Ok. I just shepherded my dog to an upstairs garden patio in my building. Well, first of all, there’s a new tenant in the building who apparently has a son, about 16 or even 15 years old. I suspect he’s gay because when he looks he lingers with a willingness that’s kind of unmistakable: not the garden-variety veneration/curiosity about older men, but desire. I invariably feel better about myself when this happens, but it fades quickly when the reality of aging plumbing assails me, and of course the societal/moral injunctions from diddling boys.
So Duffy (dog) and I entered this garden patio area, I realized there was someone dozing on one of the chaise longues there. Oh that’s that boy. So Duffy and I went to a separate area (where there are ashtrays; I don’t smoke, and I guess it doesn’t matter except I kind of wanted you to know that about me). Immediately this boy kind of shows up and sits opposite me and I said good morning. And he starts mumbling with a thick Hispanic accent. He tried to explain himself: My brother is coming and we’re going to play Dragons (and something or other).
Long story short: We were so far separated in every conceivable area that I realized there would (could) be no communication unless we were in a clinical setting. It was literally like talking to an alien, which frightened me. Maybe I should have been more patient, but to what end? It couldn’t have been any more uncomfortable. He might have been completely innocent, but still I wouldn’t have been surprised if he, as a matter of course, either cut his wrists or stabbed me.
Delicate Flower On A Rocky Crag 