Sean Kilty came over last night to renew our friendship. I feed him dinner and we fall into bed. I was afraid because of my period. But it wasn't as bad as I remembered. He wasn't rockhard and though it's been months since I've had sex, it didn't hurt. Overfeed a man meat and potatoes, then liberally ply him with wine and he'll lose stamina. For once, that's what I wanted, I couldn't take too much.
Sean lives in Castroville, and is a PG&E meter man for Monterey Pebble Beach. So, he's living in one of the most beautiful places in the world, and lives on a horse ranch. And finally he's writing a book of poems, and a screenplay—he's leading the writer's life.
Do I imagine a life with him? I doubt it, for though we have warmth and affection, but not that burning spark. Is it something that can be rekindled? How trustworthy is passion anyway? Sex is less satisfying without it. Though this time, sex with Sean wasn't a marathon, and thank God he wasn't at full-tilt as he is the most well hung man I have ever known. It's usually painful, and a man hasn't been inside me in a very long long time.
1/15
I never finished writing about Sean Kilty who came over last Saturday enroute to Sacramento for a poetry reading. We had our first dinner together. I figure I see him on average, once every couple of years. We've been lovers for at least eight years, maybe 10.
We're not even sure when we first met. It was in the early 80s, certainly by 1983, was when our first falling in love sequence occurred. He's been married for 12 years and has three kids. We met before the long before that, nearly running off to Mexico together, but Michael Lorraine and Luke Breit separated us. Sean was ambivalent, my feelings were hurt, and that was that.
Sean spent the night in my tiny bed, he's at least 6 foot 4 and almost as broad. He's gotten a little beefy, but is still damned handsome for nearing 50 years of age. No gray hair yet. He looks like he could pass for his early 40s. A doppleganger for a young Anthony Quinn, who is also half-Mexican, half Irish.
Sean and I have our Irish connection going, and sometimes I'll say something to him in Spanish, but he is unprepared for an answer. I don't know anything about his Mexican side. He's so light-skinned and fair. Usually Mexicans of European descent don't come to the United States, as they already have it good in Mexico. Unless he's a Californio, and many of those of Californio descent are from the same background as the high-class Mexicans where lightness of skin is a virtue.
Now he is separated from his wife, and contemplating divorce. There's another woman he cares for. His wife found a love poem to her—no matter that it wasn't true, nor explicit. Her rival was a metaphor, and who could live with that?
Sean doesn't even know if there's a future with the new woman, so he opens the door to me, but he was so ambivalent before, and I'm no longer passionately in love with him. To be in that kind of love requires contact and interaction, building a history together. It begins with meals and adventures. Letters and poems would help.
It's hard to toss 12 years of marriage out the window, and there are the kids to consider. He said that he stayed in the marriage this long because of them. And he's willing to chuck it over, for what? Chalk it up to irreconcilable differences?
He has three small kids in tow, so the rest of his life will be tied up with his ex-wife and children. He's tied to a middle-class existence. Love, thy name is alimony.
1/ 22
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