He’s here again, just across the aisle, facing me today. His name is Rusty not because we’ve ever spoken but because he’s a rusty-red terrier sort of a guy, albeit a pup.
He’s a young man whose beard catches the morning sun; makes the bristly hairs dance like tiny copper Brillo wires. He combs the thick deep-red plume of his up-to-the-minute haircut with his hand again and again, exposing those warm amber eyes. I’m easily hypnotized by them; those twin tannin waterfalls lull me, and I drift in and dream far ago dreams.
Rusty’s long alabaster neck goes down to wide shoulders and stretch into strong arms with sinewy hands. A grey tee just old enough to be hip without being trashy covers a slight chest and flat belly. Oh, to lay on the beach next to him and see the hair hidden beneath!
His peppermint green pants – probably Ralph Lauren straight-fit Bedford stretch chino in faded mint – sit on not-too-narrow hips and are rolled-up the ankle just enough to suggest “I’m the modern gay man. I’m the avant-garde, not hidden in metrosexuality”. The pristine white Chuck Taylors with red and blue strips – not high tops – remind me of gym class and so many others.
Rusty’s reading an old tattered book. Yes, an actual book; makes him even more alluring. Too infrequently something in it amuses him and I glimpse that ivory smile. As carefree as the moonlight, it charms me, and I imagine I hear a whisper: “Do you want to play?”.
Suddenly the bright morning light exposes us to each other, his eyes piercing into mine, my moonlit daydream gone; neither us of awkward in the moment.
He is my youth; my hubris, my unapologetically unreasonable liberalism. Is he as restless as I was with the privilege of youth?
Is objectifying wrong when the person becomes a work of art, helping recount a time of physical joy, stamina, versatility, and flexibility? I wonder if I should regret past decisions but wonder even more why I don’t.
My zeal to fight the good fight has been tempered, good and bad shifting from white and black to shades grey. I allow myself pride in my past; pride in my present. I still hope more for justice in the world. Rusty travels down a road I’ve help pave. A road with seemingly less insults, job firings, bottles thrown, and broken bones.
I know love is hard work. But my daydream reminds me that I choose to be an optimist. I know optimists always fall in love easily. I know and accept being wounded when the falling in love comes to its inevitable sudden stop...and today that stop is “Michigan & Jackson”.
June 29, 2019 at 12:08 PM