demi0urgos (demi0urgos) wrote,

Coreyfro is Dead!

Folks, I'm square. I was born a rhombus and I'll likely die one. That's not to say I'm not trying. I can sharpen up an edge here, skew a couple angles there, shift a few measures, and try my best to pass it off as style, but a polygon can't change his (number of) sides.

Yes, yes. Go ahead. Blame me for giving a shit about image. Hopefully it's just a phase.

Actually, I've always given a shit about image, I s'pose. Though someone who didn't cultivate image at all, I was always aware of what image was. It wasn't that I was trying to represent the non-image image, but felt that I was wholly incapable of developing one, or picking one and sticking with it.

So, instead of obsessing with image or being innocent or ambivalent towards it, I feared it.

It didn't stop at fear. I desired image, envied it, coveted it. But like any complacent, cowardly fuck, I did nothing about it.

None the less, I was represented by an image. The image was of a derelict, a vacant and lost soul; forsaken by myself.

Thirteen years ago, I became dubbed Coreyfro. I had totally unkempt hair, in lieu of a jacket, I wore a bathrobe, and because of the theft of my bicycle, I rode my mom's old-lady tricycle to school. My image was born of self neglect.

That image died last Feb 25th. (No, I am not trying to soak up yet more sympathy, so if for any reason you detect one iota of sympathy within yourself, squelch it, because it's 100% over.)

Like a new born baby, I awoke bald, surrounded by the faces of family. I had the opportunity to grow bitter, but I didn't. I don't know if it was a choice, in fact I don't feel it was. I honestly think I was granted a second dose of innocence.

But my rebirth wasn't innocent. Instead it was haunted by the ghost of Coreyfro and the regrets he had for the things he didn't do in his life.

One of my biggest regrets (which I have covered here, before) was that I never danced. Another was the awful, horrible, terrible things I did to a girl (now woman) years before Coreyfro's death.

You see, for five years, I had the love of a girl, yet I neglected it. There was a girl who innocently latched on to me as an ideal. She must have had low standards, right? I mean, the crazy girl probably couldn't nail a board, let alone someone worth a damn, right?...


Well, last I saw her, we were at a Lyon's in Sacramento. She had an entire table of men staring at her. The whispered, they gawked, they laughed, then... one of them approached her...

...he was a strong, handsome, and obviously wealthy...

...he came on smooth, elegant, confident...

...he came on to her...

...she shivered him off like a winter chill. She complained about how she couldn't handle all these men, all the time.

So what's wrong with her? Nothing. What's wrong with MEEEEEEE?

I didn't understand her affection. I didn't understand how she could be attracted to my image. I didn't think it was healthy. I didn't think it was right. I couldn't be sure of her sanity, and I couldn't take advantage of her (well, I tried not to. Sometimes, I couldn't resist.)

The fact of the matter is, I was afraid of her. I was afraid of hurting her. I was afraid of making her a trophy wife. I was afraid of what so many others before me tried to do to her. I was afraid of trying to mark her as my own. I didn't want my name to be among her scars.

So I did everything in my power to keep her safe. I did everything in my power not succumb to our animal attractions. I did everything to quell her affections. In the end, I did that which I was trying to avoid, I hurt her... I marked her... I scared her.

That was three years ago.

Before that, I tried to direct our urges to something more challenging (to me) than sex. We were going to go dancing. She was going to teach me how to dance. I was still reserved and frightened, by dancing, by her, but by god, I was going to try! She'd have been the perfect teacher, too. She's danced all her life, she has unbridled passion, she was an exotic dancer, what more could I ask for in a partner?

This failed as, being so charged and impassioned by this possibility, we never made it out of the car. Hey, I said she was hard to resist.

When I struck the ultimate blow (If the road to hell is paved with good in tensions, then the Devil owes me for a million miles of {I'm-an-}ass{and-it's-my}fault) my dream of and my chance to dance died. My chances with her died. My hopes died.

Fortunately, the last time I saw her was not 3 years ago, the Dude's advances we stifled last Friday night (Saturday morning) after she and I danced the night away.

After I was reborn and after I began dancing, I couldn't help but remember her everytime I got on the dance floor. It pained me. What I had done haunted me.

I wrote her. I wrote her and waited for a responce.

When she responded, my heart soared. I knew it wasn't easy for her. I can only imagine how she felt. We've made it back to being friends.

We went to a club, we drank a little, and we danced. As Peachy is my witness, I had never danced at a club. Thirty f'n years old, and I've finally danced at a club. It's easy. It's so easy.

My fear of dancing was really a fear of image. I was afraid of what people would perceive me to be. I have nothing to be afraid of, and I have Pastina to thank for it.

What a difference a day makes.

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