Date: Thu, 12 Nov 1998 07:40:36 +0900 From: Andrej Koymasky <andrejkoymasky@geocities.com> Subject: epistolary-05 -------------------------- I started writing gay stories in 1985 and to now I wrote about 80 of them. Being Italian, of course I wrote them in Italian. Now, many of my friends asked me to translate them in English. But my English, also if understandable, is surely not a "literary" one: I can't know all the nuances and literary tricks I can use in Italian. I need somebody revising my translation. Now, I found a person that is kindly helping me with my stories. But I can't ask to one single person to help me with all of my stories. So, if amongst you there is somebody (with a good English style) that thinks this unpaid work worthy, and wants to help me, I would be really happy. If such a person exists, can send me an e-mail at: andrejkoymasky@geocities.com ---------------------------- EPISTOLARY by Andrej Koymasky (C) 1998 written the 10th of August, 1990 translated by the author English text kindly revised by George. ----------------------------- USUAL DISCLAIMER "EPISTOLARY" is a gay story, with some parts containing graphic scenes of sex between males. So, if in your land, religion, family, opinion and so on this is not good for you, it will be better not to read this story. But if you really want, or because YOU don't care, ore because you think yo really want to read it, please be my welcomed guest. ----------------------------- Roma, 25/1/87 Sebastiano, I found your letter of the 19 th inst. in my letter box today. It finally it arrived. But too late. It is a hard letter, but clear. If I had received this letter earlier, what happened would not have happened. But, I ask my self, what would I have said to you if I had received this letter in time? Would I have told you not to come to my place? I'm afraid not. After all didn't I possibly hope to be touched by you? In my subconscious, didn't I hope to be... raped? Raped, yes, so it would have been you the guilty one and not I, but anyway we had sex... I really am not able to understand anything, but I'm afraid it is really so. Tonight I slept little and badly. In my bed I was recalling that first night, when all this started, when I embraced you to console you at the news of your mother's death. And I was recalling how, for the first time, we got aroused, and how we did touch, caressed also in that spot between the legs. I was recalling how the affection impetus of friendship had imperceptibly, gradually but unmistakably transformed itself into physical desire. It has been beautiful, it is true. Honestly, it has been beautiful. But I couldn't accept it, I was not able (and still am not able) because I was taught that way, and now it is in me, is part of me, is my second nature. And yet, I was thinking tonight, you must have been taught the same also, and notwithstanding that you have been able to accept it serenely, quietly, almost like drinking a glass of fresh water. To me instead, this fresh water, went the wrong way. I'm full of shit as you say? It's you the one who is wrong? One thing is clear: we cannot both be right. Yes, I know, each one is made differently, each one has the right to think as he pleases, and so forth. But I feel that this is not valid in this case. I am not able to say, to think "I don't give a shit for him!" I never discriminated against gay people, I have always respected them, at least I thought so, even if I couldn't understand what they could find so interesting in their own sex. But when the problem touched me, all my "open mind" has gone to blazes. I've gone to tilt as a pin-ball machine shaken too strongly, I don't function any more. And I'm not saying that just to be saying it. It has been six days. I cant even get anything done at work and I'm asking myself how they have yet not become aware of that. Yesterday evening Stefania called on me, come upstairs. I told she I was not ok, I was tired and depressed and sent her away. Her presence, for the first time, really bothered me. I don't say physically, but psychologically. I felt she was cold, far away, empty, indifferent, useless... She didn't even try to understand what was my problem. But even if she tried, possibly, it would have bothered, irritated me even more. Probably I have been unfair to her. Just as I am probably unfair to you also. I know I am thinking of my own problems only. I feel like crying, I feel like breaking everything, I feel like disappearing, I need to sleep but I'm afraid I cannot. Probably it would have been better if we had never meet, it would have been better for both of us. NO! That is nonsense! Forgive me. This time I will not tear up the letter. I'm learning from you. My mind is muddled, I feel I am coming apart. How do you feel? So far I have just talked about me, me, me... How much did I hurt you? I love you, Sebastiano. Why am I not able to love you as you want me to? Ciao, my poor friend. Will you write me again? I made two copies of this letter. I don't know where you are. I wait. Federico P.S. I read this letter again and asked myself why, that first time, while it was happening, I was happy. I don't know, but could it be because I again experienced those emotions that my school fellow made me feel and that I believed were buried, forgotten? In that moment was I perhaps "in love" with you and that did, in a second moment, scare me? Why is it so difficult for one to understand himself? Why is it all so complicated? ---------------- Roma, 25/1/87 Dear Sebastiano, this morning I gave my letter of yesterday to the janitor and he said that you took the one of the day before. So, you still are in Rome. I asked the advertising office; they had seen you and thought you were still at my place. You didn't tell them your new address. You avoid me, you don't write me. Probably you are more wise than I. The janitor looked at me strangely; possibly he is astounded that I send you letters, as you work here also. Later I will give him this letter, then I'll write you again, always hoping you will write me again... Even only a note with just one word. Even an insult. But tell me that you have not excluded me, that you didn't chase me from your thoughts. Am I asking too much of you? Are you still offended, hurt for what I said to you? I read again your last letter. There was no hate in my voice, I didn't want to hurt you, there was just despair, I was terribly scared, believe me. Write me again, Sebastiano, I pray you. Send me again one of your wonderful envelopes. I don't ask for anything more. I don't ask you to meet me, I don't want to hurt you any more, believe me. I didn't look for you here at work because I didn't want to create an embarrassing situation in front of our colleagues. But if you don't write me, I'll visit every hotel in Rome until I find you. And yes, last time we were together, as soon as you succeeded in pulling it out, I cum. Yes, just to be touched you, just to be slightly brushed by you gave me a hard on. Yes, you attract me, I feel enticed by you. Yes, I'm scared of being a faggot, as you point out. Yes, I'm full of shit. Yes, I'm scared by what I feel for you. Yes, I'm conditioned by my father, by my mother, by the priests, by the middle-class morality, by the phallocracy, by the respectability, against what you want! But write me. If you still love me, if I haven't made you hate me, write me. I pray you, Sebastiano, I pray you, write me soon Federico ----------------- Thursday 27 th of January from Roma C I A O S. ------------------- Roma, 28/1/87 Dear Sebastiano, thank you. Thank you for the wonderful envelope. Thank you for your "ciao". Thank you. At last a ray of light: you don't know how much that one word has done for me, what happiness the gift of your wonderful envelope has brought me, how I feel less desperate, less lonely. At work I can't manage to do anything because night and day I just think about you, about me, about us. In my head there is a crowd of thoughts, confused thoughts in which I have difficulty seeing my way. I am not even able to write you all that I think and would, while I write one thing there are thousands more I would like to write you, but I'm not even able to fix them in my head. Thought goes a lot faster than a pen, than writing. So what I'm able to write you at the end are just bubbles surfacing the boundless stretch of the sea of thoughts crowding my brain. I feel tired, terribly tired. I miss you Sebastiano, yes, I miss you so much. I'm not asking you to come to my place, I don't feel ready yet and I'm afraid I may never be. I would like to be less complex, to have at least a little of your simplicity, of your strength, of your... but on the contrary I feel weak and lost and lonely and... I'm not crying tied to my mother's apron, believe me, I'm trying to understand, to understand, to UNDERSTAND! Why am I not able to accept what you are offering me? Ah, if I were a woman! It's silly, right? I too never desired to be one. I too, as you say, am a male, I have a tool that works properly... and that becomes hard if you just barely touch me. And that is awakening even in this moment. And I would like to have you here to touch me. And it is not true that I'll blow up again like the last time. I don't know, I cannot understand myself. I feel like two persons, like a schizophrenic. Inside me, I'm becoming aware, there is a Federico longing to be undressed by you, touched by you, make incredible things with you on a bed, and a Federico that doesn't want, doesn't want, doesn't want... Which one of these two is the right one? Who am I? What am I? What am I like? You are right, that "experiment" I did in Bologna had been pathetic. You are the same Sebastiano of always, but I don't understand any more what I am. I don't want Stefania, I want you. But I'm not able to accept you because in reality I'm not able to accept myself. You write me that you want to give me head and to take me, and you want me to give you head and to take you. Possibly I too want that. Possibly I would even enjoy it physically, but my head would refuse it and I would feel guilty. I tried to fancy we two making a sixty nine - the idea makes me feel slightly uncomfortable, embarrasses me, but when I think about it, imagine the scene, I get a hard on. So, I tried to imagine me and Marco, or me and Luca (you know, the handsome boy of the archives) while doing a sixty nine: the idea makes me uncomfortable and I didn't get a hard on. The only difference, then, is you. Yes, to me you always have been, and continue to be, special, different from any other person. I love you, I feel physical desire for you, at this point I have to admit that. So, you'll say, all is complete... even more because it is reciprocal. But I'm not able to settle for that, to accept that... You are more than right, I cannot accept just half of you: either I accept you as a lover or I lose you as a friend. The problem is, perhaps, that I never accepted myself, even just half. How can I manage to accept all of me? Help me, Sebastiano, please. Don't leave me. I want to come out of this situation. If you cannot help me, who can? Who? Stefania with her hard-heartedness and empty elegance? Surely not. My father and mother? They helped me when I was fourteen and probably they just helped me to twist my thinking, to "straighten" me. I don't want to put blame on them, they were surely doing what they thought was right. I think that the only solution is to go to a psychiatrist. At least, if I'm crazy, he can shut me in. Federico ----------------- Saturday 31 st of January What help do you want? Psychiatrists are just money consuming people. You have to come out by yourself. I want you, I'm the interested party. I'm afraid that, instead of helping you, I will just bring grist to my own mill. I love you. Still. Perhaps I'm an egoist. I would like to help you, really. At times I think that if I really loved you, the only real help would be to disappear from your life. To leave you in peace. But... perhaps I am an egoist. S. ----------------------- Roma, 2/2/87 Dearest Sebastiano, no, don't disappear, I pray you. Don't leave me, not yet please. Don't disappear. The day before yesterday evening, I went out and walked for about two hours - here at home I felt I was going crazy. I tried to focus on the problem. Yes, I think that my problems is all in my fear of being abnormal, being gay. You say you don't feel gay just because you desire me, just because you desire a male. You say that you don't desire a male (not any male, that is) but me. But to me those two things are the same. Therefore to desire you (as I desire, it is now evident) is to desire a male and to desire a male is gay. And I fear being gay. I don't want to be gay. This is my problem. If I accepted being gay, I would have no more problem. So then, what do I have to do? Can one accept himself so simply? After having spent years of always half a smile of compassion towards gay people? At the Academy a fellow student, a certain Massimo, openly declared himself gay. Not a queen, sure. To look at him he could be just a little bit less "manly" than others, but just in the sense that he was more refined. Nobody mocked him, least of all, I. But we all had that sense of superiority towards him, now I can see that - we all liked the girls! For the pussy, hurrah! Now I would like to meet Massimo again, to talk with him, to understand him and perhaps then I would be able to understand myself. He had his boyfriend, who came to wait for him outside the Academy. We smiled, I smiled. We didn't mock him sure; we artists are modern and tolerant people, but I too smiled. I felt superior. Can I suddenly change, now? Can I say: "I'm a faggot, how splendid!" after years when I did superior half smiles? I love the dick! Hurrah for the dick? Yes, yes, it is easy say it, write it, but inside I feel ill at ease, I don't accept it, I don't want it. And yet you are there, to uproariously belie me. And not just with words, your presence is enough. Rather, since for now it's enough just to think of you. And I cannot just think of you, at this time you are here, inside me, day and night, and you will be even if you disappear. And it is not right not to think about all this; I can not just play the ostrich, as you say, I cannot hide my head in the sand, right? Massimo was proud of his boyfriend. He talked about him, at times, with spontaneity: "My boyfriend says that..." like one would say: "My girl says that..." Yes, I would like to be able to say: "My Sebastiano says that..." but I'm not able. Is it enough just to want it? Federico ------------------------ Thursday 5 th of February from San Lorenzo Hotel I love you, you schizophrenic! Sebastiano P.S. the janitor is starting to act strange. So I bring this to your home. You can leave your letter at the hotel check in. But don't yet try to meet me, please. ------------------------ Roma, 6/2/87 Dearest Sebastiano, I agree, I will not look for you. Anyway, thanks. Your envelopes are wonderful and tell me all you haven't written in your last letters. I too I love you, even if I'm not yet able to show it to you. I love you and I desire you and I'm not able to harmonize that - I really am a schizophrenic. I'm aware I'm making love with you through letters, do you see what I'm trying to say? A letter is more safe than a condom, divides and protects lot more. Is more aseptic. I'm full of shit, twice, three times, a hundred times. I broke with Stefania, our relationship didn't make any more sense. Nothing has any more sense, besides you. It was time, it had to be done. Probably I was attached to her just to hide from myself my true desires. I'm asking myself how could I manage to waste all this time with such a person - at least it is over and I feel a lot better. But this doesn't yet solve my true problem. You wrote me in one of your letters that you don't feel like you are gay. That it is nothing more than a label. And that anyway you don't give a shit. Perhaps I too will arrive at that point in life, but to reach that point, I need to stick that label on me, at least to cancel that other label I still wear: "not-gay" that I stuck on me for too many years. Don't mock me, I pray you, but like in Bologna I looked for faggots to show myself I wasn't gay, now I have to search for them to show myself that I can be one of them. Possibly I'm childish, but I believe I need to do that, I need to pass through that. You write me that I have to come out of my problem by myself, with my strength, and for the moment I couldn't think of anything better, any better way to do it. I know that there is a gay disco, called the Alibi. Tomorrow night I'll go there. I don't know what I'll do, once there. Possibly I'll hook somebody, possibly he will bring me to his bed, or I will ask him to my place. Possibly I'll ask him to take me or to let me take him. Probably we will give head to each other. Perhaps. What do you think? Am I crazy, or am I right? I think I'll get the answer after this try, if you want to tell me. But I have to do something. Not only for myself, but also for you. Good night Sebastiano. I embrace you Federico ****o****oOo****o**** Roma, 7/2/87 Dear Sebastiano, how long did you wait for me there in front of the Alibi? When I arrived and saw you, I felt a blow. All I could imagine, but meeting you. Did you notice how deeply I was stirred? Then you came to me, took my hand and said: "Go back home, madman!" and I stayed there like a fool to look at you, and you cannot guess how hard it was for me to ask you if you would come home with me. But you shook your head and smiled and said: "Go back home, come on! Tomorrow I'll write to you." But you smiled at me! So, here I am, at home. Why didn't you want me to enter that disco? Did my idea seem so wrong to you? I' m looking forward to tomorrow. I'll go down to check my letterbox, I don't know how many times, waiting for your multicolored envelope. What will you tell me? That I'm a fool? That you pity me? Tonight in my bed I will masturbate thinking of you. God, how beautiful was the smile you threw to me! So sweet, tender, indescribable! How wonderful it was when you took my hand. In that moment you could have taken me wherever you wanted. Like the Hamelin's magic fife player: I would have followed you anywhere. Sebastiano, I surrender: do with me anything you want. Also physically, I mean. I want to become yours, body and soul. I don't know if it will be easy, if I will succeed soon, if I'll be able to accept everything serenely, but I want at least to try. I give up fighting against myself. It is really nonsense. But you, give me that sweetness, look at me with those eyes, give me that smile, touch me with that hand, and I'll be yours. Now I'll get drunk, then I'll go to bed. Good night, Sebastiano. I want to love you. yours F. --------------------- Saturday 7 th of February from San Lorenzo Hotel Federico, Federico, Federico! But what were you going to do in there? A little lamb amongst wolves. How naive you are! You can go there, we can go there, but after you become a little more self confident. Federico, how much do I love you! Good, you are gay. Good, I'm a male. Gays like males. But as soon as I touch you, you flee away or chase me. Full stop, next line. The problem is not there. The problem is not if or who is gay. The problem is just you and I. Would you give life to your love for me, with your body? You say you love me. I believe you. But to the point you show it to me with your body without going on tilt, without being ashamed? To the point of being happy to unite your body with mine? To feel that need, that necessity? If yes, yell and I'll come arunning! If not, I'll tell you what will happen: or you repress yourself completely. And then, farewell. or you burst out. And then, farewell. In both of those possibilities you will be no more the Federico I fell in love with. That Federico able to be enthusiast like a kid. That Federico full of fantasy. That Federico that goes into raptures for a painted envelope. That Federico able to imagine a dog called Rodolfo. With a kid for a friend, we christened Theo, with an H, so theous! All will be over. Perhaps I say so just because I desire you. Perhaps I'm not objective. It is very difficult to be completely objective when you have a crush, you can understand that. But that's how I see the situation. And solution. I love you Federico, as long as you don't die inside. I love you. Take care of yourself. Don't die, please. yours (I hope) S. --------------------- Roma, 8/2/87 My dear Sebastiano. come, I pray you, I await you. Tomorrow morning I'll call my work place and ask for a week of leave, I'll be at home every day, all the day, I'm waiting for you, come. Our nine weeks and half. I have to try it, I want to try it. You will touch my body, you will caress me, you will awaken all of me, you will do with me anything you want, as you want. Come, please. F. ----------------------------- CONTINUES IN PART 6 ----------------------------- In my home page I've put some of my stories. If someone wants to read them, the URL is http://www.geocities.com/~andrejkoymasky/ ---------------------------