"Yes, Yes" Book One Volume 1 Death: Perverse Relational Cinematic

"Yes, Yes" Book One Volume 1 Death: Perverse Relational Cinematic

To switch forms but not contents: where are we driving with Matt Bomer and Chase Crawford, the Hollywood hunks, in the backseat, and Orlando Bloom, the British beauty, in the trunk of our shared Camaro? And can we evade the repeated disappointment of desire and allow trieb to pursue its trajectory toward a world which makes the missed encounter between a gay pervert and a Los Angeles closet-case, between ourselves and our Hollywood loves, an even more enjoyable missed encounter than the awkward precoital banter between the desperate virgin and the stargazed star/ex-lover? Or are we forced to stop at the flirtatious Keanu Reeves in a frozen desire as we drive by with the unenviable temptation which finally fails to resist his body at the West Hollywood corner as he waits for us to pull over and pick him up for our ride? And if so, is that not proof of precisely the rendezvous with the missed encounter which is the telos of our drive in the absence of ziel? Perhaps, but only if Keanu refuses to ride shotgun with us on our fairyway around a galaxy of gorgeous boys and our momentary arrivals at their tight bodies, blond and brown and black hair, and expressive eyes — blue — before our destination is deferred yet again toward a limitless set of these Justin Timberlakes and Brad Pitts and Chatum Tannings and Robert Pattisons and Justin Beibers and Zac Efrons and Giovanni Ribisis and Bradley Coopers, and so on. Drive is already desire, even if desire is not yet drive. If retro-deconstruction, over-psychoanalysis, and fore-marxism — Cultural Studies — strike the pierced ear as empty pretention — Perverse, Relational, Cinematic — then simply obey the rules of the cockblock: block . If such a revision of drive and desire, and the perverse, the relational, and the cinematic — if such a scandalous revision of Cultural Studies — confounds your sensibility about division between the catcher, the pitcher, and my pitch, then let us simply cite this, as Orlando Bloom in the trunk mutters, “has the ride started yet?” To which we all, hot boy to hot body, turn — “yes, yes” but not yet!