First off, a HUGE thank you to ALL veterans of ALL wars. I would not have the freedom to write what I write today if not for your gallant sacrifices. And to the men of Pearl Harbor on that sunny beautiful December 7th morning, I will never forget your sacrifices nor allow anyone else to, either. Rest in Peace brothers.
Yep, Dec 7th, a day which will live in infamy.
Okay, enough history lesson and this is ALL about me, Kynthia. And why shouldn’t it be ? I tell you, I love everybody and everything (wait, no, not into scat, everything else is open to discussion)but I have to take time for me or destroy the very fragile life I have had the pleasure of enjoying this past year.
This time last year, Peter (umm, you may have met him, he is a pig but he is MY pig, so be kind when you talk about him, he got me this far alive)sat down at this very same keyboard and began pounding out gross amounts of poetry.
Very descriptive, emotionally charged and accurate poetry.
After writing the bulk of it he stopped writing. Then he read what he wrote.
Peter began his life’s journey as a boy, a very attractive boy with a great personality and a charm that helped him win people over easily. He had a talent for reading a situation as long as it did NOT involve him. He was the oldest boy, his Fathers first, and enjoyed a favored position as the eldest male but he shared it somewhat with his elder sister (5 yrs his senior) and she shared much with him.
Okay, this is NOT to be a tale of perversions and eroticism. So if your reaching into your pants, may as well stop now, this is a confessional, of sorts, but I ask you, dearest readers, forgive me not, for no sin has been committed, as of this moment, you may wish to reconsider that plea later on in this missive, but for the nonce, enjoy a sin free text.
See, Peter, for all the boy he appeared to be, had a secret side. He loved womens clothing. From the earliest he can remember (he remembers when he was 18 months old, not everything, but a lot, and it was all good) at 3 years of age he began to find his sisters clothing and wear it. Not because he got a sexual thrill of it but because in womens clothing, he felt good. he felt “right”. But, he also knew he was not allowed to do it, especially after he got caught.
No beatings, no being pilloried, just told how wrong it was and then released to continue his playing in another direction, preferably Lincoln logs or toy trucks and tractors. Just not dressed as a girl.
This continued throughout his life. Dressing, hiding and then, okay, here comes the sins, he compensated.
Big time.
Although he preferred reading and arts (such as music, dance, poetry, acting and singing etc) he would do sports, violent sports, rugby, football, boxing, tae kwon do and others involving the physical abuse of his own and others bodies. As long as there was a core of violence and danger to it, he went for it big time. And as he progressed, during the Vietnam period he volunteered for the United States Army (accepted) volunteered for the Infantry (accepted) and volunteered for every screwed up, dangerous and stupid assignment he could possibly get in to. As long as it involved him possibly getting hurt or killed, he went for it.
And he did get hurt, he even got himself killed, once, for a brief time, came back, re entered the military and continued his abuse of self, his compensation for being a fagot. A dress wearing sissy. A she-male, a pervert, a freak, a piece of shit.
You can forgive now, if you so desire, if that is your want, or read on and determine if forgiveness is deserved of such a prodigy of failure.
He was a bouncer, a boxer, an outlaw motorcycle club security goon, a cop, a husband four times unsuccessfully, A father of three living and one dead child, and a body builder (oh yeah, steroid abuse for sure) He even transported illicit steroids across the border for others to share his misery.
And, finally, after 51 years of trying to prove what a man he was, his feminine side screamed, at the top of her undeveloped lungs, ENOUGH, JACKASS, I DON’T WISH TO DIE YOU STUPID MOTHER FUCKER ! I NEED TO LIVE TOO !
He sat at this very keyboard, he wept bitterly and openly as he wrote line after painful line of poetry, he sobbed in agony, great gut wrenching body wracking sobs as every aspect of his secret life poured out onto a very public poetry site and became public property, for all and sundry to read and digest.
And when it was over, it was over. His life, now shattered and empty, began to ebb. He felt a death of sorts. There was no more hiding, there, in those lines of poems, were his secrets. Was the evidence of a life not lived. The death was not an enemy though, not the sudden violent death suffered in a motorcycle crash those decades ago, no, this death was welcome, it was freeing. All that pain and suffering he lived with, was now being lifted.
As he accompanied death along that final journey, he looked back, and he saw her. She was beautiful. She was not angry, she was sad at his death, but happy he no longer had to suffer the pain of self doubt and the misery of discovery.
She smiled, blew him a kiss and promised to remember, remember the big goon who helped her make it this far alive. She also shed a tear, knowing he could never come back from that journey, no one ever truly does.
And she went on her way.
So today, Dec 7th, she remembers him, and wishes his soul well, and if she could, she would take his face in her hands, kiss his lips, and thank him.
Thank you
Kynthia.
