Yours, With A Limp

by dschapman

The boy was raised in Europe with the best of them but when he rode his bike through the countryside alone, like Lawrence, he was able to keep a clear head and forget about all of his overbearing past, as much as later he would try to remember it. Somewhere there is an ancestry, a bloodline, and somewhere down the line we are all thoroughbreds, if such a thing really exists anymore. There are not as many people in the world as they thought there were, and they were prone to underestimating people like him. He did his best to keep himself out of the world but it kept opening up to him, he disfigured himself just to keep it away and he lived with it, hauntingly, and we empathized. It is love, this love is boundless. The desert was fun but the ruins were magical, and even the dreadful storm couldn’t hold them back from their desires, from each other, and they nibbled their ears and made silent love on the bed in the morning, although soon he would stop making love altogether. There was no trick to it, he wasn’t special. There has been lightning without rain, it strikes down from the clear skies like the anger of God and it burns you, although it might not kill you. With his disfigurement he found a certain relief, as John Brown the abolitionist might have felt in the religious fervor of his winter autoflagellations in the morning ice, his lips caked with blood and his ankles numb and bleeding, stripping the flesh from his back in raw misery. It took pills to get to bed at night, it took pills to get up in the morning. It took pills to stand up and it took pills to sit down again, it even took pills to have sex. They caught him with the boys and they caught him with the women, but it is hard as a man to come out as bisexual – no one believes him, he might as well be ashamed. But he did not go to the bathhouses, no – at least, not yet. He still had his mother, whom he loved, and his sister, and the rest of his family and friends who adored him. He even had his fans – even disfigured, they found ways to love him. Rumpled chinos and a sun-bleached t-shirt and a foul mouth to match it, although he was secretly in turmoil and constant duress – “how did I do, ma? How did I do?”

 

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