I have memories like rorschach tests; triggers that slip me out of my day and into other years when I was someone else and made love to men other than the men I make love to now.
Sometimes I go searching for the alternatives, for short cuts, like putting tabaco between your toes. But you can’t kiss yourself in the rain.
I cannot touch exactly why, showering outside is linked to oysters in my mind. Why one loops around to the other. Perhaps they are the only things capable of carrying this level, this brand of euphoria. I could add something else to the list: an orgasm on a hot afternoon in July. A taste, a moment, a sensation so freeing, freedom doesn’t even feel the right word for it. And if there is a word for it, I don’t know it yet.