When your trains all finally arrive at once,
it is not necessarily a cascade, a torrent, a gush;
rather, it depends on who you are, and who you were, and, of course,
if you’re in front. Or if I am the smaller one —
I never minded. In any space, I am as masculine as they come.
It’s all about you. And what you define as a picture-frame
well-hung, an internal image of yourself that becomes
who you have learned to love:
besides me, of course,
the more important person was always yourself.
It’s as much about appreciating my biceps as your own;
as much about loving yourself as about letting yourself be known
by another man, so sensually and safely and comfortably. About finding yourself a home
in your own definition of what it means to be a man in the twenty-first century.
About letting your own penis grow
into maturity. Into knowing that sometimes it’s okay
to not really know what to say when they ask you about your identity:
some men also like their bros. And that’s not insanity,
that’s what it’s been for thousands of years.
The Kristang may have arrived a little late,
but the net effect is still unmistakeably clear:
it feels so fucking good for your body to be appreciated, and to appreciate itself,
without fear.
So if you want more,
or if you want some at all,
you know what to do. And it doesn’t have to be with this sexy Kristang author:
it’s with whoever you feel ready to talk about some of the hardest things to declare to any man, let alone a prospective friend-lover;
it’s with whoever you know will respect you, and cherish you, no matter what you tell them about that inner flower
that longs to burst into life, and shower
you with the immense psychoemotional strength
that comes being someone so authentic and so real
that only very few people in the world can truly channel such ‘power’:
and that’s the real deal.
It feels so good to have no strength at all
and to let your body, mind, heart and soul fall gently backward
into the courage, and tenderness, and living, beating Life
of another.