I AM NOT WEATHER
Ian Lirenman
This is the spot, or near it, where a man pinched my tit. It was warm, I remember this, and if you looked across the piazza, down the steps and past the promenade where the black gondolas still bounce atop the waves, you could see the dome. He—I did not know him, and I do not. But I will tell you. I do not remember anything for sure, except for the sparse, leek-like plugs of his probably implanted hair and his kind-of solicitous grin. I was busy licking ice cream where other tourists licked, and he lived there. But almost at once, when he walked over to me, he seemed seedy, tourist-seeking, friendly-seeming, but I could not—I can not—be trusted to make a single judgment uncolored by extravagant fear, or its opposite. It was a time in my life when—aside from crucial predispositions, my butterfly desirability—I was, evidently, freely pinchable.
Plump, he insisted, reaching. He pinched again. This time he gently squeezed a nipple through my sweater. He held it there for a few seconds, looking up at me, grinning. I licked again, calmly, or acting calmly. I backed my chest a little this time, wiggled my nipple free, smiled politely. I must have blushed. He pinched again, but wider. Plump, he repeated, this time like a question. I guess I was willing. I did not wish to offend.
There is more that I remember now: his face, he was unevenly greasy and possibly pocked: his skin was wet-looking but not sweaty, holey in places, deeply-grooved like a parched riverbed or farmed earth or versions of the moon, kind of, and scarred—or perhaps I demean him. I do not mean to, truly, and I am not mean. You do not choose your face, only alter it by your use of it. Also, he was sweet-seeming, and I told myself that I was not afraid, or I am telling myself now. But remember that it was he who approached me, violated a safe silence; that it was he who reached out and pinched. I was alone, licking, near the center of a square, but no more than this, really, or this is all that I will admit to. It was a time in my life that I did my best, for better or for worse, to remain unapproachable. But this is no excuse for my cruelty here.
Stay, or You can stay, was one of the things I think he said, after seemly geographical chit-chat, an inquisition of origins, present direction and motive.
No thanks, but thank you, I think I might have replied, politely.
He had an extra room. Why pay for a hotel. He would carry my bag. Where was I staying? I cracked the cone by accident—I bit off too much—and then sucked up a big mouthful, craning to recover, to try to recover, from being focused on, from maybe dripping over the edge and onto my fingers, from freezing my teeth.
Anyway, I said, hoping that this would release me from a possible obligation.
Over there, he said, pointing. There. By the dome.
Hazelnut, I said, with too much cone and ice cream in my mouth.
Time passed, but not that much time, and I did not free myself from a story that I would have preferred to begin and end with ice cream, if only for simplicity’s sake. I mean, I don’t know for sure that he wanted to fuck me, nothing is ever for sure—I can’t possibly know what another man is thinking—but events certainly do not need to be proven to be true. Besides, I can’t see why not. I was beautiful. I mean, I know this sounds vain and silly, and you can not fathom how much it costs me to say so, but I was, really, one of the most beautiful men ever, in a way that no photo, no actuality, shall ever falsify—so fuckable. If you saw me then, maybe even now, you might feel the same way: you might truly long for me, which I might like. You might, in a quiet moment, ache on my behalf.
I would like to note the sweater. It needs to be noted, actually, not merely because of the possible cross-purposes of the weather in this story—but so that I can mention that the tit probably protruded, if only slightly, which, in all honesty, may have been an unwitting provocation, or may have provoked—but more importantly, for me, to document an odd and risk-free clarity of memory in this event: it was lightweight wool, olive green, with a tiny “v” at the neck, a small collar, faded by so many wearings and hand-washings, plenty of spills—but there were no permanent stains that I can recall. I bought it, I believe, in Barcelona, cheaply, in a messy bin of discounted sweaters. Or is it Madrid? I may be mistaken, but I remember it well; and aside from a maybe alphabetical lapse—there may have been no “v” at all—I do not see why I should redress myself for a simple slip of memory. Memory is sly and disfiguring, a crying gimp-child astray in a constellation of grasping and expanding failure, a last-ditch haven from unabated shame and loss and the inevitability of death.
Okay, I said, not sure what I was saying okay to. Come, he said. He only lived a few minutes away. The real city, he explained, leading the way, turning at first to see if I would follow.
I followed. It would have been impolite not to.
Possibly, I have been over-dramatic or have over-explained. Or I have missed the point. Perhaps it was merely that his pores were inordinately porous, and that they somehow commanded the tight, pink and flat flush of someone, of skin, much younger. It might be this that compelled me to follow, but I think his skin looked much worse and I pitied him. Or that I was vulnerable to anyone who was not me. And I could not refuse someone I felt to be so crucially wounded, whatever it was that I wanted him to want from me, whatever it was that I intended to reject. Was he human? I mean, his desire, what I took to be his desire, however, was frightening, for someone like me: still in a not yet erupted but willing state of pliable insignificance.
Actually, or probably, I took a small step back. I pretended that I was not shocked, deceiving even myself. I am not sure why I did not wave an arm to block, which perhaps I could have. Truly I must have been, among other things, pinchable, which may or may not be a rare quality for a boy and something, at that time, that I may have needed to know about myself—if only because others did not. Or it may simply have been surprise. But my tit—just to be clear that I have no metaphorical intention with it—was merely a left over deflation from an earlier period of lifting weights, literally, to deter what I believed to be an inevitable beating from some part or pretend friend or enemy, some slight, sagging once-muscle, and no more than this: it was not an invitation, however insistent it may have been. Where I was for a while, ascending the rising line of a steeply-declining curve, a kind of lost idealized life of measurable, certain growing up, of impending violence and neverdeath—so relatively safe and safe-seeming, so extraordinary and extraordinarily alone-feeling—it always seemed to be the season of beating up. It never happened—or, at least, for better or worse, not to me.
Please, I said. He handed it to me, brushing my cheek, which I turned, or should have. He sat down beside me, smiling, probably wanting. Thank you, I said. No, thank you. I insist.
He did not beat me. I knew at the very beginning of this story that he would not beat me, because he did not and I may not have let him anyway. I was scared, though. I was scared that I might lose control of what would later be, in the lie, the light of hindsight, this particular narration.
I was curious, shy, uncomfortable: I was afraid. I could smell his breath, re-regard his pocks and plugs.
I should go now, I said. Thank you.
Why? he replied. It’s still early.
Okay, I said. But, I tell you, I was in charge of this story.
I would never have phrased it that way, at that time, it is a pretension of observable memory. I wasn’t really fuckable, and my beauty is surely overstated. I was being silly, or at least these thoughts are best kept to oneself. I was simply someone like anyone else, someone whom you could touch and make boygirlish, weaken a bit to do your bidding, a rod and a hole, a rod and a hole or a willing pair, someone who might let you bring him to a muted but deeply-appreciated ejaculation. Know this much, though: I would not have touched back. I was not a toucher. I was too desirable, really, delicate-seeming, but knowingseeming also—but I couldsay no but would not and did. I know how absurd this sounds, and how confused, but I would let you love me, or pretend that you did, or at least, I guess, at the very least—or perhaps most—let you stroke me gently to satisfy a few, impersonal part-wishes—yours or mine, no matter who you were. But I could not risk your being hurt by me, pocked or not. No, I was not so readily sexual, or knowing, and it had nothing to do with desire or love. Simply, I could not say no to his—to anyone’s—wants; if I was weather, then I was mild and a light breeze might deny me—but I would not gratify them: weather so rapidly, so inexplicably, shifts at the slightest flutter, if only to abandon itself to areas of mounting and downward pressure. But I am not weather.
The tits, my tits, however slender, not girl tits, just flesh scallops really, were certainly troubling, you can imagine, and for this reason I remained myself: a boy, heated, heatable, preening, eager to please but unwilling, willing, slightly embarrassed—without much power: demolished—except for the maybehegemony of a probable no. But I may have preferred otherwise. Who wouldn’t? We all wait to unveil ourselves.
I followed him home. Here we were, the part of the city where the tourists never went; where I imagined that the food was authentic and untainted by people similar to me: I did not trust him then, anybody. But, I tell you, I looked and looked, and kept finding, among others, myself, which did not give the story much credence. It rained later that day and the streets were wet and slippery and I lost my way. In the market the fish was fresh, still breathing but barely, dying actually, the squid glistening but not yet rubbery I think, and the shrimp imposing a restful, icy equilibrium of finite life departed; plump, white, fleshy segments, beautifully tinted in concentric hues of pink and red, piled-high, sliding sideways off themselves. I was used to over-lit supermarkets and my own terror of the living. The men in aprons would scoop them, singing, chirping, and it was marvelous—even if I did not recognize it then—but I do now. Anifty sandwich on soft white bread with the crusts trimmed and mushroom paste spread inside, an espresso, eaten and drank tucked in at the counter. You can imagine the rest. It is now or later, but you can never know when certain merchandise will be sold and for what price, and if you will ever get to eat it again. I know this much: the markets are always turbulent in times of hunger and there is no peace for the needy.
Perhaps I took off my coat. In my defense, it may have been hot. Perhaps a sweater. I may have stripped to a shirt, but the material is immaterial. There were narrow streets and alleys and then more streets and alleys and in certain versions we turned and I played soccer with some kids in a clearing, which I must have loved, while he must have grown impatient, frustrated at not being able to fuck me yet; I tell you, he wanted to fuck me, you know when someone wants to fuck you—you just know. Some say the streets were paved, others cobbled, but at that time I did not believe a thing unless I had the opportunity to prevent it from happening beyond my control. As for soccer, I did not throw that in simply to fool you into believing that I, too, am human.
Thank you, I said. Thank you very much. He handed it to me and I took it. But I would never—then—let me be clear: I would never have let anybody fuck me. The ice cream he served me was delicious, the tea divine—but there are, on occasions, limits to my limitless gratitude on this earth.
As the story goes, I ate quite well from then on as I have heard it said that it was hardly possible not to in those days. My tits grew in the next few days, but just a bit and you might not notice certain things if I did not point them out, because, in truth, they were not that noticeable except to him and me. I had eaten a lot of ice cream, and my system did not manage it half-badly, you can imagine, I was much younger then. My room was cramped, but preferable because I was alone there, safe-seeming, able to perpetuate the ruse of youth and my own, private importance. The sea remains—I have seen it here recently, just in case I do not get to go again, in case I might die too soon—a cold-seeming, roaming sea, rote in intent, encroaching, a usurper of stone. I took photos of it foaming, drowning a square, then temporarily relenting after breakfast. But as for what really happened and how long I stayed and whether Ilet him do his bidding—remember that this is a recording merely, a muted proof of a particular insignificance not even well-remembered, but remembered enough for my needs: I was here, for a while, at least a version of a version of me, and my life then, the one that I have failed to render because I can not—it had an unrepeatable sweetness. And as for yours, as for your needs here: shame on you for wanting to slake what clearly can not be satisfied.