Richard Sharon - Diary of a Lover

That horrible triumvirate, parents, church, and society, got to me too young, too much. And now I feel eternally as though-I am about to be struck dead by a wrathful, vengeful God, who will punish me for the pleasure I have had. I know it's illogical and unreasonable, and I can cite my own arguments better than you can, but the fact remains that my personality has been too badly damaged by my youth. I still feel the guilt. It is my best and most loving hope for you that you never do.

I have made of you a pleasure-giver, and I hope you will always be able to give and receive pleasure with a clear mind and a clean conscience, as nature intended you to do.

You may not have realized it at the time, but last night you declared your independence of me with one well-deserved blow to my face. I have to, sadly, admit the fact that there is no more I can give to you. To keep you with me now would just be a waste of your life, and each day is too precious to throw away in that manner. You don't love me, and any love you think you might feel is just gratitude misplaced. You are ready to leave, ready to go out on the long search for your own love, an arduous and lonely task that might consume years of your life, if not your entire life.

I am moving in for a week with Mary Ann. She's an older dyke type, quite heavy, but I have always found comfort and solace in her arms (and I even feel guilty about that). Anyway, I hope this will give you enough time to find a new place and to move your things out. If you want, I'll keep talking to your mother on the phone, so she'll think you're still living here. Leave any phone messages on the hall table, and the mail, too. Please don't worry about me. Somewhere out there is another Richard, another young boy with the look of potential about him for Mora to retrain and send out into the world as a man, as I have done with you.

But so far

you were the best of them all

the very best

love,

Mora

I slowly put down the letter on the table; then, changing my mind, picked it up, folded it neatly, and tucked it under the cover of my school Peechee note folder, to be put in a safe place later. I wanted to save it.

I felt empty and terribly alone. For the first time the house seemed strange and unfriendly. I was now an intruder, and I wasn't so sure of the maturity that Mora said I was supposed to have. Being totally alone for the first time made my stomach feel queasy, no parents to run home to, and no Mora to guide me. I didn't want to stay there another day; it seemed haunted, and every piece of furniture, every wall, every picture mocked me. I went right to the kitchen and found the morning paper, and got out the furnished-apts-for-rent section.

It took me about a week to find a place that was decent and that didn't ask for identification and references. I had no evening jobs to play that week and continued to study out of habit. The big bed was so empty, so sterile, without her. I read until late, trying to keep my eyes off of the view, which, in its immenseness and grandeur, made me feel smaller and lonelier.

After a terrible first night I masturbated myself to sleep, not even forming erotic mental images, just moving to get it off, humping into the soft mattress and sleeping exhausted on my wet cum, uncaring when it turned cold.

My new apartment was on Clay Street, just off of upper Fillmore. It was a home owned by a retired couple who had a small apartment downstairs, with its own entrance from the walk that ran down the side of the house. There was a low iron fence in front and a neatly trimmed patch of lawn breaking the monotony of the cement sidewalk extending down the block. The area was nice and that part of Fillmore Street was a shopping center for the wealthy people from Pacific Heights. Mora and I had shopped there often, as it was only about ten blocks from her flat.

The apartment itself wasn't much, but it was neat and dean. The living room was large, and there was a sofa which pulled out into a bed, a chair and ottoman, a table with two chairs, a small desk, and an unfinished-furniture bookcase. A green curtain at the back of the room separated the kitchen, which was very small, just an apartment stove, sink, and refrigerator, courtesy of Sears. The bathroom had a small, stand-up shower, an old commode, and a sink with a mirror hung over it, shoved into the corner. A bare light bulb hung from the bathroom ceiling. The rent was eighty-five dollars on a month-to-month basis, so in the event that the owner's children decided to visit from Florida, I could be thrown out on short notice.

I loaded my things into the car, cleaned up Mora's place, taking a last, nostalgic look around, and moved on with my life.

At first my new life was difficult. The loneliness bit into me with long, hurting fangs, and I played as many jobs as possible to avoid it. For one thing the quiet of an apartment is deadly, and takes a lot of getting used to. I had to learn to cook for myself, and while my diet was limited to hamburgers, hot dogs, lamb chops, and sandwiches, it didn't appear to do me any harm. I got into the habit of reading with my meals, or of watching the small, ten-inch TV I'd bought. My loneliness always seemed to be exacerbated at mealtime, and I found that this was one way of making it more agreeable. Too, I ate out a great deal.

Bedtime was what I dreaded most. Once you get used to sleeping with a woman, her absence is felt far more than if you had always slept alone. I jacked off every night, and often several times a day, using erotic memories of Mora alone or with her girl friends in some of the wild, three-way orgies we had enjoyed. Also, I would use mental pictures of good-looking girls from school, imagining their bodies in every tiny detail, and doing to them all of the things that Mora had taught me. I went back to using sweat socks because I didn't want to stain my landlord's sheets.

I still visited my parents on Sundays, and made up stories about Al and Mora. My mother always wanted to meet them, but I kept thinking up excuses to put it off. I phoned Mora and gave her my number, so when Mom would call Mora would phone me and I would phone Mom back.

Occasionally I would go out to the Tenderloin, or down to lower Fillmore, and walk around. But my duck's-ass cut had been replaced by normal hair styling, my pegged pants, faded Levi's, and Price's maroon shoes had given way to well-cut slacks, jackets, and suits. Dude's, the mecca for black clothes buyers, saw me no more. My friends all were gone; it was hard for me to find anybody who I knew. And the final insult: girls hustled me on the street, "Hey, good lookin', you wanna date? Make the price right."

It galled terribly. Me, they were actually hustling me. Didn't they know me? Know who I was? Did I really look to them like some fucking John from Dubuque?

The colorfully dressed barkers who had always stood in the doorways of strip joints, pounding feet and clapping hands and giving me a cheerful, knowing wave as I passed, now the bastards were giving me the line: "Step right in, sir. New show just startin'. No cover charge and lots of pretty girls. Step right in." And they would hold back the black velvet doorway curtains with one hand, in case I wanted to take a daring peek inside. Didn't they know? Couldn't they tell somehow, some way, that, not too long before, I had been one of them?

Winos and bums hit me for spare change on every block. Doorways reeked of piss and stale vomit. The "new" people on the street looked right at me without a glimmer of recognition. And why should there be, I told myself. When I was around, they hadn't even hit the street yet.

The whole scene was depressing; I felt like a retired general who couldn't get onto-his old post because he didn't have a gate pass. Sadly, I realized that my time for the street had come and gone.