Barebacking Feels Like Resistance

I'm so lonely for friends, and for comrades in arms.  I've given up on the latter, but I'm still seeking the former. 

Another guy  whom I thought was just a friend, whom I tried to make a friend, now has me bent over a small stool and is asking, "Can I come inside?"  He's saying, "Tell me you want that load!"  

I'm not sure I do want it.  I mean, I'm ambivalent. I've just recently had a conversation with another  guy who had run out of options for treatment of H.I.V. disease, and who had come to the desert to die.  I don't want to acquire a virulent strain of H.I.V., or something else even temporarily painful.

But his dick is fat and hard, and I'm so lonely.  

Already, my loneliness for friends is a compromised one.  Really, as a revolutionary, one needs one's friends to also be compatriots, to be comrades, to be fellow revolutionaries.  One of the hallmarks of the revolutionary is the inability to separate personal life from political mission and from the lust for justice.  But, I've mostly given up on finding the combination of the two.  

Before he started to try to fuck me, when I thought we were going to be just friends, this guy had actually expressed some ideas that did not evidence the typical American gay man's desperate avoidance of all serious political criticism, and he made me feel the possibility of real resistance again.

But, I know that this kind of talk that he was doing often turns out to be empty talk, now, in the year "2016", a year when we are so far from queer revolution that it seems unimaginable, and yet also a year in which it has never been so necessary.  

I'm desperate.  I'm lonely.  For older gay men, the revolution is a moribund memory.  For younger ones, it is something incomprehensible, unnecessary, old-fashioned, and passé.  

Oh, how I wish I could give it up, this silly revolutionism. This awful revolutionism which makes me lonely.  But inside me it still lives.  I am just too old.  And too young.  I'm too old in that I have to carry with me the memory of strong, brave,  angry, gay men who stood up for themselves and who were highly politically conscious - the ones who served as my heroes and exemplars.  And I am too young to have experienced the revolution when it was powerful, when we had the G.LF. and the G.A.A. and Stonewall and the Black Cat and Barney's Beanery, and when nobody was a sellout. Too old to believe the false reformist and conservative narratives of gay progress, yet too young to just relish the revolution and remember it directly and fondly reminisce in my easy chair looking at my war laurels;  too young to just give up, to be content with "once upon time". 

 

How I wish I could be free from the awareness, from the desire for justice, from the knowledge, from the integrity which makes one a revolutionary.  But I cannot.  I keep acting for the revolution, alone, or essentially so, and in spite of myself.  

The revolution is forced to live in lonely, odd, and dark places, the places where one can still find danger in this crazed, counterrevolutionary society where everyone now espouses the manufactured desire for absolute safety and security.  

I do not want security.

I do not want safety. 

I do not want delusional and incompetent heteronormative "public health policy".

I want justice.  

I feel it,  I feel the unarticulated rebellion and lust for true freedom that revolution brings about in the aggressive barebacking that gay men are doing in dark places.  I feel the anger, aggression, and joy. The forgetting. The extension and enhancement of le petit mort.  Inside that unsecure, unsafe world where revolution lives.  In that world whose foundations are in love and resistance.  In my mind the old Alison Limerick song plays "Follow me down. Deep down. Where love lives."  

"Tell me you want it baby" he says. 

I want in on this conspiracy.  I take the revolution where I can get it.  Where danger, and freedom lie, where they live.  

His hard dick is starting to pulse powerfully and he's moaning, asking again to hear that I want it.

And, as I risk death, and reject safety, I stamp out the reformist, safety-mongering voices in my head, the voices of the weaklings who have destroyed the good life and revolution, by demanding safety and security - the voices of reasonable and respectable people. 

I strike one for the revolution. And I can't help it.

I'm doomed to believe in the revolution. 

I answer him.

"Give it to me!"