A tiny teaser of a tiny passage from my forthcoming novel: “The Lost Case of a Brief Case”


Gerald - photo by Marcos Rosa

Gerald – photo by Marcos Rosa

People really have no idea of what it means to be alone. I mean, to be famous and alone. I mean, to be a public persona and to have to suffer alone the endurance of being alone, of having your silent screams be unheard alone by the person you love alone and only love alone but have only loneliness to comfort you… People have no idea.

Is she coming to see me?

Will she come back one last time to see me? What will she look like? And what will I look like to her?

There’s a slight chance that she might. Just a slight chance. But, even if she does, what will it mean? Will it mean that she will stay or will it mean that she will just say hello and leave again and steep me further into this black hole I entered twenty years ago when she first left me?

So, if she’s coming to see me, who will she be? I mean, this time around?

If so, what will she say when she sees me like this?

Will she want to have sex? Will she want to fuck? Does she still have those daring tattoos on her or has she now turned into a man, a black man, after all these years?

Or won’t she say anything and just stare me in the eyes and look at me down on the ground as I’ve been for so long?

Yes, longing for that phone call that never comes, longing for that email that never comes. It means longing for a long time.

Twenty years is a long time by any definition. And it means, dealing with the pain that comes with longing, every year another measure for measure. And the unanswered questions that come with when one listens to Heitor Villa Lobos’s Bachianna’s Number Four… No, fuck Villa Lobos.

I met her when we were both very young. She was a pianist and a performer for Pina Bausch’s Tanztheater company in Wuppertal . She loved the adventures of flying through the air and falling. She loved getting injured. She loved falling and failing. And falling and failing again.

Yes, she loved getting injured.

She loved it when I injured her during sex and then held her, cuddled her and said a meager ‘sorry’. The sorry came with a mild strong mild and even stronger slap on my face almost too soft and too strong and too soon as if to admonish me… Oh you know, it’s all a prearranged soft core porn aimed at the middle classes. I never bought into that.

Okay, so here is how I see things: I am convinced that everyone (I mean, EVERY ONE) is obsessed with sex. I might have been one of them.

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I see it in human behavior and in how ‘classes, amasses, stashes of people, ‘human mountains’, so to speak, when sitting together and chatting, will end up surrendering their utmost fantasies and they are all sexual … sexual whispers. I see this extraordinary display of sexuality in women and men when taking a selfie or posting on Instagram or Facebook. Their apparent soliloquy is a sexual invitation to the invisible, the indivisible, the lavish thought of bathing in sperm – like Cleopatra and it was in such dark minded juice we were all conceived in.

I see it in wrestling. I see it in boxing and, especially in this….”ultimate fighting” thing (uh) All that blood is highly gay sex blood. Highly gay! HIGHLY CHARGED and almost arousing.

I see it when people look at each other, I mean the silent majority – stripping one another naked, nude, in the middle of the streets. Humans ‘lick’ one another while passing them by.

I see it in all the married ladies I’ve fucked and whose real pleasure was in being fucked up the ass to ‘get back’ at their spouses who, in turn, were doing the same. The entire world is at a ‘fornication point’ and intentional betrayal, intentional seduction, intentional  fetishes, from the Egyptian monotheists to the Greeks to Sade and to God knows what.

Yes, God knows what.

And she, who is due here at any minute, knows it better than anyone else I’ve known.

Gerald Thomas

April 21, 2016

Picture 9

The above is a scene from my play “Gargolios” – with my LondonDry Opera Company, 2011 / 2012 tour.

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