December 1998

Phone rings.
It is Amy Sonnie, a young woman with vibrant, authentic eyes who came up to me after the reading at A Different Light to complement me on my work, inviting me to submit my writing to the anthology she's putting together. I believe it is called "Revolutionary Voices".
I spent days thinking about Amy's offer but decided not to pursue the offer. I can't help but feel I am not ready to be published, and that I haven't anything worthwhile to offer.
But luckily she is tenacious and finally convinced me by telling me the story of how she became the "mother" of this anthology. Her faith and interest in me have strangely become my own.
She said she would love if I submitted the very material I read in the city.
Now I'm finding the prospect of publishing something so deeply personal and meaningful absolutely horrifying and exciting.
When I tell the good news to the people I know they confound me by asking questions that sound meaningless, things I myself never thought to ask - "Will you get paid?" "Who's the publisher?" "When is this happening?"
Ahimsa sends a letter in the mail:
Was so good seeing you last week. I truly loved what you had to read. Please keep working on those journals of yours. They're wonderful. Very powerful and beautifully written. A tremendous gift to the community… Much love, my love. Be well and remain blessed as always.
The reading has changed my perception. It has given me artistic faith and confidence.
Phone rings again.
It is a man named Kerwyn Kay. He says he would like to include me in an anthology he is editing.
Phone rings.
It is the young flight attendant I met en rout to Chicago. At first we are superficial, casual, struggling to make conversation out of the smallest things, and when I am about to end the call, Jeffrey, a flirtatious twenty-one-year-old, makes a hasty confession, "I thought of you all that day." It is a tense moment for me, as I don't want to say something I won't mean. I merely chuckle. He continues, "I jerked off three times thinking about you, until I got tired and fell asleep."
'What was your fantasy?'
He says he feels stupid saying.
I'm aroused, 'Don't feel stupid. Just tell me.'
"Maybe we can get together," he suggests shyly. "And I can suck you off…"
Doorbell rings.
It is a boy scout. His hair is wet and parted meticulously. His uniform is cumbersome on his scrawny little body. He speaks shyly. He is selling something for five dollars. I'm not clear if it's cookies or chocolates or what. All he is holding in his two little hands is a clipboard. I cannot possibly refuse this awkward little boy whose mother waits for him in a mini-van on the street. I ask him to wait while I go to my reserve of waiter's money hidden in the bottom of my sock drawer. He offers a curt unaffected thank you and says the cookies (?) will be delivered on the eighteenth.
When I tell my mother about the little boy she scoffs that it is a scam. I say I trust.
Last night my heart was a vandalized edifice that was made of steel lace. After cocktails and candid conversation with Mitra I went back to San Francisco to reclaim it.
Matt helped. We sat at the bar and talked fluidly about many things- upbringing, relationships, things one can only discuss with a stranger. I admitted I was in the city that night to break a personal pattern regarding gay sex, that I sought intimacy, passion, connection without destruction.
When we arrived at his apartment we kissed erotically for hours. All night we shifted in a soft embrace that was profound, graceful, not mechanical or grotesque. He was generous and beautiful.
In the morning we walked to a nearby café, sat on dark wooden chairs by the window, and again talked comfortably.
Matt is in his early thirties, handsome. His eyes are distinctly Japanese as his mother is Japanese. They are smiling, precious, imported, while his jaw is square, rough, stubbly, American.
In bed the night before we were equally submissive and aggressive, equally passionate, exchanging powers, relinquishing grace, taking turns ravishing the other's body. It was refreshing, surprising.
I know beauty has a tendency to change, to turn, to break, and become less generous at any given moment, less opulent. But I won't be around to see this happen with Matt.
I have learned also that it is not soap and water that wash a man's scent from my body, my memory; the sensual nuances, the erotic recollections, the very taste and brand of saliva from his kisses that varied, or the moments that survive upon my body despite scrubbing, shaving, or swimming in the ocean. No, it is not soap or any other penitent ritual that can absolve my actions, but time and acceptance…
When we were in his bed kissing, nearing quickly the very threshold of intensity into other carnal terrain, he'd reminded me, "Yes I have condoms, but you came to break a pattern." We had smiled in the darkness. 'Thank you,' I had whispered before kissing him more fervently.
It is Anna who sees me through this uncertain phase.
She grills me, "And when you were on the street you didn't make eye contact with anyone?"
'No. I consciously evaded others' glances.'
"Good for you. You always know what you're about to do. You say it yourself beforehand, 'I'm going to the city to do so-and-so…'"
'I do, don't I?'
"Yes, Emil. You do. Another thing we've never talked about is your driving drunk on these late night excursions to discover yourself. I know you're never trashed but if, if you were to get pulled over the cops would arrest you for drunk driving. Gotta be careful."
'Thank you so much, honey. You've always been there for me.'
"Well, where else am I gonna be?"
Laughter, warm, heartfelt laughter.
Phone rings.
It is night in Berkeley and Vivian, with whom I had not spoken in a long while, is sorrowful and lamenting. Her sadness verges on rage, her voice quivering and breaking.
I swear Vivian is a three-year-old precocious child on the brink of eighty. She has the dual wisdom of a child and aging sage.
She is most heavyhearted about Shammi's recent impatience with her when Shammi used to be the compassionate, sympathetic older sister. I can scarcely believe it as Vivian discloses Shammi's sarcasm regarding Vivian's depression and immaturity.
"I don't feel safe anymore confiding in her, Emil. I feel like she'll just criticize or ridicule me."
And I wonder how is it that each time I begin to admire a person the flawless image begins to break in ripples as though my own admiration were a pebble I had thrown!
I beg Vivian to remain patient with Shammi as if my own faith depended on their sisterhood.
Now about Mitra. She is my age, attractive, has gorgeous brown eyes that sparkle under gracefully arching eyebrows. Her skin is milky and supple, and it seems to glow. She is the product of an Iranian father and American mother. When I first met her through Anna I had been somewhat intimidated not only by her newness, but by her Persian beauty and posture.
But upon further interacting with her at parties in Marin I found my reservations gradually fading as she proved to be an unpretentious, tender, and fun-loving young woman.
Soon we were thrilled to see each other at parties and would hug and kiss playfully on both cheeks!
Two nights ago we had planned to go bowling just the two of us, but decided last minute to seek a quiet bar where we could talk. And this we did for hours as it rained outside. It rained inside too- a sprinkle of words, slow comfortable gestures, so many facial expressions, anecdotes, and low-toned confessions.
At moments we laughed out loud with our heads thrown back into the air, and at others we were solemn and teary-eyed.
Mitra confided that her father, a successful men's clothing retailer, has been fighting cancer and that his future remains uncertain. She was obviously heartbroken about this and asked me not to mention it to any of our mutual friends. Suddenly I saw Mitra for the person she is, real, as fallible and human as any of us, and felt privately shameful for having envied her the privileged upbringing.
I suppose none of it really matters- the money, the palatial home, the fancy car, the trips to exotic places, the fashionable clothes- when in the end all there is for any of us, no matter how rich, is a same death.
We burst into fits of laughter again when long into the night we discovered that Mitra had worn her top inside out!
How human, how same we are without ever really expecting it.
The intimacy I have encountered as a gay man in relation to women is always consummate, freefalling…
She asked about my life.
I said, 'When I was a teenager just coming out I asked my brother out of the blue if he would someday come over to my house for dinner with me and my lover. And he said no.'
Upon hearing this Mitra began to cry literal tears that streamed down her cheeks. We sipped the last of our drink and decided to head home.
Friendship. Intimacy. Just a little tenderness. Just a small gesture, a warm smile, some small effort- that is all I ask of life, of others.
I continue to meditate on hope, on a distant wish for total freedom, on a single truth that I do not have to contract the AIDS virus simply because I am gay!
And sometimes, late at night, I am moved by fear to seek God, a Christian God, for some semblance of forgiveness, a certain guarantee, but I desist because it would be a desperate and superficial attempt.
Kerwyn Kay and I spoke again. I like his voice, his laugh. He tells me "Male Lust" is an anthology about male sexuality as written from many perspectives and points of view, regardless of gender and sexuality. His deadline for submission of all the collected writings to the publisher is the fifteenth of this month- a week! He's had six hundred pages of writings from which to select the pieces and upon hearing me read at A Different Light, he said, he knew he had to include my material.
My joy is presently so elevated I cannot even reach it…
Ahimsa called the other afternoon. He said he had been blown away by what I had read, and that he had not expected it to be that good! We talked about truthful writing, raw, honest, vulnerable writing. I confessed to him my great fear that I'll never write fiction. Ahimsa became passionate now and asked, "Why do we writers of color always feel the need to fictionalize our lives?"
I hadn't thought about this before and wondered now why I am always ready to dismiss myself as writer simply because I don't write fiction, stories, novels.
And would we, young queer writers, be running from ourselves, our very own experience and voice, if we were to fictionalize? Would each plot and character take us a step further away from our own reality and not closer?
Drew blood for an HIV test. Martha the nurse pricked me with a butterfly needle and tried to make conversation, but I was in a serious mood. When I got up to leave Martha stopped me and handed my book bag to me.
"So, what are you going to do now?" She asked.
'A friend of mine has given me a list of books he thinks I should read, so I'm just gonna hit a book store on the way home…'
Earlier I'd glimpsed Luis at the downtown Novato bus terminal.
Every day is a struggle to accept myself and to learn to see myself through my own eyes, not through others' approval of who I should be or how I should live. I want freedom. I want a day to pass without so much effort, so much mechanical thinking, monotonous analyzing, questioning. Without so many wishes, hopes, dreams, plans. But maybe that's the way youth goes. Maybe this is the way it must be…
Maybe one day, perhaps in my old age, I'll finally be able to stop trying to fathom and secure the future and simply recognize the moment.
Why is it so hard to believe and accept that I am beautiful and deserving of love?
Have I spent too much of my time and youth reaching for goals that were never wholeheartedly my own or remotely interesting to me, fighting to please others? Do I dislike myself that much for failing to please everyone that I lost interest in my own dreams, gained shame, and drank to forget, and it worked so well I forgot everything else, too?
Did I forget to love myself in the process of trying to forget hating myself?
I hit a rock bottom of emotional distress and awoke from the following nightmare crying: A friend pulls me aside at a party and tells me my mother died of an overdose of drugs, which made her see things that weren't there. The friend sounds desperate as she tells me she has done extensive research on my family history. She says that my maternal grandmother's name is actually Pundah, which means candle in Assyrian. Someone walks by with a tray of shot glasses. I grab the entire tray and hoard the shots. Anna chastises me. We argue. I run through the house and feel insecure that no one at the party likes me because I don't even like myself. I find an empty room to lie down in. I rest upon pillows on the floor. A strikingly beautiful young woman with wavy dark hair and milky skin and intensely large dark eyes rubs my back as if to console me. She can tell I am troubled and whispers to me to let it out. Her touch and her voice have such a powerful effect on me that I begin to weep. The tears feel so real in the dream that the sensation wakes me up.
And I discover that I really have been crying in my sleep.
Molly, a wonderful young woman I know through Anna, whose voice is rich and feminine and whose mannerisms are distinctly her own, walked up to me one night at a mutual friend's birthday party and said, "I wanted to tell you earlier how much you touch and light all our lives."
I was left completely speechless.
In darkness, friends and I reach for the light that might mean the death of our innocence.
Sorrow is not my nemesis or burden. She is a misunderstood entity whose surface and extremities are made of spirit and joy- her features resplendent and ornate. She is a creature who remains misunderstood, but is actually tender, quiet, innocuous.
My sorrow is my sister, my impaired child whom I must nurse and make well so that she may have the energy and the strength to leave me, leave my heart.
Have I spent a great portion of my life comparing myself to others, my body, my creativity, my ambition, my motives?
I make plans to rummage through some old belongings, through the useless curios and trinkets that clutter the attic in my soul, consolidate them, and place them at the door so that mythical gypsies may take them in my sleep!
The night is a wonderful place to conveniently misplace one's shortcomings…
Was that little boy in a boy scout's uniform really the urchin mother suspected? Am I never to see those promised goodies? Serves me well for supporting an institution openly adverse to homosexuality!
I feel that my own resentment for my parents continues to be my personal contribution to an already troubled human race as I struggle to understand my motives and anger.
Or maybe I'm just another crooked boy scout!
Wherever I go I am followed not by a shadow but a resolution, a promise, a wish to remain true to my essential self, the wholesome self, the pristine child who strayed, changed, hardened, and became finally just a recollection- the soul of whom remains my beacon and destination.
If it is a skirt you want to chase I will humble myself and wear it.
If it is long hair you desire I will grow it.
If it is pussy you want I will cut a gash in my chest that will lead you directly to my heart.
If it is submission you seek I will surrender to the art of you.
If it is solitude you thirst then let us drink alone.
If it is conversation you long for place your ear against my pulse and listen for your name.
If it is another who excites you, rest assured I am many people, all of whom will love you boundlessly.
Emotionally I've been living hand-to-mouth.
I cruised Jack because although his hair was gray he possessed a boyishness, a harmless quality. His hair was soft and combed to one side, while his eyes were small, round, and blue. When he grabbed my crotch I was instantly hard.
There is something about men; there always has been. Still, in the very messy midst of sexual exploration I sense a deep, deep need for spiritual and emotional connection.
Jack drove us to his home in the Castro. We were greeted by a jovial pack of rescue dogs inside Jack's lavishly decorated living room.
It was obvious that Jack was well-to-do and well mannered, soft-spoken.
I suggested we go to his bedroom upstairs. We passed massive paintings as we climbed the staircase and arrived at the master bedroom that was made warm by a fireplace.
We undressed in silence.
I lay on top of his bed.
Naked. Vulnerable.
Jack stood at the edge of the bed for a minute looking at my naked body, relishing the moment, grinning. I observed that although he was older he had taken good care of himself. His body was muscular and his skin looked soft.
He leaned in and took my penis into his mouth and sucked me off attentively.
He talked dirty to me, which turned me on greatly.
He lifted and parted my legs and licked my ass teasingly, not voraciously like Luis.
Luis…
When I came it was torrential and hot, relentless. My cum was everywhere. Then guilt. Torrential, hot, relentless guilt.
Then uncomfortable dialogue.
Jack: If I give you my number will you call?
Emil: I may. But I won't say that I will. I won't lie. I'm not gonna call just for blowjobs!
Jack: Oh no, we can have dinner or something. You're a really nice guy.
Emil: You're a good person too, Jack. Thanks for keeping your promise and driving me back to my car.
Jack: Of course, do you have everything? Your keys?
Emil: Yeah, thanks!
In the car I brought myself to ask Jack how he'd managed to avoid contracting AIDS and he explained that he's always been in monogamous relationships and that he doesn't get fucked up the ass. I looked out the window at San Francisco at night. The streets were empty. So empty.
It's impossible not to entertain the idea of having Jack as a sugardaddy, but I know that I'd never survive the barter. In relationships I must feel safe, equal. I must have integrity.
I test negative for HIV.
Kerwyn calls and says he needs a title for my piece.
I search for a guarantee in everything I do and find no proof that I will not slip away.
Amy Sonnie writes:
Emil,
Thanks so much for your submission to "Revolutionary Voices". I really think your work makes a great addition to the book. I am enclosing your bio and the entries I would like to use. I edited only for length. Let me know if you are happy with the edits and order of the entries. I have titled your pieces "Diary Entries, 1995-1998". If you would like to call them something else let me know, but I think it's important to make mention of the fact that they are diary excerpts, as so many youth have not learned to value what they write in their journals and diaries as art! Your voice is crisp, honest, and real. I love the humor. I love the poetry of your language and I think you speak so eloquently about exile, assimilation, and the process of birthing yourself of two cultures. Love and warmth, Amy.
And all the while the U.S. bombs Iraq.
The U.S… where George Lucas and I exchange a few humorous words about Christmas shopping while being served at the perfume counter at Macy's.