Maybe this is why I’m now reading

Samuel Delany’s letters. I kind of enjoyed one of his novels years ago (I’m not a sci-fi fan), but I really loved his non-fiction book about sleaze in NYC  — Time Square Red, Times Square Blue (for obvious reasons). In his letters, Delany dares to talk openly about his own gay promiscuity. His specificity is funny; he goes on about being attracted to men who bite their nails. Apparently he does sleep with men who don’t bite their nails (a relief to non-nail biters who want to sleep with Samuel Delany). Delany makes no bones about it— it’s street boys that he loves, guys who could be described as ‘thugs’ (I know it’s a racist term, I don’t mean it that way, and neither would he.)  Delaney revels in their lack of privilege, their violence, their drug-taking, and of course their magnificent, unsullied sweetness. Is all this classist? Well desire has no rules. So, I had been waiting for something to happen to me in Toronto for so long, and  I had a sexual encounter with someone who was perhaps homeless? Perhaps a street person? To be clear I was driven to the street by COVID — as no bathhouses or backrooms is death to me — or it’s AIDS — or it’s being back in the closet again. So I was drunk on Church at Woody’s street cafe. There was a pack of cigarettes on the table, and he asked for one. We smoked and I bought him a drink. Then he began staring directly into my eyes with almost ridiculous concertedness. His eyes could easily be described as limpid pools, or alternately as deep brown; or simply hypnotising. I think he knew what he was doing. He certainly knows what flirting is; and does it with flair — meaning an unabashed self-consciousness; a kind of meta-flirting. He told me I was beautiful. I told him he was beautiful back. I won’t describe him except to say: slender, with long furry arms, and well — it was all too much, really— but isn’t that the way it always feels when it’s right? We had a kind of a conversation, in which he indicated quite clearly that he was mad, or at least pretending to be. His attitude to madness was similar to his attitude to flirting. I think he knew what he was doing; it was all a kind of performance (with a basis in reality) a sort of ‘meta-madness.’ For instance, he told me he was telepathic. The confession seemed intended to trigger skepticism on my part. Instead I indicated that I am also a spiritual person (well, I am!). Then I asked him if he wanted to go somewhere. He walked me to an apartment building, buzzed the buzzer in the lobby, and no one answered. We then went to another apartment (a building I happen to know is exclusively housing for HIV-positive gay men). We got into that one, and he knocked on an apartment door. A very middle-class, middle-aged man stood there. “No you can’t have a guest — remember what happened the last time? He stole my cellphone.” I took my cellphone out of my pocket and waved it at the guy, as if to say that since I had my own device there would be no necessity to steal his. This had no effect. We were out on the street again. I dragged him into the living room of the guest house where I was staying. I did this first because I was afraid that he might not really be gay and that that he was just going to mug me. That turned out not to be true. I led him off to the bedroom and we did — well, the things people do. (It was lovely to see him naked in the backyard.) Then he seemed to want to curl up and go to sleep, so I made motions suggesting that it was time for us to leave. It suddenly occurred to me that he might never go. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to get rid of him as I wanted to make sure that I could. It was no problem, except at one point he sat on the bed looking up at me half-dressed, and said something to the effect of “You’re nicer than any other policeman I’ve met.” Perhaps I should mention at this point that he was black. This brought to mind a juxtaposition of contradictory ideas. Was he harbouring a sexual fantasy of having sex with a cop (after all, I do kinda look like one)? Or had he endured dreadful experiences with  the cops in the past and was afraid I was one? Or both? I told him that I was indeed the furthest thing from a policeman he might ever meet. We went back to Church Street and had another smoke and a drink. Then he got up from the table, went over to a railing and started moaning — I would say — medium loud. I asked him if he was alright. He showed me what had been causing such a big bulge in his pants pocket — it was a pack of Tarot cards. I remarked on the uniqueness of their design. He did not read my Tarot. Then he left. Then the manager of Woody’s told me: “He’s never allowed back here again.” I asked why? He said “because he’s crazy.” I said “I think he’s kind of fake crazy,” but the distinction was lost on the bar manager. I pleaded COVID-19 (don’t we all these days?) “My usual sexual hangouts are all closed, I’ve been driven to the streets!” He seemed to understand but I’m not sure. My fear at this point is that you’ve been repelled by all this. Why? You see it as purely sexual (ugh?!) perhaps even classist on my part? Yes I’m high on how different he was from me, as I am a middle class man who is supposedly sane. But that’s what sexual desire is, it’s all about difference, friction, danger and wonder. And if I tell you I loved him for those moments, you of course don’t have to believe me, but at least you could try doing me a favour. Instead of seeing sex as a taint, see it as an emulsifier? Without sex I never would have loved him at all, so doesn’t sex get some credit for that? If sex brings two people together, two people who are so very different they would otherwise ignore each other, is that not a good thing? I think we were both imagining we were in love with each other for that moment — whatever love is. And if you think you know exactly what love is, then don’t tell me. Not because it will spoil it for me, but because it has already spoiled for you.