Sleeping with a Stranger

12 01 2011

Sleeping with a Stranger

Perhaps when I was around 7, 8 or possibly 9 years old, for reasons I do not recall, my family was not in the house for a few days.  They must have gone on a mini-vacation or something and I was either sick or didn’t want to go.  Whatever the reason, I found myself alone.  Except there was a stranger in the house as well: my father.

I had never been close to my father and currently have very few memories of him and I together, even fewer of them are good memories.  When my mother and my sisters left, because I would be sleeping alone, he told me that on the last day, I could come upstairs and spend the night with him in bed.  Naturally, I thought this to be a strange idea; I had never slept with my dad (or at least had no recollection of it) and he didn’t seem particularly lonely.  I didn’t even know if he was serious or not. I don’t even remember if my parents were, at the time, still sleeping in the same bed, but I doubt it.

For a few days, we minded our own business.  I probably didn’t see much of him, as usual, and the house must have been oddly quiet.  On the last day, I wandered up to his room with my pillow.  After a few minutes of getting ourselves ready for bed, I climbed in first, feeling awkward.  He turned off the light and crawled in next to me.

And for a while, neither of us moved.  I lay staring at the ceiling before closing my eyes but I couldn’t sleep on my back.  But as much as I wanted to move, I found myself paralyzed.  What if my dad didn’t like that?  What if he got annoyed at my moving?  Wouldn’t I be bothering him trying to sleep?  Eventually, I froze in that position for a long time, on the edge of the bed, until I willed myself to move quickly on my side when I sensed him moving at the same time, so that I wouldn’t be disturbing him.

I would repeat this maneouver several times that night, being extra careful not to wake the stranger sleeping next to me.


29 01 2010

Thanks to elvin for helping me write this simply by being… there.  I had you in mind as the Prince when I wrote this so it’s only fair that I dedicate this to you.


You always wanted a poem about you,
So here it is.
You want to know it’s about you, my man,
Instead of an ambiguous second person
Or yet another boring, overdramatic guy-and-girl thing.
So here’s to him, ‘cause the world really does have to know this is about two homos.

Prince Charming, in his underwear,
My breathy breeze blowing across his legs,
Rustling the meadow of hair.
As my hand hovers above, the electricity between our bodies so powerful
Every blade of grass stretches and yearns for my hand, the sun.
His skin is a thousand moths’ wings, velvet and delicate.
I feel everything.
The fine treasure trail disappearing beneath the pure fabric
To a treasure I always love to discover.
Gentle movements of his belly like a newborn,
The fluttering of his eyes as he dreams (hopefully of me),
His natural scent of baby powder and day-old deodorant.
A tuft of hair near his heart, beating a steady symphony,
An ever-so slightly curved smile on his face, like he is aware of my quiet observation,
Studying him, a sculpture in a prestigious museum where I’m the only guest.
Time is stagnant, a still pond, as I sit cross-legged,
Enveloped in the white sheets I swear I didn’t hog.
Envious sunlight trying to peek through the blinds at his royalty,
This vulnerable, perfectly flawed knight with a trickling creek of saliva on his chin.

Soon we’ll take our thrones on the couch, watching Lifetime or something with Meg Ryan.
But like Martha Stewart’s Pear-Raspberry Heart Pie,
These words are pre-made, displayed for an audience,
waiting for you,  my Prince, wherever you are,
to taste and savour them.