The Last Thing I'll Say About It

I did skim through the various posts of this blog that made some reference to my sport. Out of over 900 entries, I deal with it perhaps 10 or 15 times -- a bit over one percent. Certainly no more. I skimmed through them, trying to come to some understanding as to what could have caused so great an offense. I am mystified.

I seem to have had two complaints. Something over six months ago or so the vulgarity was getting to me. There were a couple of men who really played off of each other -- individually they were fine, but the combination was toxic. For some reason they toned it down, later, and my complaint went away.

What, I'm not allowed to vent, here? Fuck you.

My other issue was about a lack of intensity. Well? My needs were different than theirs. Am I allowed to notice that? It was frustrating for me, but I don't think I put pressure on anyone. That I discussed it here, in this anonymous forum, can hardly be cause for the personal offense that has been taken.

I did play rough with K, here. I went on a rant -- a satirical rant, mind you -- in which I coined the sobriquet p-hole. I thought it was pretty funny. I still do. I find the unreasonable, the selfish and self-centered to be comical. Childhood shapes our sense of humor, and much of the insanity that I work out here is a parody of my father.

As for the other gentleman, I expressed nothing but personal respect for him.

I never talked about FP, there, but it was not a secret. I was given to understand on occasion that some various men had taken a look, at least once. More than that I do not know. No one expressed a concern. I would have hoped that if anyone thought I had crossed some line, or was acting dishonestly, they would have apprised me of that fact. It's not only that none of them did, it's that I believe that each of them would have. My observation of their characters assures me that they would act honorably in an issue that touched upon our sport. Perhaps their occasional glimpses did not catch anything offensive. But it's not on them.

The attentive reader of these pages, and you are legion, will have been struck by my motifs of betrayal and injustice. I am no martyr, but these are powerful themes in my life. Is this that, again? To me, it is. I'm sure it's not meant to be. But that's what every petty despot supposes of himself.

That's what it boils down to, as I see it. The difference between greatness of heart, and pettiness. A close and jealous attention to the details of how we conduct ourselves with others, or the casual self-indulgence of expedience. I am deeply flawed, socially. But anyone who says I am dishonest is both a fool and a liar. If I am wrong, show me where. I will apologize, and mean it.

I owe no apology. I am owed one, that will never come. To misunderstand is inevitable. To lash out without an attempt at clarity is pitiful, but human. I am disappointed, and disgusted -- and perhaps you've noticed how carefully I choose my words. I find anger to be pathetic, but that doesn't mean I don't feel it too. It must be anger that wants to attribute this ugliness to stupidity. It must be anger that would have respect turn into disrespect. You know the pattern. Shock and grief and anger.

But I've been through this sort of thing before. And as I said somewhere, I've had real loss. No one's dead, no one's on drugs, no one's crippled, no one's in jail, no one's sick. This is only a five. A fairly standard betrayal of civil obligation. The veil is pulled back, and you find that where you had thought you'd been liked, you were tolerated, and for only as long as was convenient. You find that the greeting masked a sigh -- Oh, here he is, again. And you know it's true, because the bonds of courtesy snapped so very easily.

You smile and shake your head sadly. You could see it coming. I mean you, not me. I could see it too, but I always expect it. You could see it, because anyone as consumed with betrayal as I am, must want it. And here it is. You saw how I'd write about it, my sport -- how important it was, and the people -- so you knew, craftsman that I am, that I'd somehow have to weave my themes together. You knew it was coming. But I surprised you, right, about how?

What other nightmare will rise up from the pit?

It's time for another attack on my family. My son is safely returned from the wars.

Wouldn't that be rich?



I was going to leave it there. Because you really do have no idea how bitter my soul is. And I have lost sons. But we have to believe there is such a thing as mercy. There must be. We've given it ourselves, haven't we? -- and that proves it's real. There must be a mercy that isn't discovered only in the fact that something worse hasn't happened yet.

Mercy is found, then, in a thing ending when it should end.

And that's the last thing I'll say about it.


J