I’m a 29th trimester student. I’m dating a 33rd, named Grey. My parents worry that we are at differing developmental stages, that we are neurologically incompatible (at least for now), even though our physiologies fit–we are hormonally synchronous. I put up a fight; they sent me to a counselor.

My therapist suggested that my relationship with Grey was necessary for my emotional development. Even though Dr. Berry expressed similar concerns as my parents, these concerns were overwritten by the potential gains a heartbreak might offer my narrative progress. I expressed this to my parents, who reluctantly acceded to my demands–I think I raised my voice considerably. “Either I get what I need from Grey, or I’m gonna sneak SSRIs.” Still, my parents go through a daily ritual of reminding me that they disapprove of Grey, but that they do and will support me regardless.

At school, besides the obvious English and Cantonese, my media studies are woodworking, mathematics and I have a digital instructor for Indonese. My narratives, besides the obvious Twentieth-Century Totalitarian, are Taoism, Luther, Ancient Mesoamerican politics, and my digital instructor works double for contemporary Javanese studies. Some of my narrative instructors say that I like asides and interrupting clauses too much–cleverness is better when it is hidden, when the lines are fluid, smoothness over rigidity. That’s why I’m trying Taoism, by the way. All that uncarved block stuff.

Grey’s medium is Filmmaking, which our school calls “The Image, Moving and Broken.” Grey studies twentieth-century Jewish intellectual history, the Shoah, and musical comedies. Grey’s parents don’t get where the interest came from. They wear Kente cloth garments and swear that Grey is black. Grey says that genocide is genocide. Grey’s latest project was a black-and-white slideshow of circumcised baby penises, entitled “Snow.” To be honest, I don’t really get it, but Grey’s narrative instructors do.

I have only one functional testicle, and my pituitary gland is an underachiever, often receiving poor performance reviews. Grey is flat-chested, and her clitoris is pretty sizable when engorged. Most people prefer the poles of the testosterone-estrogen spectrum, but our hormones meet happily in the middle. Grey’s parents are always very friendly whenever I come over. They offer me dabo kolo and make sure I’m adequately hydrated. When I asked if they approved of me, Grey told me that I was probably the one thing they approved; when I asked why, Grey hypothesized that they knew I was a sub, and they had their own psycho-social investments in Grey’s role as a dominant sexual partner. Grey doesn’t ask them, not because they wouldn’t confirm this hypothesis, but because Grey prefers the uncertainty.

Grey doesn’t ask for sex very much, and almost never asks me to penetrate her. And it’s fine by me. Grey forgets even my name after orgasm, and partakes in sex for something that she calls–between puffs of her illicit, hand-rolled cigarette–la petite mort, the waves of non-being that come in post-coital shakes. I get the non-being part. I participate sex for purely charitable reasons, my therapist called it agape. My Javanese instructor calls it ego-loss, or self-forgetting; becoming the object of one’s charity, forgetting one’s own being. Together, on Tuesday evenings, we disappear in the tides of Grey’s breathing.

As you might expect, our bodies are exceptional for California, whose cities have so many performance studies majors. Almost everyone here, in one form or another, develops their body as their medium (though not in that Texan beat-em-up way, and more in Hollywood’s look-pretty way, where even your barista has thousands of followers). But both Grey’s parents and mine decided against in vitro. Grey says that in vitro is neoliberal eugenics; it’s Fookadian sociology 101. I don’t understand most of what Grey tells me. Mostly I stay in the relationship for the same reasons as Grey, for the “waves of non-being” part of sex.

I don’t appreciate the presence of most people, myself included. My parents sent me to a counselor in my 18th trimester. Dr. Gerhardt flipped through Jung’s Red Book while I introduced myself to him–he was one of those old-school phallophilics that demanded that I refer to him as “He.” He told me that I had suicidal ideation as a result of body dysmorphia. I often wondered, from an early age, what would have happened if my parents decided in favor of in vitro, if a geneticist had culled me like a Mendelian plucking peas, chosen another specimen. Would I be me, with better musculature? Or would I never have been? What is nothing? Can nothing even is? Non-being sounds nice. Dr. Gerhardt prescribed Buddhism as my narrative, hence the Javanese studies.

Dr. Gerhardt valued me more than I did, and certainly more than I valued him. “Why, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, my boy. You are not cut from the same cloth as these ruffians, and that’s something to be proud of. You will be a voyager of the unconscious, an explorer of nothing. Curiosity is much ado about nothing; contemplation recognizes that life has much to do with nothing. You are a modern-day Manichee!”

He smoked a pipe, and shaved his primrose beard into a sharp pike. Now I associate the smell of nicotine vapor with white fur and the elderly. One time, his wife, who worked next door, came in to deliver a message. Her double-D bust nearly filled the doorway. I asked Gerhardt why his wife’s tits were so big. He spit tobacco fumes all over his oaken desk, and his chest shook under the invisible weight of an asthmatic chuckle. “Quite right, my boy. ‘Tis a very vain procedure. But she insisted. Here, let me show you.”

Without much in the way of explanation, he rose from his desk, and whisked me next door. All four walls of his wife’s office were adorned with masks (even on the reverse of her door), and her desk had a fertility statue on each vertex. He pointed to one statue, said something about the vaginal void, the yonic maw, a hidey-hole, life and death, buried in the dirt. He bent down–his head far above mine, his eyes peering over translucent frames–and held me by the shoulders, as if to impress his threat upon me, lest I ever share his secret: “Beware the mother, boy. Many an Ahab has been seduced by the ocean’s call. Many voyagers gone, never returned from the depths. You must forgive me, my boy. Judge not, lest ye be judged–every man has his sins. But, of course, what am I saying–you must understand.”

On my third visit to Dr. Gerhardt, I told him how I had killed the neighborhood cat.

The second floor of my parents’ brownstone had a westerly window, which attracted quite a few avian accidents. I collected dead birds. Some wings were folded, as if the bird, upon impact, had collapsed backed into an egg. Other wings were extended; the bird laid on the ground like a crucifix. Dr. Gerhardt wasn’t as surprised as I had expected him to be.

“Ah yes, my boy, death’s thousand faces are quite enchanting. But not for the fainthearted. It’s a positively Egyptian proclivity. Jackal-headed Anubis. Mummified kings and all that jazz. The very stench of flesh. Vico’s smelly umano. Yes, yes, quite beautiful, quite a humorous, macabre dance. But not for the fainthearted. One must have quite the constitution for this hobby of yours.”

I nodded, but was worried that Dr. Gerhardt would have a change of heart after what came next. I tried to preserve the bodies in Ziploc bags, under the couch in the basement. My mom blamed the smell on some subterranean subterfuge, a rodent refugee. I brought my bags of molting flesh to the park on wintry evenings, when food sources were as sparse as the light. Narrow spotlights like polka-dots in the cement. I went, alone, after woodworking ran late. I wore my father’s leather driving gloves. (“Honey, have you seen my gloves?” “I don’t know; where did you put them?” “Alright, alright, forget I asked.”)

I put the bodies in a pile, in a cloister of trees where I thought I would never be spotted, and waited for my strange offering to summon some feline spirits. When a four-legged silhouette came to paw at the curious pyre, I jumped on the chance. Curiosity killed the cat, but it took quite a few tries before I found any that would take the bait.

I whispered to them, you know, as they tried to get out. The gloves were a good idea; a couple scratched their way into the night. All of them screeched and squealed. I could feel their fur through the bag. Their flesh, struggling under the pressure of my touch. They didn’t understand. I tried to tell them: “please, please, I am trying to help. Please, please, it will all be over soon. No more. I’m trying to save you.” The only relief was the silent face at the end of it all. Serenity isn’t some easy thing. It has to be won.

The last time, I was spotted. By a bald pedestrian, stealing puffs from an electric cigarette. The vapors melted quickly in the air, but the head shook slowly, coming into view as it shifted from the lamppost to the shadows. A gibbous moon, waxing, waning. Full.

Dr. Gerhardt’s left shoulder retreated towards the rearmost wall; he eyed me, at an angle, right hand supporting left elbow.

“You have to understand; it wasn’t a power thing. I don’t want to kill anyone. I don’t care about the power. I’m just trying to help them.”

“Well, if I didn’t know any better, I would say you are quite right for an Adlerian psychosis. Though I guess, my boy, it isn’t much different from the hunter who mounts the buck’s head. But you will have a hard time convincing others of that. No one will understand you, my boy. Quite frankly, I’m not sure that even I do. You must stop immediately. Not because you are wrong. Even I don’t know that. But because you will never be able to prove that you are right. Please, my boy, you must promise me. Never again. No matter what you believe, a boy like you doesn’t deserve bars.”

Dr. Gerhardt died in my 27th trimester; the funeral was in my 28th. I met Grey shortly thereafter. Skylar came into my life at the edge of my 26th, and Dr. Gerhardt had disapproved. He had a speech about mirrors and envy, the dagger’s edge between narcissism and respect. I didn’t understand a word of it, just wrote it off as a phallophile’s homophobia.

Skylar waltzed into my life. I had been walking home, on a wintry afternoon, while the flesh was still rotting in my mother’s basement, while the sun was still shining, illuminating the jagged crystals of leaves frozen over. I speak very rarely, and it’s only a bit more often that I am spoken to. This was one of those times.

“I like the birthmark above your left eye, the way your brow arches. Would you like to dance with me?”

“I’m not one for dancing. But it wouldn’t bother me. When?”

“Now, of course.”

It was an uncommon affair. Not the comment; I had heard similar compliments about my left-eye-freckle before.  But even among those my age, our shameless generation, dancing in the street is unusual.

“I will, for the brief time my day will allow.”

Strange as it may have been, I didn’t blush at the question. For my part, I have never understood shame; how could a question ever be indecorous, when it is so easy to, politely, refuse?

I also don’t understand much about dancing; as I already told you, I’ve never studied my body. Although, I assume I did a rather poor job of it, because my movements were almost entirely regulated by his: the sudden push of his hand upon my hips, pushing my shoulder, keeping my hand in place. He smiles quite a bit, eyes my freckle–even more than most. We circled one concrete square in the sidewalk, three times. He walked in the opposite direction, some task pulling him away, after linking my address to his; his voice has since made a daily appearance in my life.

Skylar is my sleeping partner. He fits pretty neatly into whatever stereotype you have of Vibes & Frequencies So-Cal students. His [Dr. Gerhardt made me refer to him as “he” in our sessions] mom’s a string theorist; dad’s a violinist, who claims to be a descendent of Isaac Pearlmen, whoever that is. He looks like a gay Albert Einstein, like a rainbow electrocuted by some Hindu God on Diwali.

I’ve never dated in the usual way, I guess. Never asked a million questions about mutual tastes. Never consorted amongst licentious folk, never consulted starry-eyed astrologers. How could any of that answer my impossible questions? I don’t mind making two batches of noodles, if you can’t taste the same sauces. But how am I to live, if I don’t feel that effervescence in your presence, if the touch of your finger on my back doesn’t tickle my fancy, if I don’t warm to the sound of your breathing as you sleep, if your smile is not particularly infectious, if your tongue is not sweet as a confection, if day after day your voice doesn’t carry me through the gentle tides of your clauses–and how could you ever know if I am to be the same to you, how could I ever know if I am the same to you?

I have forbidden the words “love,” “like” (except as a comparative), and “enjoy,” from ever entering my thoughts; but, still, from over the castle walls, I see them wandering all over, exiled in other people’s tongues. Not to give you the wrong idea. I’m not against joy, nor camaraderie, nor compassion. They’re just terrible names. It’s like adopting a rescue dog, only to find that the pound had given you the wrong name. I don’t know what the damn mutt responds to; I’ve just found that calling out “love” has never succeeded in making my canine companion come over. The only things that seem to work for certain are daily meals and a warm bed to sleep on.

I’ve heard that some patients have a hard time leaving their counselors. How will I know it’s my time to go? How will I ever know if I’m ready? Thankfully, Dr. Gerhardt died on a moldy autumnal eve, betrayed by his mutineer heart. My parents sent me to a new shrink by mid-November, afraid that my already festering and unaddressed issues might become compounded with my unprocessed grief over Dr. Gerhardt. I didn’t go to the funeral. I felt like it would breach doctor-patient confidentiality. My parents didn’t believe that I was unbothered. The new guy shared with Dr. Gerhardt the habit of using a soft tone and affectionate vocatives whenever addressing his clients.

“What’s this, my dear?” He showed me his screen.

“It’s a face, same as any other.”

He had a kind way of talking. Made eye contact. Read the room. Laughed when others laughed, smiled before people got the chance to feel self-pity. “Oh, it can’t be that bad,” whenever a hint of worry crept in. A gentle nudge towards letting go of old grievances, but understanding that forgiveness has to be earned. Pushing us towards self-acceptance, but sometimes we have to change, when our habits are unhealthy. He was clean-shaven with bright eyes, a stark absence of periocular color, no signs of acne, past or present, almost immaculate: the only trace of trauma a scar above his left eye. Some might call him handsome; definitely not sexy though. Attractive enough to make awkward familial gatherings more bearable; he had a conversation face, nothing worth sleeping with. I guess it would be hard to complain to a hideous therapist. I wonder if people would mind having a gorgeous therapist, or if they would savor a beautiful person’s pity. I wonder if beautiful people even think of others, if they gain a sense of pride in not suffering as the ugly do, or if it’s an unseemly thing, which makes them rue God’s inequitable favors.

Nice as he was, the niceties didn’t make it good. I certainly didn’t “love” him, whatever that word means. I should at least say he didn’t hurt, not as much as most things. But I wouldn’t have minded if he left the room. It’s not even a particularly magnanimous thing, after all: he might as well be nice, if he’s going to work this way.

I’m convinced that it’s a simple thing to do, and that I must never do it. Easy to earn your bread; the certification’s what makes it hard. All in the tone of your voice, really. It doesn’t matter what words you choose. Just have to pretend to be a curious idiot. You’re interested in what they have to say, but just can’t quite make it out. Would you mind helping me? Could you please explain? No, you’re not bothering me at all, telling me about your boring ass life. You’re doing me a favor: you’re explaining. Please. Explain? You said you lost your watch? Oh dear. I’m sorry, that’s all the time we have.

He showed me a penis, then a vagina. Neither of us was flustered, though I sensed that he was–in some way–disappointed with my reaction. Then he showed me a picture of my father. “It’s a father, same as any other.” And again this procedure was repeated. “It’s a mother, same as any other.” As his continuous questions continue along this unbroken line, as they repeat and differentiate in some inexplicable horizon where everything is always the same, I remember something Grey said once, somewhat breathlessly–a quote from her friend James: “Everchanging tracks of neverchanging space.” It’s a Dr. Seuss level rhyme scheme, masking a rather pretentious sentiment. But I find myself thinking often of how she looked when she said it, and each time thinking of how often I have remembered that image, seemingly eternal: her eyes closed, her pointer and middle fingers clutching a lit cigarette, tracing hieroglyphs that I could not read, but that had cast some magic spell in her mind’s eye.

I am now in a holding cell, having been asked to complete a journal entry, explaining why I think I’m here. I have no idea why I’m here, though I imagine my answers to my latest counselor’s questions flagged me as some kind of ne’er-do-well or radical. Is that what you meant? It’s a rather dangerous question. I have no idea why I’m here. I’ve been asking that question a lot. My parents grow silent whenever I asked: “why am I here?” Dr. Gerhardt only ever responded with other, inexplicable questions. Grey, caught up in her own reveries, tends not to hear me, or prefers to ignore the question. Late one midsummer’s eve, I asked Skylar, my skylark: “why am I here?” Even through the screen, resting on my bed’s second pillow, he brought such vibrant waves of color in my room. From his cheeks to his nose, the triangular constellation of freckles tracing the outlines of a temple, his coils of hair sticking out like some great conductor, shades of green and blue in his clothes, reflected in his face. He told me, quite honestly, that he didn’t know. Then he asked if he could a run a song by me. The last that I remember is the sound of his voice, before I had forgotten myself; I must have dropped the question somewhere in the street, there must have been some hole in my pocket, it must have been caught in the rain, washed away like some paper boat navigating the runoff’s rapid currents.

Why am I here? This morning I woke up alone, unable to answer my own question; unsure, even, of where the question had come from.