Reality has never fazed me although by reality i refer to the sense of a putative real in accordance to which i shape the self i present the world. It is insufficient to see this as dissembling because somewhere what is also involved is a practicality and artistry. However much ,in moments of mortification, self hatred may insinuate i feel comforted in the knowledge that i performed well .
When i first knew him i experienced an onrush of desire. The visceral response became the conduit for our future intersections. It was at a queer conference and his physicality imprinted itself in my consciousness. As far as the argument he was propounding in his research paper was concerned there wasn't great subtlety or nuance. His ideological position took comfort in abstractions, abstractions which seemed to possess an imprimatur of veracity and of being self evident. But any conception of the 'ideal' , unless mediated by an awareness of human complexity, can become parochial no matter how meritorious it might seem. His argument for 'commitment', 'a united stand' were uttered with impassioned fervour with the rationality of the jargon that underpinned it. His paper drew a thunderous applause and i had clapped my own hands complicitly, as also with a genuineness because , at a certain level, despite my misgivings,i was seduced by his argument as also by his own charisma , which exuded certainty, a firm belief in the right and a formulation of its dissemination.
Shaking hands afterwards i'm afraid i was rather fulsome and expostulatory. His own protestations of humility, which i intuited to be insincere, were accepted with good grace. Even as he stood in a group,conversing with desultory seriousness, about certain contumelious homophobic propensities around us, the atmosphere was of good cheer and optimism. Seeing all these people, consumed by conviction,mediating their ideas with the overlaying of the incontrovertibly veracious , i had a sense of unreality as though i were enclosed in an integument of the perfection or the idea of perfection.
He took me aside, murmuring appreciative observations on the boldness of my poetry. I was gratified.And then he leaned over and kissed me and i tasted the raspiness of his beard. In that moment i saw him as a potential lover and the prospect of my annihilation, my submergence in his dark world, seemed irresistible. Contextually i recalled a lesbian friend telling me , with immense sarcasm of the many lovers he had and discarded, of his casual affairs. I experienced the flutter of decadence and a delicious thrill at the incongruity of this startling fact from his earlier avowals of the cause.
I went with him to his house, a three roomed apartment, tastefully done .The eclecticism of his taste was discernible as also the comfortable accoutrements of tasteful living, conspicuous in the eiderdown and carpets and sofa covers threaded with intricate ethnic patterns , with the convoluted whorls indicating an artistic sensibility i felt drawn to. His lovemaking was skilled but abrasive but all the more prepossessing for that. He invited me over for the next night and i made vague promises amid much prevarication and left. I sensed his implicit confidence that i'd return and i resented that insouciance partly because i knew that it was embedded in fact, the incontestable fact of my emotional vulnerability, observable despite my strenuous dissimulation, perhaps irradiated by it and thus redoubled in its self exposure.
I didn't return the next day and nothing cataclysmic supervened to precipitate it. Inveterately, the constellations of incertitudes , with their imminent accompaniment of stasis, waylaid me. I didn't want to commit to this casual affair because i sensed in myself a potentiality for recidivism, not just in the realm of brutal sex but of ideology. I had no desire to become implicated in the cause and the confidence with which i allude to the inevitability of this materializing is because i know myself all too well. I am accustomed to witness my depredations and oscillations and to the strong tug of self loathing my willed capitulation induces. In this instance the amalgamation of sex and politics, a heady mix, betokens a regression i must resist, with utmost self awareness. I have left behind a vivacious message in his answering phone of my gushing admiration and gratitude. I think i have, though acting instinctively, affirmed his own preconception, a preconception i refuse to disregard as apocryphal, despite its amorphousness, of my ostensible fatuousness and efflorescence of emotion. Here, at this moment i am glad i protracted the performance to offset any contretemps. In one sense i have acted true to character as i anyway would but this truthfulness will, fortuitously, be recompense as an avoidance of heartbreak.