This is the second edition of Equations by Adam Fieled (2018), originally released as a Blue & Yellow Dog print book in 2011, and employing "Dialectic Form."
#25 Tob hovers between straightness and gayness. It is years later; I‟ve broken things off with Trish. We‟re upstairs at the Khyber, me with my friends, Tob with hers. We‟re dancing and I start to do touchy-feely moves. This is it; this is the preordained time at which Tob and I consummate things (she put me in my place a year ago because we were both still too close to Trish). I show up at her apartment the next day; she spends the night at my apartment. But there‟s some fakery involved and our equation involves contingencies: I‟m putting together shows for her band, she needs to keep me (for them) in place. We take a bath, and Tob begins giving me a very thorough (and loving) blowjob. The problem is, this won‟t count for me unless we actually have penetrative sex. So I stop myself from finishing in her mouth, take her to bed, put on the condom and do the deed, without finishing. I let my piggish principles interfere with Mother Nature‟s chosen course. By disobeying Nature, I have already given Tob a reason to mistrust me. The truth is, she will never forgive me for seducing her. She doesn‟t like guys that much anyway. The kind of impulse that chooses willfulness over acceptance can never have consonance with satisfaction, and pleasure. 32
#26 Use of force is anathema to the deepest part of the sexual impulse. A girl like Michelle has precocious parts; but they hinge on her fulfilling the role she has created for herself, of high school Don Juana. She prowls Center City Philly, looking for slightly older guys to hook up with. I‟m twentythree, fresh back from my year in New York City. Michelle has hair dyed black and cut into bangs a la Bettie Page. She has nice, fine features and leans towards the plumpish. Her equation is simple: let’s make this an adventure. The problem is that this hankering after adventure is a kind of sickness; she‟ll do anything to escape the confines of the lonely suburbs, and two overbearing parents. The first night I meet her, we make out at 6th and Walnut as she waits for her bus. It‟s a rainy night and we‟re buffoonish and we get stared at. A feeling of transgression flares up in me which is difficult to overcome; but my youngish looks have put me through this before. Sex, in almost all of its forms, is a hopeless slave to appearances; you get, more often than not, the partners you look like you should get. I‟ve noticed that money doesn‟t change things that much; you can‟t buy looks, and, for the most part, you can‟t buy genuine, organic sex. When age is factored in, sex begins to look like what it largely is: a devious force, a motivating undercurrent, which gives us our greatest consonance with humanity before leaving at its appointed time, when appearances build up too many walls for it to topple. 33