The joys of talking dirty and other pains:
5 will forever be my favourite number. It feels appropriate
that it should be. After all, I was born on the fifth day in June, I was first introduced
to ancient Chinese poetry at the age of five, I was alphabetically fifth on the
attendance roll in my fifth grade class. . .
And, for me, the perfect number of past lovers would always
be 5- if anyone ever asked. Because of typical gender predispositions, subjugating
my number to one hand presents the tender medium between glaring innocence and
wanton appeal on the experience spectrum. One hand, after all, could do so
much.
Boys who are primordially interested can be, but rarely are,
as sensitive as, what Fitzgerald calls, “those intricate machines that register
earthquakes ten thousand miles away”. When, on their part, the opportunity for
inquiry of the past arises, it’s really a matter of responding quickly and confidently and
in some ways, you could argue, welcoming of a folded fallacy to reality.
When also, on their part, the opportunity to gravitate beyond
casual, sterilized talk into, what I like to call, affective scandalous musings arises, 5 rescues and reminds you to
sound seasoned but not sloppy. Suddenly the question of “You want to do what? With
my what?” is removed from its ulterior allure and becomes, instead, a glamorous
attempt at projecting the future of a young affair.
But unfortunately, your 5-experienced self recognizes the improbability
of extending the fantastical into the light of day. Without the vulnerability
to accept and speak precious truth, all this talk-and-muse turns into phlegmatic
mush, parasitic, even, for your health. And so you move on, beating against the
current, drawing ceaselessly into the past.
