05.
I got real good at life for a while, or at least at attaining the building-blocks of what appeared to be, from the outside, success. I bought others’ verification of that appearance as proof I was doing a few things right. I chased my thirst for seeing what this dude right here could do – what professional heights I could hit, which world wonders I could marvel at in person and check off a list, how I could transform this body from a dense sack of shame to something that could run and swim and stir lust in men. My thirst continues, of course… with slightly more nuance, I like to think. I try to take note of victories which are missing that subtler satisfaction and to investigate why, to revel in the gusts of appreciative peace when they blow over me at the most unremarkable moments.
I’d nailed down my charms, with slightly different versions based on context. My intuition came in handy, to slyly probe the other person’s psyche for some hook on which to hang my grin. I’d feel into situations, sniff out what to expect… and then I’d cast my spin-ball just so, landing it in their heart-pocket by acting clever and open. My confidence built on itself with every wanton glance and speck of admiration. I learned a few tricks, each advantage one more brick in my wall. Behind it were the flabby unsure wiggles, unconfirmed reports of feelings, a mortal panic I was not only not enough, but never ever would be. But this game? This I could win.
Now, none of my old tricks seem to work. That pose I hold, attracting hungry-eyed projections, falls increasingly flat. It was always pretty empty, as my own desires and yearnings had to flee, to leave room for the shapelessness I needed in order to catch whatever they threw at me. It came with that grin, knowing. I knew I knew how to do this. I knew how hunger worked, could play to it to get my needy ego stroked. Too many times, someone thought they’d fallen for me within a few flirtatious minutes. Even if their affection was authentic, any specific understanding of me was surely not what inspired it. They simply appreciated my vague emptied-out humanity, which offered them a lot. Were they to hear me talk about myself, they’d likelier than not be turned right off. Rather than provide them such information, I stayed mum and took the love, conditional in that my words would’ve quickly dispersed it, had I dared to speak up.
I’m tired of playing again and again, knowing the likeliest outcomes, secure in how to spin the ball, keeping all proceedings where I’m certain to impress. Echoes of this game fill the room, compacting the space. I cannot breathe. I must get out. I hammer at the walls, trying to let light and air in, barely aware how my charms have been dismantled. I didn’t notice what was gone until I stood exposed, their eyes on me, and I with no reliable strategy.
the in-between*
© 2020 Barry Perlman