Wednesday, November 03, 2004

I could write about politics, but then we are all feeling the same disappointment, except for BoiFromTroy, blogdom's token faggot Republican. I just wonder why someone would belong to a group that uses hatred against homos to get their guy elected. Curious.

Instead, maybe I'll you a happy story. Back in 1990 I spent six months in Wyoming working on a dig to earn money to pay for my master's thesis research. Six months of rednecks and endless winds, does the wind ever stop blowing there? Rawlins and Rock Springs, the first community died while I was there, withering away when a Walmart opened an hour away in Laramie, the second was memorable for a night of Tunisian food, who would have figured?

Finally I was off to Lincoln, Nebraska to look at 13,263 animal bones. After six months of no queer contact, I was ready. I came across an announcement to the GBLT meeting (maybe back then it was just GBL?) and attended. I met dorky Doug, activist Scott (who later overdosed and drowned in a pool in Tucson), and a bizarre bisexual couple. At the last moment the door opened and in walked the best looking redhead I had ever met. Philip was perfect- about 5' 8", tan, built, the perfect shade of red hair. He oozed sexiness, I usually don't like cologne, but the faint scent he wore was hot.

He was a former tank driver in the Army, a sergeant. He'd gone off to school, leaving behind his Westpoint graduate boyfriend in Germany. He was off limits because they were still together, and I didn't really mind. He was fun to hang with, I remember dancing on the speakers at a bar in Omaha with him, his hips swiveling, arms thrust up in the air, eyes closed, a huge smile on his face. One day I walked across campus and there he was in a white tank top, his thick chest hair partially covering a ying-yang tattoo.

I was in Lincoln for two months and at the end I went to a party with Philip and the bizarre bisexual couple. It was boring, bad music and watered down fruity drinks. I lived far away and the couple offered to drive me home. I sat in the backseat and Philip reached over and slipped his hand down my shirt, gently tugging on my chest hair. "You shouldn't do that." I said. "How come?" he asked. "You're turning me on," I replied. "Good." he then told me he was coming to get me the following morning. I went to bed, it couldn't be true. He was perfect. I got up and called him, "Why are you playing games with me?" "Just be ready at 10," he said.

I was sitting on the front porch, the smell of wet leaves pungent, when he pulled up. Later in his dorm room I pulled off his shirt and ran my hands down his chest. We did remarkable things then, things I had never done before. Over and over again. Twenty four hours of lust. And then it was over and, except for a brief moment the following week, that was it. I went back to Arizona, he got called up for the Gulf War although he escaped service to his disappointment. He never got to drive his tank in combat. I never met anyone like him again, and that is okay with me. He was a bit of perfection, and I had that for a moment. And sometimes when I feel sad I think about that and it is easy to forget this moment while remembering that moment.

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