"Cute? Pic?" or 12:37 to 12:53 am
.......(the mole under my lip is the source of all my powers)........
"Cute? Pic?" or 12:37 to 12:53 am
Last night, I attened the weekly Thursday support group at the Gay and Lesbian Community Center. This is a youth group, where gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, questioning, and straight youth can go to argue, share, get help, help someone else, and all other forms of dealing with their problems. It is usually fairly uneventful; the topic usually ranges from events that happened in clubs with fake IDs to who's fucking who back to the clubs and back to sex and bad relationships. I often find it trite and uninteresting.
I brought poetry, last night, to edit while everyone else talk-argued... About half-way through the scheduled group meeting time, a boy who I had never seen there before walked in wearing a shirt that said "Evil Inside" and beads, and he had tremendously soulful brown eyes. After group, outside, we found each other staring at each other. We were close, standing a mere foot, less than, away from each other. I broke our respective stares by snarling and biting his arm. He half laughed, took my hand, rolled back the sleeve of my flannel, and bite into my wrist in such a sultry way, I choked.
"So, you're one of those," I said. "I am a recovering vampire." Here, I cleared my throat, uncomfortable but strangely unnervous. "Blood. Fattening. Yuck."
We giggled.
The conversation from there was increasingly inviting. He ended up leaving me with a strand of red beads on yarn, a bracelet that he had made. We kept meeting each other's eyes. I didn't want to leave, Sarafina had to drag me away (rather annoyed at me, I might add). I made him promise to come next week. He lightly touched my hand, warm palms; he pulled on my fingers and tried to promise.
It is strange, spending so much time around homosexuals. They're fun, inviting. I trust them. I find myself wanting to touch and scratch and bite and hug gay men to no end, simply because they are so open and warm. We broke out into Rent at Denny's one week after group. A table of fifteen teenagers who all happen to know the lyrics to Rent? Must be homosexuals.
Brown, soulful eyes... I hope he comes back next week. For me, his being gay means he is safe. It means that I can cry in his lap, snuggle up to him, lie naked and completely vulnerable with him and not get hurt.
"Evil Inside," strands of coloured beads that sing to me, eyes that scream. How can I deny such eyes? sighs? torturous beads?
I need a dream or two. Brown.
fallen
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