BENCARVER PHOTOJOURNAL
In my opinion, you can't really see anything until you have a photo of it.
-Zola
Ask me anything
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Existential Angst.
***
Other than the gym and brunch with an old friend on Saturday, I was a shut-in last weekend. On Sunday I slept till 2:00, played video games until 5:00, and didn’t speak my first words of the day until 10:30 pm when my housemate came home. Let’s just say the week has been quiet since then. I’ve been playing Glen Gould piano concertos of Bach on repeat to crease the quietude.
Yesterday I found myself in Whole Foods sitting in that second floor overhang where people eat and such, which I didn’t know existed until a month ago. You can sit there as long as you want and watch people walk through the produce section or buy meats from the butcher shop. So I did. I watched them bump into each other and make choices. I watched them hesitate and consider. I wondered why they chose items I never choose. If they really liked those items and I’m missing out on a set of choices I don’t even know exist or if their choices stink and they only make them because they got stuck in some arbitrary pattern and now they will be drinking that same brand of bottled fruit smoothie until they die.
I’m not sure if they have anything to teach me, but that’s what I did. I watched.
***
Real intimacy isn’t cock-in-ass or quiet long talks. It’s someone berating you to clip your fucking toenails because they care enough to keep you tight and know you will keep forgetting to do it unless they hound you. I missed that one the last two guys, but now I’m clear on it. I won’t make the same mistake a third time.
***
I frequently threaten a platonic friend of mine that I’m going to eat his ass with whatever substance is around us at the time. I won’t explain the history of this comedy but it’s all in good fun.
These threats yielded a fantastic idea to market my own brand of ass relishes. These relishes would be the same taste and quality as one would expect if eating them in a more direct fashion, only they would be marketed to those niche individuals wanting to up-kink (a word I just invented) their ass eating experience. I’m thinking the first flavors would come in a variety pack of four: hummus, creole mustard, ranch, and chocolate sauce (for dessert).
I’m convinced that my ass relishes will make ass eating more of an event for everyone involved, but particularly as a savory stimulant to long-term couples bored in the bedroom. My ass relishes might even save marriages. I would imagine a special bond is formed with a person after you let them lick hummus out of your asshole.
***
The Four Faggots (with apologies to Paulo Coehlo)
You know those four faggots. You see them at the bar every weekend.
The first faggot tells you he won’t suck your dick. that he’s not that kind of girl, that he barely knows you, doesn’t want to know you, and if you want to change that you’re going to work hard for it.
The second faggot tells you he wants to suck your dick and only your dick. And if he can’t have your dick he’s going to scream off into the night leaving only an unspoken promise to make life hell for both of you.
The third faggot tells you there are four other dicks he want to suck more than yours, but stick around and see how the night falls.
The fourth faggot tells you he’ll suck all four of those other dicks and yours, and if you can get things organized for him everyone can still get home in time to smoke a joint and watch Buffy.
Thing is, these four faggots rarely tell you any of this up front, so we twist ourselves in knots figuring out which of the four we’re dealing with, despite the fact that there was only ever one faggot standing there.
But he HAS had four drinks.
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