And this? This Is More . . .

All I knew is that I was the young one. I was the kid brother to a big brother and the youngest one in the house.
But what else did I know? Or what else could I know?
I say this as a fair question to myself because what else do we know when we are young?
What do we know, aside from the pecking order in the house. Or if we take it to the streets, or the different social places, what do we pay attention to?
What do we notice, other than the different levels of who’s cool and who isn’t?
We know who’s bigger or better, and other than the relevance of age or what it means to be a grade ahead or behind someone else, what else do you know when you’re just a kid?

I never told anyone if I had a crush . . .
Then again, who would I tell?
Or if I told anyone, what would they tell me?

My friends were far from sensitive and since none of them (or I) got passed the games or the “stinky pinky” stages with any of the girls in our town, no one knew what I thought or how I felt.
I never dared to take a girl on a date, or ask for one.

How do kids learn about romance anyway?
Who teaches them?
And which lessons speak to us in the loudest volume?

I suppose I learned from my circle of influence, which was a bad influence at best.
I suppose I saw the world from a lens, which was altered because of some inappropriate experiences that were unfortunate and sad.
And I suppose I viewed my life from a perception that was wishful, and yet, there was a side of me that believed the narratives of others or ideas that did not empower me..

I can’t say that my introduction to romance was brought on by poets. No.
Not at all.
Romance was not handed to me with the grace of some kind of Shakespearian generosity and nor was there anyone to tell me about warmth from the hand or how to process the warmth of a kiss.
I Never learned how to take it slow or take it easy.
Not at all.
No.

I knew the porn-mag versions of romance. I learned from the older ones who spit on the ground and acted tough.
I learned how to talk to girls from someone named Victor who told me, “Treat a princes like a whore and a whore like a princess, and you’ll get laid every day for the rest of your life.”
And though I am too old and too far removed from my young and idiot friends, I have to admit there was truth to this kind of psychiatry.

I can say there was something about this princess theory.
There was something to this kind of pathology that worked like a perfect science. And, too, I was just a small, insecure, skinny kid.
I would have taken advice from anyone because what the hell did I know?
I was just a kid . . .
I was cared of my own shadow.
I had no understanding of my true self.
I never assumed that I was cute, or handsome, or pleasing to the eye.
No.
I swore that I was ugly.
And I still live with this idea.

At best –
I was hopeful and scared, tiny and lost. And if I fast forward, I suppose my young adulthood was not much different.
My exposure to romance was limited to the ignorant suggestions from people with names like “Johnny the Rug,” and this was a guy who lived with low-level intelligence and caveman ideas about women, love, lust, or anything of the sort.
Johnny the Rug’s backseat romance advice was as romantic as this,, “You’re friend’s banging my friend, so that means you have to bang me now!”
(This is a real statement, by the way)

I admit to the following. I admit to the truths which I will reveal to you in my upcoming entries.
At best, I admit that I never dared to stand true to myself. I never dared to show my feelings or be honest enough to reveal my truth.
No.
I suppose I succumbed to my circles of influence, which was either an older brother who’d beat me up if I didn’t listen to him.
And in fairness, I want to share that yes, my older brother is one of my first few heroes.
However, he was my older brother and yes, he tricked me into eating crayons when I was little.
Or if we take it back to third grade –
My brother tricked me into drinking a half-bottle of vermouth because he said that he’d do my math homework.
I threw up all over the house. And in the end, all of my math homework was wrong

I was influenced by my knucklehead friends whose best level of intimacy was “smell my finger,” after getting some girl to let them move further than just the kissing phase.

Girls . . .
Yes, I always had a facination.
I’ve always had a type.
At the same time, my type is not a figure as much as a connection or some kind of internal feeling, which I could not deny or resist.

my biggest desire is the face.
I am a body man.
I love legs
I love the way hips swerve.
I love a beautiful chest
I love a great ass too.
And yes, I have fetishes.
I have kinks and desires,
But there’s more.
And I want more.

I remember the first time I ever noticed a girl. And I mean “Noticed!”

This was in the basement of a friend’s house. We were playing a game called Manhunt, which is like hide and seek, but you had to be tagged to be it.
She was a year younger. (I think)
She and I were hiding next to each other behind the washing machine in the laundry room.
It was dark but there was sunlight creeping in from the top seam of the basement window.
I could see her face in such a way.

She smelled sweet.
I never noticed how she smelled before.
Then again, we were just little kids.
I never kissed a girl before.
And I wouldn’t have known what to do if she let me.
I’m not even sure that I thought about kissing her.
No, I suppose I just admired her.

Besides, I was this little kid.
And I mean little.
What else could I be?
Cute?
Good looking?
I was not her prince charming.
But I wanted to be.

This was the first time I ever noticed how a girl could change the way I felt.
Her smell was sweet.
Her skin was glowing.

I was looking at her.
She was watching to make sure no one came down the stairs.
And all of this was innocent enough.

I noticed the curl at the side of her mouth. She smiled.
She was sweet and pretty.
Wow . . . how beautiful.
I never noticed that she was so pretty before.

I remember thinking how nice it was that she was a friend to me.
How nice.
I remember thinking about her and wondering what it would be like if we were together somewhere, or maybe what it would be like if we were together at the ice cream truck when it came around.
Wow . . . that would be nice.
I could buy her a snow cone and maybe her lips would turn the same color blue as mine.

And then we heard something.
“Someone’s coming.”
I chose to take the lead.

We ran but I ran first.
I did this so that I could run interference.

She could go free.
I would be tagged and I would be “it” and she would get away.
What a nice thing to do, right?

I remember running from the laundry room in my friend’s basement.
I took the lead. I was the hero.
I was running but apparently, I was not running fast enough. At least, for her—and, so, she pushed me out of her way

I tripped and fell and my forehead hit the corner of a coffee table.
Like, BAM!
I bled all over my brand-new t-shirt that my Grandmother sent up from Florida.
She left.

I guess I can say this was my first crush.
That bitch.
I suppose I could tell you that I never played man hunt with that girl again.
We never played anything together again.
And we never even spoke after that.

Love hurts . . .
yes it does

I remember thinking how I was going to let me get tagged so she could get away.
I would have been “cool,” —until that bitched pushed me and tore up my face.

Okay . . .
Lesson, learned I suppose.

I admit it.
I never learned the right way to love.
I’m not even sure if I learned the best way to be a lover or how to make someone feel good.
And I never knew the better ways to express myself.
At the same time, I know I have it in me.
I know I still have that boyhood dream to be next to a girl on a dock at a small lake, far away from everyone else, skipping stones, and letting the summer sun warm our skin.

There is nothing more beautiful than beauty.
I never dared to say these things before.
I never dared to say what I saw or talk about what I notice.
But this is what I’ve come to do

Years ago, I told someone to visualize the life they want for themselves.
And I told them, “if you can’t see it, then you can’t have it.”
How can you have something if you don’t even know what it looks like?”

I suppose this is why I’m here.
I want something that cannot be bought or compromised.
I want to visualize the most beautiful things, even if none of this is beautiful to anyone else.

I want to get my truths out.
I want to expose my lies and my weaknesses.
I want more. And so, to have more, I have to do more.

And this . . .

This is more.

Wherever you are, I hope this reaches you.
I hope all of this hits the spot.
I hope these notes find you well and when they do, I hope you see that I have waited my whole life for this, for you, and for the sunset on a small lake, skipping stones, like something from a Van Morrison song.

Let’s see where this takes me
or you
or us
and let’s see if this brings us one step closer
or otherwise, maybe this takes us one step farther away.

As for everything else . . .
only time will tell
because as far as I was told –
the rest is up to fate.