clean, cherished soul. His outrage at what happened to me, his desire to make sure I felt safe and protected.
I miss that. I know I know, it’s not exactly PC, I’m a woman of 2002 I’m supposed to be my own safety net, my own protector. And I am getting so much better about that. But I would love, just for a minute to feel taken care of. That’s a hard thing for me, because I’ve been cast in the role of care-taker-ofer. I take care of others. And I have a really tough time letting other people do that for me. But I love it. I mean, I love that I can be independent, and self-sufficient, but I was tucked in until I was 17! I loved the feeling of being almost asleep, and hearing my door creak open, and the light from the hall spill in to my room and hearing the footfall of both my parents, as they tucked my blankets around me and their lips mindlessly brushing against my forehead, and hearing their low voices as they left. And now, I’m the one who goes to tell them goodnight. But that’s OK, I mean, this role, of someone to take care of me, has been filled by them for so long, I think that it’s time for someone else to fill it. I wish someone wanted to.
But I never, before tonight, was able to put into words what Jesse gave me, and for that revelation, I am grateful.
