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Hi, I'm Russell, I guess. Here's some things.
Written on the Fletch
when i was cupid
lying lonely in my bed
i shot an arrow
through my bedroom window
and through the window
came an arrow
it shot me straight in the heart
my heart goddamnit!
how terrible!
how beautiful!
how it was you all along
(trigger warning, btw)
doc says there's no cure for "sex is like giving someone a handshake and watching them twitch out in ecstasy"
with my lips i scrawl every harbored fever of passion
against the cool smoothness of her neck
until it flows that sweat heat and heaves her breath
lifting her breasts next—boys only
want one thing—to the cusp of my tongue
which patiently ticks in harmony
to the patterned beauty of her gasping lungs
i pull away to brush my hands along the gorgeous fullness of her
sliding firm fingers beside her strong hips
so that light tickle fickles up her nerves—keep your boy
away from my daughter—as my kisses scale up her skin
her soft toes crinkle against stubbled remnants
her aching calves quiver to balming lips
her thick thighs spread under hot breath
when she grabs the dick i never wanted
and begs it inside i comply
and wonder when any other part of me will be touched
or if my mascara meant—you're such
a fucking perv'—anything
or if i didn't shave close enough
or if i shaved too close
or if my waxed legs still inspire no desire
the way hers do in effortless moments
when they drape over the mattress corner
and someone all on their own comes up and kisses them
and i noticed she grazed my chest once
her painted nails against—you don't make
me feel special—its flatness and matted fur
but maybe it was more in reach?
and the trespass of myself into the—you have
to protect her purity—feels like nothing still
(after all those teenage years cutting
for disappointing—after all the lord done
for you—by slipping purity rings
off unforgivingly idle hands
and it still feels like nothing still—at least you weren't
slut shamed—not a single thing)
and i want to cry
but i laugh: so i'm still a man aren't i
and i splurt out chuckle after chuckle
hoping they'd sound like giggles
(they never do)
and every partner always shyly sweetly asks "why are you laughing"
and i always think why am i fucking
but i say it's just because i'm the nerd boy
who never thought he'd be worth a woman like you
instead of it's not you it's
a history of—my therapist says you
have intimacy issues—everything at once
(but i really just want a good fuck don't i
and i shake to think it'll never be you
and maybe i oughtta cum early so this all stops
and maybe i oughtta play terrible in bed
so i don't have to play the untouchable toucher
but i remember the final slams of their bedroom doors
and you deserve a good fuck too
because you've got what i don't
but couldn't i have a different body
if not one with a womb to nurture
then at least one that feels you right
and am i fucking in gratitude for the moment of slender purse strap
hooped over my shoulder when you went to the bathroom
or the teddy bear socks you let me wear
in the pillowed fortress of your room
with the blinds shuttered)
and she leans back into the fuck
and convulses like she were speaking tongues
and i watch in curious senselessness
like becoming an apostate all over again
Yeah, so that's sex. Or, it was up until a few years ago when I decided I wanted to do a shoot. I'm not sure to what extent it still is. I think I wanted to prove to myself that I could figure out how to feel sexy, but I don't think I did. I did feel like I looked sexy, sometimes. I think it's probably just hard to feel that way when your feelings around gender and sexuality are intense but transient or surreal or absent. Or that purity culture just necessarily fucks you up for life, and the best you can hope for is to prevent your hypothetical future kids from having to deal with that shit. I definitely enjoyed the experience of being photographed like this, in a kind of innocent and giggly awkward way.
Or, I think 25 year old me wanted to see more genderfluidity represented and 28 year old me just wants to sleep but felt like I owed it to younger versions of myself.
Maybe I just wanted a photo album to look back on as a 70 year old and be like "Yeah, I was hot and dumb and fucked up."
Anyway, this is something I've written a bit more recently. I think it's an optimistic outlook on aging and love.
Match
As I hold a candle before you
its scent unlabeled
yet familiarly discoverable
I tell you
oh how these candles once simpered
enlightened me to dulcet smiles
in flickers of pale light
between our simmering eyes
I tell you
oh how these candles once whimpered
hummed up a graying line
to soothe me through the night
amidst our whispered goodbyes
I must warn you
my teeth are more resin than ivory
their crowns are coming in next week
and next month
and probably many more times
my heart murmurs rather than coos
it twitters unabated
regardless of pates
my lungs skip breaths
it has nothing to do with you
they just do that now
my eyes may only capture you
the way photographers capture big foot
My brain too
has a cavity
where festering memories burrow
excruciate my nerves
and mutate undecodably
but it is also
a deep well
of earned workarounds
to horrendous truths
My heart cannot follow a love
if to hell we veer
but it beats like a war drum
when omens draw near
My lungs cannot chase a love
whose cold feet send them aflight
but they hold steady and calm
through the trials of a fight
My eyes cannot behold a love
with unbridled adoration
but they will study our flaws
and offer seasoned navigation
As I hold a candle before you
its scent fading
yet hopelessly young
I ask you
would you like to take
your worn matchbook
and be a little brighter
with me?
(But what about my teeth, you ask?
Oh no
those are fucked
I was hoping you forgot about them)
Thanks. Have fun out there. Be good.
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