As a very young child I worried that I had torn a dress to pieces that belonged to my mother.
I convinced myself that I had stolen the dress from her wardrobe, torn the dress, trying to make it fit me.
The shame of shredding it lived with me for decades. One day, some time in my 40’s, I confessed to her. I told her what I had done. She laughed, the dress had been her sisters, she had returned the dress.
The woolen crepe feel of it, the silk lining, the dark blue flowers lifted like brocade on the darker blue surface. The dream, the scissors, the cutting, trying to make it fit….me.
It was a dream.
You know that every word I write is being read by the police, by the brunette DA? By the ‘victim’s’ lawyers? They trawl this blog for evidence. Did I just prove how ‘dark and creepy’ I really am?
In another dream the DA is wearing suspenders and a bra, panties (crotchless) a wet gash, slipping herself onto her much older husband’s giant cock. She glances at the bible that sits primly on the bedside table and kicks it off. Her ankle bracelet (an anniversary gift) catches the light, her Christian name written in gold.
Her children are sleeping in another room. Oblivious.
These are the dreams I didn’t have in jail. I could not dream.
Another marathon press session yesterday. This time a fearless woman made it up the mountain. Blond, slim, attractive. I asked her who would play her in the movie of her life. Jodi Foster. Good choice.
I often wonder, when I am having an out-of-body experience, out of my life for a moment experience…what the hell is happening?
A four-hour interview. After she left I fell into bed and slept deeply until Kevin arrived. He chauffeured me into Venice, for dinner with Anna at Axe (where I once made a beautiful boy wear agent provocateur underwear and blow me in the bathroom…) We ate everything on the menu: the flat bread and the crab and the boiled beef with polenta. Anna drank a bottle of wonderful white wine, I envied her so much. I wanted to taste it. To feel the effect of the wine on my body and mind. To take a few hours off.
When the sun sets, the nights are chilly, cold enough for a scarf.
After dinner a Mormon arrived from the internet. We could not keep our hands off of each other. I slipped my hands up under his coat onto his warm belly. I kissed him on his lips. He smiled coyly. 28 years in the closet, 28 years yearning for this. Yes, he was the Mormon boy you see dressed in a suit wearing a badge, looking like a talent agent.
He’s out there experimenting, meeting men, feeling his way into a gay life.
At home we fell into bed and I found myself giving into him, becoming uncharacteristically submissive. He came three times. He didn’t lose his erection in between. I couldn’t stop kissing him. I made him mark my neck. I made him bite me.
Sucking the spit out of his mouth. The cum out of his cock.
The twins arrived home at 2.30am. He had long gone.
The silent house. I lay in bed and listened to my breath fill my lungs. Enjoying the sensation of being alive. A sensation I have had often since I left the jail. I have been so alive since they shat me out of the MCJ. Walk through that door and you’ll be free.
The jail has restored my faith in humanity? You wanted to know how so?
Because I met men in there, undeserving black men, paying the price with dignity. Because it made me re-evaluate everything.
(He brought me a bunch of hyacinths, the pungent fragrance fills the room.)
I have met extraordinary men and women since I left the jail. Men and women who restored my faith in America. The USA. Brilliant, humblingly brilliant minds working to free the men I knew (and men like them) from a barbaric life in an American jail.
This is the Newtonian ‘equal and opposite’ reaction to the life I had before I passed imperceptibly into my dotage, my serious…third life.
“Picasso was hot, even when he was 70.” he said.
The people I am meeting, the places I am visiting are so startlingly different from the life you thought I aspired. I find myself in dingy offices down town. Understanding obscure laws. Recasting myself. Relishing the next interview. I am useful at last. I am useful to them. Useful for changing laws, illegal protocols…and people are listening. I am being heard…it feels good.
You see what they did to Julian Assange? They will try to do that to me. They will discredit me. They will try. Scurrilously, meticulously, evidentially. They will tell you that I can’t be trusted. When the moment…that moment we have all been waiting for, the moment before the curtain rises, when the audience hushed, the lights have dimmed.
That moment is fast approaching.