Simon Thibault

September 1997

Well, I suppose it started with... a lot of things.

You see, I had three jobs this summer. I quit two of them and one of them finished early. I had a job as a research assistant and another job as a translator. But something happened. Life decided to kick me in the seat of the pants. And you know what, I knew it would happen. I started off my summer being completely content with myself. For the first time in my life, I was happy with who I am, and all my parts. But then, I felt something coming. A premonition of sorts. I remember being in the shower, seeing my warped image in the plastic wall, and thinking "It's coming." And it did. I may have been happy with myself, but I was unhappy, for I was unable to share it, which was a problem. I felt as if I had this part inside me that needed to be given to someone, somewhere, the right person, and they never appeared in my hands.

So I quit my jobs. I needed to rest, not have all that stuff looming over my head, and feeling as if I wasn't fulfilling my obligations to my employers. I would rather train someone else to do it for them. So I did, and my employers were great about it.

I went to the city last weekend, to get away. I went out clubbing, among throngs of beautiful men. Now you see, I don't have the guts to go up to someone and start hitting on them. I can't do it. I even get wierded out when someone hits on me, for I wonder why they would speak to me? There was this one guy there, he was just so beautiful, and yet, I didn't even dare go up to him and tell him he was beautiful and then just walk away. A friend of mine that night had kept on telling me how adorable I was, and he would take my face in his hands, and stare. This friend is such a beautiful person. I met him once, and he just made me melt. He made me melt, for the simple fact that he was real. That night at the bar, he looked at me again, and said "Why are you sad?" I said that I wasn't, and he said that no, he could see it in my eyes. So I told him how I felt. How I found that I thought that there is no one for me to give that piece of me to. He just wondered why I felt like this at such a young age.

Just the other day, a friend of mine was here, and we sleep together. We sleep in the same bed, and keep each other warm. The next morning he woke up and his back hurt. So, I told him to turn over on his belly, and I got him a warm towel and placed it on his chest. I soaked another one, and told him to take off his shorts and placed the moist towel on his body. I drew him a bath, and took him in to the bathroom, scented with oils and incense and I bathed his back, giving him a cloth to cover himself. Part of me, a very greedy, longing part of me, was excited. But there was such a placid energy in the air (though those two words sound redundant together), and such a trust, a calm, and a beauty in it all, that I forgot about my longing for a body to lick, caress. But that feeling is selfish, and would have made my friend uncomfortable to acknowledge, more so in himself than in me. We hopped back into bed, and spent the morning sleeping and lounging in bed.

I am fascinated with bodies, for I find bodies beautiful. They are palaces where we live. Catholicism teaches us that our bodies are vassals of sin, and Epicurianism teaches us that they are vehicles to pleasure. I believe the one should do what they want with their body and use it in any which way how and to whom they want, but I know what I want to do with mine and with whom. I adore decadence, Sade is one of my philosophical idols, yet I do not indulge in his ideas. I am a libertarian (if you want to know what I mean, read the article in the _ issue of oasis on Camille Paglia) and believe in live and let live. I exercise my right not to do certain things. I don't sleep around, I don't use drugs of any sort (save for medical, and I still hate to do that) and I should do more exercise. I don't sleep around for emotionally, I find it to be a vampiric experience at worst, and a substitute for love that creates a craving for more at best. (though at times, twice, I have give in, and indulged in the most wicked of sexual indulgences....). Drugs do not entice me, for I find my own chemicals in my body to give more than a gamut of bio-chemical experiences, though I don't have a problem with drugs of any sort. Honestly. I would be worried if my friends started doing heroin or crack, but I must admit that there is a great romanticism in all of it. Precisely why I don't indulge. Exercise: I'm lazy by nature, and should do more. period. Maybe one day I'll get that six pack, but until then I'm pretty happy with my dancer's legs and waif's chest.

In my next article, I will be more serious and will talk less about me. I'm getting scared lately. I feel like I'm living in the seventies. I feel as if gay culture is becoming ghettoized and is guilty of navel gazing. And I find that not enough people my age even know who Virginia Woolf and Oscar Wilde are, and why they are significant in queer culture.

But to all of you, sleep tight, and dream. For when you're dreaming, you can make yourself believe.

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