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Posts Tagged ‘boat’

Now I walk in beauty

Now I walk in beauty.
Beauty is before me.
Beauty is behind me,
Above and below me.
–Navajo prayer

bwin playing ping pong.  Oversized white jersey.  number 08?  No.  80.  Dyed blond.  Nice shorts.

Platinum, reminds me of The First Born.

No Longer Beside Me.  Too-big-sunglasses and two deep scars on left thigh.  Beautiful torso.

Deep Gold.  Floral board shorts.  11 or younger.  Well developed pecs.  Lost a golfball after dropping it while juggling.  I tried to help, but couldn’t find it.  Archangel.

The Prophet.  Ate breakfast with his mother at the table beside mine.  Ate breakfast with MY mother the day before.  has a younger sister.  Got stung by a jellyfish while swimming at the first island.

The Italian.  Has an open innocent clear face with very pale but healthy, lovely skin.  Black hair and brows.  9 or 10.  Possibly 11.  Two younger siblings.  One older?  Pale blue jeans.  Truly heart melting.

Freddie Highmore.  He doesn’t really look like Freddie, but has some features that remind me of him.  A sharp, old face.  Wise looking.

Sweet is your antique body, not yet young.
Beauty withheld from youth that looks for youth.
Fair only for your father. Dear among
Masters in art. To all men else uncouth
Save me; who know your smile comes very old,
Learnt of the happy dead that laughed with gods;
For earlier suns than ours have lent you gold,
Sly fauns and trees have given you jigs and nods.

But soon your heart, hot-beating like a bird’s,
Shall slow down. Youth shall lop your hair,
And you must learn wry meanings in our words.
Your smile shall dull, because too keen aware;
And when for hopes your hand shall be uncurled,
Your eyes shall close, being opened to the world.
–Wilfred Owen

He has a look of melancholy even when he’s happy that makes him intensely beautiful.  heart melting, again.  Let me explain what I mean by sharp.

His eyes are clear, intelligent, piercing, all seeing.  I think they’re brown.  Sharp eyes.  Sharp wit behind them?

His nose is narrow, longer than average without looking out of place.  Still quite small, of course, like the rest of him.  Classic boy swoop dusted with freckles ending in an adorably mousey point.

His chin is narrow, giving his whole face a kind of angular, triangle shape, sitting atop his slender neck.

his hair, purest brown.  Very English.  Short and wind tossed.

Perfection.

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About 11:45pm.  My evil plan failed.  I think I waited too long.

After the pretty horrific show tonight, I went back to the room to change and go to the toilet.  Along the way I committed myself to try my evil plan.  Place myself in a hot tub on the main patio (not the adults only area.  Ick!) and wait for the pre-teen boys to come and crowd around me.

Epic fail!  Well…There was one pre-teen boy, but he was black.  (Nothing against black people.  I’m just not usually attracted to them.)  Plus he had his younger cousin with him who was uber chatty.  They both liked to tell tall tales.  Like how the older of the two fell off a boat into the ocean and was rescued by a dolphin because he made a dolphin noise to call one to him.

Other than those two, I was joined by a couple in their twenties, three middle teen cousins (1 boy, 2 girls) and two young teen girls who were somehow related I’m pretty sure.  I do believe my downfall was the hour.  I went too late.  Pre-teen boys are in general not allowed to swim at 10:30 at night unsupervised, and their parents have other things they want to be doing that late.  Perfectly reasonable.  Just inconvenient.  If I try earlier, there wil be no room to insert myself to begin with without losing my deniability to the accusation that I was actually seeking that company.

Anyway.  Maybe there will be boys on my excursion tomorrow.  Fingers crossed.

I just really want a relationship with a boy.  I miss it so sorely.

Many boylovers would like to be boys again themselves.  And I certainly wouldn’t say no to the opportunity.  I’d jump at it.  But I’d also like to be 15 or 16 again.  Something about that age where it’s just so easy to hang out with younger boys while still being the mentor.  The leader.  Setting all the precedents.  Teens that age are just a magnet for younger boys.  I thought about this twice today.  The first time right after the cousin trio got into the hot tub.  The two black boys who had been talking to me latched onto the teen boy.  They followed him around for ther rest of the evening.  Not that I minded.  But it did make me think of that.

The second time was when I got back to my room and took my third shower of the day.  I dropped my swim trunks in the bathroom and it sort of reminded me of boy scouts.  Not because I ever exposed myself to the younger scouts, but because I always wanted to just take the lead, show no shame, and encourage them to do the same.  Trying to lead the younger boys in confident body image and get myself a show to boot.  I never did though.  The only time I dropped my trunks in scouts was when I was one of the younger scouts, in front of a fellow 11 year old.  Still trying to not be ashamed.  Still hoping my friend would follow suit and give me something to look at.  (He didn’t.)  Even at 11 I was trying to see penises.  I ended up being the one to give a show though.  An older scout came into the shower room at some point while I was naked and my friend was fully dressed.  (We were both in the showers though.  Weird kid.  Showering in jeans.)  He sat down on a bench facing the bank of showers and waited for us to finish.  I was made a little uncomfortable by the situation, mainly because I didn’t feel free to talk to my friend in front of this person I didn’t really know, but I didn’t think much of it, and it didn’t really bother me.  In thinking back I always wonder about that older scout.  I can think of two possibilities.  Either he was far to shy himself to undress and was unwilling to shower in his clothes, or he was enjoying the show I was putting on.  Wish I could remember his name…

Anyway, that desire to return to an earlier point in life when I was closer to boys is a part of the elusive feeling/desire that haunts me.  That feeling of incompleteness that I can never fully grasp or define that drives me to seek out some sort of contact with boys.  Many other boylovers I’ve spoken with know exactly what I’m talking about and are equally unable to put a name to the feeling.  I’ve understood parts of it, but whenever I understand a new aspect of it, I lose my grasp on another part.  Or more accurately, I lose my grasp before I have a chance to understand the new.  Maybe it isn’t actually knowable.  Maybe there are no words, there is no thought to parallel the emotion.  Maybe it is truly outside the realm of reason.

Or maybe, whenever I think I understand part of it, I’ll rush here and write it down, and eventually have all the pieces, just needing to be put together.

But then, surely, if such were possible, it’d have been done already.

Maybe it has.

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It’s about 5:00 now.  The island was very beautiful.  I certainly wouldn’t mind living there.  If only I had a couple million dollars.  As gorgeous a place as it is, however, it doesn’t compare to the boys walking all over it, and running shirtless over this ship.  As we made way from the port, my father and I stood at the stern and watched the port fade away.  As we did, a boy about 12 stood six feet off to my side and watched as well.  Not typical 12-year-old behavior.  Watching the land fall away that slowly seems too sedate and activity for most children, even that old.  Especially when there’s a water slide behind them.  He also seemed to be listening in on my and my father’s conversation.  I’d like to think that he wanted to be a part of our conversation, share our experience, as much as I wanted it.

And I don’t think it’s unreasonable to think that.  Quite clearly he has more patience and mature interests than most his age.  It is very possible that his father wouldn’t be interested in sharing a moment with his son like that.  If he even has a father.  One never knows these days.  Point is, he could very well be looking for someone to share his uncommon interests with.  He could easily be one of those fabled “lonely boys” seeking to relate to someone.

I’d have loved to have been that someone.  To say to him, “See that boat up there?  That’s waiting to puck up the harbor pilot after he gets the ship out of the shipping lane.”  To tell him about the red and green buoys, and coment to him how the water changed from green to a blue so deep it almost looks purple.

Then I’d put my arm around his shoulders and give him a squeeze and we’d just watch the land slip away in companionalbe silence, him knowing I cared about him, me knowing he appreciated the attention.

Perhaps a bit idilic, but not an unreasonable fantasy.  I do care about him.  Isn’t that crazy?  I saw him for a few minutes out of the corner of my eye, both of us trying not to get caught looking (him by me and me by my father) and I already care about him.  I won’t be so cheezy and sentamental as to say I love him.  I don’t.  I don’t know him.  But I do wish him nothing but “puppies and sunshine” to quote Boy Wonder.

Two things prevented this fantasy from becoming history.  One.  My father was there, obviously.  How can I chat up a 12yo in front of my father?  He already is too close to the truth.  (Ever since 15.)  The other thing is my unending cowardace.  I’d just be too damned chicken to try it.

But what’s the worst that could happen?  He ignores me?  I feel awkward and walk away, ever to see him again?  I need to get over this.

I wrote this entry on the port side wind deck looking out over bluest infinity, with flying fish skimming the water beneath me.

And my father now knows I journal.  He visited me mid-entry.

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Singles night

On the boat.  It’s pretty fun, actually.

Apparently, this is a good week to go on a cruise for me.  The holliday season has lots of families.  Cute boys galore!  Alas, I haven’t spoken to any.

I went out drinking with Sissy, Mantis (female cousin), and Cous-in-law (also female.  Uncle’s step-daughter) tonight.  Martini specials at one of the bars.  They convinced me to hang around for “singles” night.  Ha!  Fortunately, we were the only singles there.  That could have been awkward.

But then, after Mantis and Cous-in-law gave up, we ran into these two staffers right outside.  One was from Wales.  She said she’d come out with us, but she ended up doing laundry.  The other is from Alabama.  He did come out with us.  Nice guy.  Thirty-three, gay, and has a degree in theology.  He showed us around, gave us the inside scoop on how things work, why we’re the only singles, and was just gerneally very amusing.  We’ll probably see him around some more.  Hopefully.

Hopefully, I’ll meet some cute boys.  While we were at the bar, Cous-in-law at one point said to Mantis, “there’s one your type.  He’s 10.”  Obviously it was a joke about Mantis’s preference for younger men, but my instinct was to say, “no, actually he’s my type.”  I’d actually noticed the boy when they were looking that direction before I even realized who they were talking about.

There are some very cute boys here, in the full range.

Bed time.

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