portrait of an aged out boy

"a love for you will be decided by the gods donnie"

- scotty - dream sweet babe man of gentle and soulful - 1997


he spent his life enslaved to a vision
embedded in his head, implanted in his heart by the gods of love and poetic, long before he even knew what being simultaneously saved and scarred by his poetic soul even meant.

He dreamed of love. Deep love. Divine love. Real love. Human love. Love with and from a man whose inner war of dueling forces, light/dark, like a knife cutting a split down the center of his psyche mirrored his, someone who understood him, saw him, from the realm of the opposite. Opposite meaning, he, the man, the guy, to his bitch.

The puppy kind, not the feminine two steps away from "cunt" kind.

Thats all he was, that's just how his heart was wired. Give your all, give your everything, when the forces of fate found him in the presence of a man who kinetically, somehow magically moved him, held the key to open that labyrinth like doorway into the deepest center of his being.

This, a cruel, not much thought given to anyone or anything, land.

That's how the gentle, sensitively vulnerable hearts can be turned out to become someone like him. A bitch.
This, a world that takes the good, twists it up, turns it around and makes it bad.

Vulnerability = weakness, not what it really is, strength.

Loyalty, Devotion = insanity, not nobility, in this disposable, "out for self" wasteland.

Heart/Passion/Love = Psycho Freakishness, not heroic hues of a great/good human, let alone a man

the skinless ability to admit, show, speak of flaws, fractures, fires within =
forgotten, rejected, cast away, cast out.

not the sign of someone honest, deep, able and capable of truly accepting, loving another as they are in all their fullness and foibles, wounds and maladies that mark, scar all of the truly awake and alive here.

God forbid any of us are truly loved beyond the masks, the parts we project, like thick skin, to protect ourselves in a dangerous world of the ever raping beauty of real living by all the fake, the polite, the fraudulent, forced in our quest of self, to survive here.

This, how a well meaning, hearts in his eyes, ever romantically impassioned empathic giver, not full of huff, puff and hubris, arrogance, confidence, became what he was, somehow learned to surrender to it,

a bitch.

a doormat.

that made him sad.

loving, devoted puppy, yes.
doormat, the unfortunate side effect
by a world, men who pulled him in but couldn't understand him, as if compelled to see his best as his worst.

It wore him down over time.

"At least being used, taken advantage of is having something done with, something wanted from me," he thought.

One thing he was not, a victim.
He despised that word, and took full ownership of who he was, the fact it seemed, no matter how much he gave or how hard he tried, his beautiful was reduced to bitch in the eyes of his drawn to men in time. As if they couldn't resist, to the point he learned, maybe, he too, really wanted this, needed this.

This bent we can become, from the repetition of bruises over time.

But yes, of course, deep down he still wished, wanted to be loved, to belong to one man in the most soulful, deeply bonded, maybe a bit crazy, but lovingly way possible.

Problem was, he was now 48.
When he turned 40, his best friend, a straight man, called and said,

"Happy 40th, 80 in gay years"...

He loved it, that his beloved friend new him, the evil truth of the gay culture, world, so well, so brutally, from being around him for so long.

So if 40 was 80....what was 48, basically 50?....

He guessed there was no number, it didn't matter anymore.

He was simply now,

the portrait of an aged out bitch.

Yet he refused to give up, completely give in, let the many, but few, before "him's" win.

"Fight the good fight, misunderstood forever, aged out bitch or passionately giving, when so touchingly inspired, love fool or not"

He thought...and prayed and lived to carry on, carry forward another day.

He knew how ugly, how heartless this world was, could be, hiding behind all the status, the materialism, the ego centric labels, definitions, the lies, the excuses, covering up so many casual, numb abuses.

He would find his true love, bent, warped, a bit lovingly twisted or not.

"If not here, then in the next life", he comforted himself. He knew, could feel it, he was out there. Some are just more lucky than others, and often, sadly, take it for granted. He knew and had lived with this truth all too well.

And who knows, maybe he had already met, found his true love, stumbled upon him somewhere, but both too blind, too bruised, too belligerently stuck in old patterns, old grooves, old fears, old wounds, to recognize "the one" in each other.
Land of too many bodies, easy sex, shallow faces, strangers as "someone's", now so quickly, anxiously attached to the phrase "my person"..

He hated that stupid phrase and it's variant uses.

"i found my person, you are my person".

Another trend, another soon to become forgotten, shallow end, gone the way of the verbal pet rock.

"Where do these stupid trends start, and who starts them, to spread like sheep fed wildfire", he wondered.

"They sure as fuck don't start with you", he scolded himself.

When the oddball becomes the outsider, becomes the rebel, becomes misunderstood, becomes the maimed, becomes the maddened, becomes the lonely man, becomes himself.


becomes the seeker,
becomes the sought...

That's the part he forgot.

To be a seeker is to let yourself, in turn, be sought.

aged out bitch boy or not.

To live to give, as in to experience the unadulterated joy, love and art of giving beyond ones "self" just for the transcendent state of that incredibly beautiful, "heaven like" feeling of wanting, hoping to raise another up, show them they are truly seen, heard, felt and loved here. Listened to. Valued.
Cherished. Adored.

To know in a heartbeat you can make someone's day, bring a burst of sweet sun amongst all the heart numbingly mundane, that's what he, with all his flaws and damage deluxe, lived for, knew what truly mattered, because it seemed to matter so little to most.

Except for maybe at Christmas.
Even that had become overly saturated with materialism and forced feeling, "going through the motions" garbage.

"Think about it donnie, how many people go every day of their lives without anyone saying anything kind, doing anything kind for them" his goddess christy said, hauntingly, long ago.

Such beautiful truth, words to want to live as a better, more caring human by.
Truth of beautiful to match her paradoxical brutal....

"People don't care, they just dump their shit on you and leave."

The beautiful and the brutal sides of the goddess spoken truth.

Words to soak in and live by.
To both be and not be.

Kind of like the love he searched for, rare, with another "he".

Love with an edge.
Loving but not too easy,
real affection with some good hearted abuse. Like a hug and then a "fuck off" for awhile or a deep loving kiss and then a good hard fuck, a grab by the neck and a slap, make it red, on the ass.

Love is complicated. Anything real here with soul and depth of mind is.

It's work and effort and allegiance and unwavering. Through all the storms and hurts, misunderstandings, magic, coming together and and giving space, respect, without coming apart.

True love anything is like the deep fuck his hole, attached to his soul sought.

"Making love is like naked tenderness, a hand grabbing your cheek, pulling you in, close, closer, closest as possible, lips joining, tasting, biting delicately, then exploding into the taste, the drench, divine of the tongue. Then a penetration so deep it pierces your walls, it fills you with the mind, the essence, the being of them. Making love is a tender, sweet, almost animalistic, lust for the soul, the divine and the dirty of each other, slow to build then on fire, thrust fuck."

Sensual, intentional, purposeful,
lasting.

Something you can't get with a stranger or a glorified one, all those relationships more of shallow air than a deep, intense long stare.

Portrait of an aged out bitch boy.

A heaven of a lot, live to give.
A hell of a lot of mistakes, lessons learned, lived.

And so what if he wants to lick, worship the feet of the man he loves.
Its the feet that haunt him the most, for some reason. That and the lips and the mesmerizingly soulful, soaked in silent, "so much inside" eyes.

This is what haunts him, stirs him to sweat, the middle, darkness, of night.

"If only he could see me, what inside i hold, hide, he the one out there, hiding all of his treasure, too, deep inside"..

We've all got our twists, we've all got our ties. We've all got our secrets, we've all got our lies. Mostly the ones we tell ourselves, spilled onto others.

Portrait of an aged out bitch boy.

He was really a lover, but the world couldn't accept, understand him.

The effect, another exceptionally rare masculine magic man, utterly just himself too, could have on him.

So he adapted, but never adopted,
the ability to play the game as anything but himself.

And that's why and how, he sits, dreams,
feels, still believes...

and

aged out now, walks alone.

this time...with hope.

as he feels, somehow,
he is walking with someone,
not yet here,

but not, in heart, so alone.

be it this life or the next,
that man, that guy
able to see, handle, embrace
and accept, truly value, love him

yes, he will, one day
come home.



bowen hart roselli
23 september 2020
ringwald love