A Sexual Person
That’s a play on words. A Sexual, Asexual. Get it?
I think I blame too much of what happened to me on Katie’s suicide. Obviously, her death had an impact on me, but let’s be honest, I was already fucked up when I met her.
I’ve never been comfortable with my own sexuality. When I did pursue somebody romantically or sexually, it was always somebody somewhat inappropriate, so that there would be built-in barriers between us. I’ve dated a stripper who wanted to be a writer. I’ve dated a ton of girls who were much older than me. I don’t know if I’d call it “dating,” but Fay Wray was much, much older than me, and my time with her was more of a romantic experience than with most girls my own age.
When I did see girls my own age, it was never a matter of them being equals or their actually giving back what they took. It had to be somebody who was in trouble, and I could let either the Poor Knight or the Great Beast out of their cage. Yesterday at coffee, I told my friend Todd the true story behind some of the rumors about me.
In college, and as a young adult, I kept about ten girls “in rotation.” If I saw Mary on Tuesday, I would see Sally on Saturday, although I’m pretty sure one of those imaginary girls was actually Maria.
Maria was, and is, a stunningly beautiful person. At least once, Maria sat in my lap and took a nap. In all the years I’ve known her, I never once considered her a sexual being or a romantic candidate. She was a Boyd’s girl and a bright spot on my rotation of regular girls.
She was also my confidant and confessor, but that’s another matter.
When Katie asked me to be her boyfriend, I knew I already loved somebody else; I just didn’t know how to conceptualize it with her. Had this first girl said, like Katie said, “You have to be my boyfriend.” I would have just died. Call the janitor and clean up this mess.
There are a few things you have to consider. When I asked my mother about it, her comment was “you don’t have to marry her.” At thirteen, that was something of a relief. From Momma’s perspective, Katie lived in Nashville or Atlanta or whatever city I lie about that’s not Jackson, Clinton, Canton, or Brandon. Her name wasn’t even Katie, but that’s irrelevant. You also have to remember that Momma and Daddy were very close with Katie’s parents. They were close with Mysterious Girl Number One’s parents, too, but not like that. The last time I saw Katie’s parents was at Daddy’s funeral.
It’s funny, all these folks came to Jackson to see the Monkey get married, then drove back a few months later to bury Daddy. Two weddings and a funeral. Like the movie, there were kilts involved.
Boyd did not get married that year. I had been carrying on with a girl from Millsaps who never loved me, and eventually said so. She needed me because her life was coming apart due to drugs and a horrible self-image. More than anything else, she needed my fiscal support, although there were nights when she was in so much pain, having someone gentle see her naked had the ability to make her forget. That’s about all you get to know about that.
Little Bird is ferociously honest when she writes about what she writes. I’m not. I’m as honest as I can be, but there are things I just don’t talk about. My own sexuality among them. I don’t discuss my sexuality with Little Bird, but she’s very well aware that I’ve only ever truly loved one woman, and it has never been, and will never be, sexual. I don’t need that. I’m kind of relieved she doesn’t either.
I’ve come to grips with the fact that I was never as ugly as I say I was and am. Yes, one eye has its own life. Yes, my smile looks like I just killed somebody (I didn’t—not yet). I look like a pretty normal kid. There was a time when I relentlessly put on weight. When you quit having championship workouts, but continue to eat the same, you gain weight. I also ate and drank, so I wouldn’t have to love or feel.
Painting a picture of her grandfather, I asked the Little Bird, “Have you ever noticed how much we look alike?” There was a time when Big Boyd and Big John could have been twins. In the old country, Clan Campbell and Clan McIntyre are separated by a small loch and a thin river. I say that I’m not actually kin to the Little Bird, but we’ve never had a blood test.
Flat on my back in rehab, once I got to where I could get in and out of bed on my own, an old flame called to ask, “When was the last time you went out to eat?” I don’t know what to tell you about us. We were a lot more romantic than we should have been. I don’t even think it was romantic. I think it was reaching out for some level of connectivity. She loved somebody else, and I love somebody else, but in the night air, we found each other, then lost each other, then found each other. It’s not love, but it’s a very good friendship.
The nurses and people at St. Catherine’s who were trying to make me human again would ask, “How’s your little girlfriend?” “She is indeed very little,” I said, “but she’s never been my girlfriend.”
Pshew. So, here we go.
My wife was a beautiful and brilliant woman. She was also, at times, a very troubled woman. I married her because she said I had to, and I loved her Daddy for trying to fill the hole when my Daddy died.
She was stunningly beautiful. If she stood next to Mysterious Girl Number One, you’d say they were sisters, maybe twins. I’m not gonna speculate, but that may have played a role.
Struggling to express herself, my wife drank, and then she could express herself quite a lot.
Pounding her little fists into my chest and even my face, she screamed, “Why! Why! Why don’t you find me attractive?”
Other than the occasional kiss, we hadn’t done anything sexual in six months. It’s not that I didn’t find her attractive. I found her VERY attractive. At forty-seven, her naked body was a thing to behold. Parts of her body are among the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.
The problem wasn’t that she wasn’t attractive to me. The problem wasn’t that I wasn’t really a sexual creature (although I would be if I could). The problem is that I knew she never loved me. Honestly? How can I ask someone to love me back when I do not love me back. She was beautiful, sexy as hell, especially when she sang, but she never loved me. That’s that, I suppose. She left because she needed to leave, and it was over.
What she didn’t know was that her father would call me about once a week to check on me until he died. Cecil had dementia toward the end. I wondered if I should remind him that we weren’t kin anymore.
Often, when I can’t express myself, I let music express it for me. I’ve been doing a deep study of Ray Charles and Betty Buckley in Cats. Betty was this very tall, very thin woman from Texas. When she spoke, you could really tell it. When she sang, you should take a couple of steps back
TOUCH ME! It’s so easy to LEAVE ME!
All alone with my memory
Of my days in the sun….
If you touch me…
You’ll understand what happiness is
Look, a new day has begun….
I don’t like touching people or being touched. I touch the little bird like she’s a little dog, but it’s because, in my mind, she’s still the baby on her Momma’s hip. Painting her grandmother, and now grandfather, holding her as this little squirming shaggy head thing, all I could think of was, “I promised to be there—and I wasn’t.” She’s forgiven me. Where would we be if our daughters didn’t forgive us?
There was a woman who somehow always knew when I was on the verge of breaking. She’d take my hand or touch my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Boyd.”
I’ve written this before. When Will Hathorne died, our entire community needed the poor knight to be a knight, stalwart, fearless, and emotionless. You’d be surprised how many of Boyd’s girls were also Will’s girls, including his sisters.
I was doing pretty good and being strong. Inez made me cry, but Inez could make me do anything. Standing in the sun, while the preacher spoke near the hole where they would soon lower my boy Will, Maria and Mary Carroll took up positions beside me.
One of my favorite paintings of Little Bird is one I did of her wearing Ray Ban Aviator, Wayfarer sunglasses, randomly holding a mid-century modern fiberglass chair, with her hip slightly askew, like “what? What? That’s what I thought!” The woman who runs the desk at my building is a little younger than Little Bird. She talks about how, at Prep, Little Bird was the “cool chick.” I don’t doubt it for a moment.
Sometimes I say Little Bird is my Godchild. She has actual Godparents, but the full description of how she’s connected to me is about a hundred words. Among people I know, I just say, “Guess whose child she is.” She and her mother don’t think they look alike, but the rest of the world does.
Standing in the sun, looking at the box with my boy in it, I contemplated his existence in the cold, cold ground. I’m sure part of him was in heaven, but the part left with us was going to be lowered, far from my sight.
I could feel all the fibers in my legs, my spine, my chest begin to snap, one by one, the titanium wires that make the Poor Knight a knight were breaking. My hands made a tight fist. Tighter than you can imagine. A broken giant, I trembled. The explosion was coming.
On one side, I could feel a tiny, olive colored hand covering my quivering fist. On the other side, I could feel another tiny, olive colored hand, from a completely different continent, cover my other quivering fist. Boyd was breaking. Badly breaking. But they would not let me fall.
A broken giant and two tiny ravens, each wearing Ray Ban Aviator Wayfarer sunglasses, we said goodbye to my boy. There are levels of love and life that are an atmosphere above sexuality and romance.
