To Love Broken Men

The sky is turning a hazy pink as the sun sets and people make their way home.

I almost fail to notice the beauty of it because there's an uncle yelling at me in tongues I should know. Unfortunately for him, neither my comprehension or vocabulary is multi-lingual, so in a language I can comprehend, it translates to what sounds like an acid jazz repertoire. In fact, much like a song, I don't even need to know what he's saying to feel the poison he's spitting with every offbeat slur. 

As if to confirm my suspicions, the verbal abuse crescendos and evolves into rude hand gestures as the man next to me grips me tighter. A hand snakes to my chin, and soon I'm deciphering tongues by taste instead. It's a bittersweet kiss, more desperate than it is loving, and though it takes my breath away, it's more suffocating than sacred. We break apart just as my vision starts to blur; in that moment of weakness, I almost beg the incoming vignette of darkness to take me. As my vision clears and borders are once more enforced, the first sight I catch is of The Uncle again. He's attracted a whole crowd by now, and the flock of them have settled into conspiratorial whispers—pecking away at the order being disrupted by my very existence. And of course they don't meet my eyes, glassy eyes settling into disavowal whilst they abstract me into my parts and gaze at me as a thing. A thing in a tight fitting dress that doesn't leave much up to the imagination, but one that elicits interest nonetheless due to the kind of body it hugs. 

Realising that the language he's using has been ineffective, he switches to English instead. 

"Bastard!" He yells venomously, casting his last curse before turning around to leave, the insult lingering like a pastor's pause as the whispers fade. I almost want to laugh at his choice of words:

...

Bastard 

Adj.

1. (Of a thing) no longer in it's pure or original form; debased 

Similar: hybrid, alloyed, adulterated, impure, inferior

…

I can't remember a time I felt anything but these things, and that's perhaps why I didn't say no when the man who sticks his tongue down my throat. He offers to take me back to his place so that he may more deeply indulge in “the thing” that everyone else can only sinfully dream to touch.

What proceeds is a primal tangle of limbs and liquids, but eventually a bed to sleep in. I consider leaving, but I have even less of a reason to go than I do to stay. No purity or dignity to preserve, or reality to deny by running away. 

In my half woken dreams, I consider that I've never run away from anything in my life, but that there's good sense in knowing when to leave. I'm reminded more lucidly of this when I wake up the next morning to a string of verbal abuse. The man who stuck his tongue down my throat throws my clothes at my face, and unlike The Uncle from before, he speaks in the language and tones I cannot make into song.

"Get the fuck out you faggot!"

"That isn't what you were saying last night," comes my retort, but it's a low raspy whisper that's muffled by the underwear and fabric over my face. I peel them away and notice that The Man has left. I hear him retching in the bathroom, and as a result my own stomach churns. Unlike him though, I don't have the excuse of too much alcohol to pin the previous night's proceedings on, nor the unsettlement I feel in my own body as it revolts against me. I dress quickly, but instead of leaving immediately, I linger by the bathroom door, watching as The Man kneels over the toilet bowl-a sinner repenting at his altar. He must sense my lingering presence because he turns in my direction and snarls. His eyes fill with fire, though different from the night before as his hatred tries to reel in another victim. 

"I thought I told you to leave."

"You did," I reply meeting his gaze with a level look. 

"So fuck off then!" His voice rises, but he flinches more than I do at the sound. 

"Would you like me to help you?" I ask, keeping my voice calm, a disposition rivaling his own as a perfect counterpoint melody. He opens his mouth to spit some more poison, but whatever poison he has to offer finds its way into the toilet bowl instead. I approach and rub his back softly, ushering him away from the bowl when he's done. He groans as I put his arm around my shoulder and I lift him up. We make our way slowly back to his room, and I lay him gently into the bed he kicked me out of.

"Why are you still here?" The Man asks, and this time it's in the same gentle tone that had coaxed me into bed with him last night. His eyes cast a suspicious gaze on me, but the fire is gone and all that remains are the burning wounds. 

"You're in pain," I reply sternly like a doctor offering a terminal diagnosis, meeting his eyes directly before lightening my voice and looking away. "Plus, I can't just leave you like this or my user ratings will decline." Combined with my sardonic smile, this last ditch attempt at humour almost gets a laugh out of him, but he covers it up with a grunt.

"Whatever...there's some leftovers in the fridge if you want to take them on your way out, and some money in the kitchen drawer," he slurs before turning away from me, his voice fades towards the end as a shameful look comes across his face. He chooses to bury it in the blankets, and I stay there for a bit until he falls asleep before making my way to the kitchen. I reheat some leftovers, fill myself up, and then do the dishes and grab the cash. Before leaving I place a glass of water at The Man's bedside, and fold a little paper heart with the scrap of paper, outlining my scribbled number from the previous day.

As I make my way down the street, I see The Uncle from the night before. 

"Bastard!" He calls out after me. 

Spinning on my sparkling heels, I turn around and shout back,  "I love you too!" 

The Uncle blushes a shade of dusky sunset pink, and another day rises to meet me.