||[Jan. 9th, 2011|07:23 pm]
I like lemons.|
But not like Bob likes lemons.
We sometimes sit after work and talk about how much we like lemons.
I always felt like I was odd and alone in my love of their texture, their smell, their life giving properties.
Lemons are, for instance the most influential fruit in American politics.
You didn't know that!
I know you didn't know that, because no one knows that, but I know it. I figured it out, on my own. It took months of research. A lemon killed a damned president, well an ex-president. It was the favored cleaning product of Martha Washington, yes her name was Martha, and a wedge of lime, (yes a lime is actually a kind of lemon, don't get me started on that one) was instrumental in exposing the nefarious bullshit that went on with Bush and Reagan in the Iran Contra Hostage thing.
You didn't know that. But Bob knew it. hell I didn't even know about the Reagan fixation until Bob pointed me in the right direction. But he let me figure it out for myself, which is why I have so much respect for him.
For his memory, I guess.
I never found Bob attractive. It's not that I don't like boys, I do. And I have had some, but it never fulfilled me. But Bob, bob showed me something I hadn't been willing to look at on my own.
Bob showed me how to make the lemon an integral part of my love. My sexuality.
And my nights with bob were all spring scented, sticky, pleasantly stinging, smooth, slippery rough and pulpy, and yes there were complications, but oh god it was so good.
But, while I grew to love and respect lemon in a whole new way, I never liked lemons like Bob liked lemons. He began bleaching his pubic hair with them. This required coating the hair in their juice and laying out on the roof.
He would burn himself, he was always photosensitive, and he would masturbate there in the sunshine as his hair slowly turned from brown to red to blonde to white, laying on the roof of our apartment building for hours on end.
Then he started to bleach his skin, and I began to worry. I tried to stop him, but maybe my love for the lemons was stronger than my love for Bob.
It couldn't shake them.
I wanted him to give them up, for his health. His skin would react to the juice in the sun, and burn so badly. But he would only be soothed by more lemons rubbed on his raw and blistered skin, and god help me, it turned me on.
He convinced me to join him, there on the roof in our tiny plastic kiddie pool, naked and shining in the moist patina of lemon juice and pips and pulp, and we made love there under the sun, but my skin started to burn and i wanted to go inside.
He wouldn't join me and stayed out there, in the sun, the unnaturally bright and brilliantly yellow sun of the hottest day of august, and when I began to truly worry and went up to fetch him, the door was locked, and I could smell him, SMELL HIM cooking in the sun. And he smelled so good that I wretched and vomited on the concrete steps in front of the door.
When night fell and he still hadn't returned and wouldn't answer my calls through the door, I called the landlord.
We found him burnt so badly his skin had turned black.
And ambulance came and the paramedics wrapped him in gelatin and plastic before taking him away, tracking the footsteps through my vomit, the smell completely covered by the stench of citrus on the rooftop.
I visited him once in the hospital, and he became angry.
They had washed the juice from his body.
"I wasn't done" he said to me.
I never saw Bob again.
They found him 3 days later on the dead in a tanning bed in a salon near the hospital, marinated in bottled lime juice purchased from the corner grocery, 12 empty bottles amongst his close on the floor.
And what I remember most from his funeral was the smell coming up through the closed casket, and how it made me sad for the love I lost and would never likely find again.
I never loved lemons as much as bob did.
But they ar4e all I have left of him now, and it seems everyday like he was the brave one, and it's not such a terrible way to die.