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There is Debris in the Road

There is Debris in the Road

There is debris in the road.

The last few weeks have been eventful. I had my first meetups with matches from OkCupid and have started dating someone, a boy a decent bit younger than me who is also far more into submission than the men I normally date. To say it’s been interesting would be a profound understatement. Typically, the slightest hint of submissiveness in a male partner is enough to cut my interest to ribbons but not in this case (women, however, have always been a different story, and I default to topping them). The exception illuminates the rule. As things have progressed, I feel the familiar darkness emerging, the aspects of myself I very well know exist but had long exiled out of a desire to be someone I could live with being. I think especially of the boy I tormented my first year of college, a person I tortured as hard as I fucked him. Harder, even.

I drive rush hour every day, a feat that takes the perfect balance of alertness and calm. Every commute is a group improvisation that I melt into for the duration before I emerge unscathed on the other side. The route is shared by many, and they scatter their trophies throughout the lanes – a shredded truck tire here, a handful of gravel there, a mattress, some undershorts, a bag that could have anything in it, really. It’s an important call every time, knowing when to swerve, when to straddle, when to accelerate, when to brake. And the way is littered with those who chose incorrectly.

I don’t know where I’m going with this new boy or how far he’ll come with me, but I do see paths before me, trails I’ll explore, one way or another.

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