mudcub (mudcub) wrote,
mudcub
mudcub

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Here's What I Did To Torture Myself Today

 
I should just take all these CDs. After all... I *bought* most of 'em. I know, I know, I have an addiction. A dozen or so CDs a week, several hundred a month. I've given up on alphabetizing them long ago, and now they sit on the floor in stacks. There's the "archive", i.e. CDs that have withstood the test of time. CDs I'm currently listening to, CDs on their way to work. Stacks for irish music or soundtracks separated out. But this stack is special: it's the gay collection.

It's music that a 63 year old ex-boyfriend would like. Bad disco and DJ sets we picked up at gay bars we visited during our travels. The classics: Barbra and Liza and Piaf. Sinatra and Martin. He can have all the big band stuff. All musicals more than twenty years old. And the huge new age collection. Yeah, he can have all the Narada and Windhall Hill crap. I never liked those anyway. I bought this whole fucking George Winston collection during the time he was in the hospital and his pounding headaches weren't going away and I was so scared... I can't listen to that now. It brings up too many memories. And he might need it the next time he's in the hospital. And I'm not there any more to take care of him.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Oh great. Country. He can have all the fucking country music CDs as well. I can't stand to play them. Not right now. Let him try to listen to Tammy Wynette singing "D.I.V.O.R.C.E." and still make it through the day. She goes in his box, along with all the other country divas: Reba McEntire, Faith Hill, Shania Twain. Those girls will just make me think of Texas and all his in-laws that live there who won't talk to me any more. I'll keep the guy singers, though. After all these years, I still think cowboys are hot. Particularly tall blond bears like my ex-boyfriend...

Oh fuck... Enigma. I can't believe we loved this shit in the eighties. Every S&M dungeon played this CD to death; lame techno looped over and over as an accompainment to straight people flogging each other badly. But at least it's not Butt Boy. Goddamn, I swear if I ever have to be tied down and hear his fake synth crap again during a scene - well, let's just say that's one torture too many and I'll use my safeword instantly.

Oh well, might as well keep them for myself. Maybe I'll put it on as a joke for a Top. Or maybe I'll lay down and turn the lights off and remember that scene we did at the Labyrinth all those years ago. Yeah, the first year we met. We knew each other was kinky, but we didn't know *how* kinky. It was new and thrilling to explore those feeling out in public. We made a lot of mistakes, and sometimes went farther than we should have. I remember the one time the "dungeon monitor" stopped us, and I had this lightbulb in my hand and...

Where was I? Oh yeah, still sorting. He can have Sarah Brightman. Though wait... here's a greatest hits CD that I'll keep. And Linda Eder. Remember when we saw her on Broadway in "Jeckyl & Hyde"? I hated that musical, but loved her in it. And then we saw her in concert a year later in Denver. We both dressed up even though we sat on folding chairs on the expensive floor-level tickets surrounded by middle-aged suburbanites in sweat pants. I looked foolish in my three piece suit, but I didn't care. You looked fabulous in that sweater, and I curled my arm inside yours while Linda sang, and I didn't care who saw us...

Damn, I'm never going to get through this stack. Opera. I still don't like opera, and you love it. But damn if I'm going to give you all these box sets. The liberettos (libertti?) alone are worth fifty dollars each. I'm keeping Bizet and Mozart and Donizetti. I know I'll probably never play them again... I tried so hard to like opera the way you did. The way your face would light up when Puccini came on, and you'd sing along even though you don't know a word of Italian. I loved that about you. Oh well, you can take your new boy to the opera. I bet he will be appreciate it more that I did. He's a better man that I was in just about all respects, and I hope you and him will be happy for years and years.

Rod Stewart and Enya and Seal and Sarah MacLachlan and Josh Groban. I never liked any of those CDs. I just pretended I did, because you liked them so much. You seemed so happy listening to that music with me, that I could never tell you that your taste in music sucks. I could never tell you that I thought you were my intellectual inferior. I could never tell you that I thought you were racist and childish and emotionally immature sometimes. I never said those things becuase I loved you, and we were in love. However, now that we are split up, I feel those hurtful words wanting to come out, and there's nothing to stop them. When we fight over money lately, I have to bite my tongue. I'm just trying to separate without involving lawyers - I'm terrified that if this turns ugly I will hate you forever, and I'm not sure I could bear that in my heart.

Jazz. I'm keeping that. I think I'll *need* those. From the angry scronk of Coltrane to the genius of Monk and Parker. You never liked bebop or hard jazz. But the blues? We might have a fight over that. Let's split them half and half. You get Etta James, I'll take Dinah Washington. I'll give you Ella if I can have Billie. You know that if you ever want to hear any of these you can just come over. I'll cook dinner, and we'll listen to our favorite Marianne Faithfull CD, and then we'll watch a movie or something. Maybe you can stay over all night. Please. Oh just please. Please, please, please, please, please...

But I'm keeping the Elaine Paige CDs. All of them. Those were *imports*, bitch.

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