LUSTRE/LUSTRUM : Excerpt/Preview. An excerpt from my last digital zine… | by Airidescence | Nov, 2025
An excerpt from my last digital zine
(available on the shop).
… If anyone asks me, this isn’t about you.
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Act 1: Scene 1. Into the sea, First Collision.
In the beginning, it was nothing but a dream, a mere glimmer. It was an
indulgence — barely a fantasy, a never will be — inconceivable, an impossibility.
In a mere moment, two strangers, otherwise unmet, can cross partitions.
Technology. How interesting that something can be so impersonal and
simultaneously intimate. How incredible that we intersected in that manner.
Yet, in some other circumstance, — had we briefly collided as two strangers in a cafe who had never spoken to one another — I would not have looked twice at him (unless he was reading something I enjoyed or found interesting). And that’s not to say he wasn’t good looking. To many, he has features which epitomizes peak masculinity and conventional attractiveness in men (substantial height, broad shoulders, nice beard). To my own personal taste, he had some pleasant features which I find generally visually appealing across all genders. If I had to describe the physical ideal template for a man (and some others) to inhabit, it could be best described by Michealangelo’s sculpture of David — but only if it was the hanging hand portion of the sculpture and to simply discard the rest.
To be obvious — I am not conventional in my gaze. Rippling pectorals, abdominals with divots, and large muscles do not tantalize me romantically- sexually, nor does a jovially rounded stomach (or any measure in between otherwise). Genitalia of any form on any random individual does not evoke lust — perhaps an amorphous but disinterested positivity at best, and virulent revulsion at worst. I am largely sexually/romantically apathetic to men at any singular glance — merely experiencing a baseline of perceivable beauty for everyone I witness that exists largely outside of my relations orientations. Bodies primarily interest me in an aesthetic mechanical fascinating sense with occasional flickers of otherwise.
He had nicely shaped thumbs and a decent lattice of veinwork at certain
intervals which had echoes Michealangelo’s fine work. However, the proportions of his other fingers were more spidery — much too wiry, too thin, too elongated — to be called a faithful reproduction. But truthfully, even if he had been articulated in the most compelling format through marble, it wouldn’t have changed much if all events remained the same. I know this much about myself because there were many ideal specimens who became fossilized images of my past — after all, even in heaven, Lucifer himself had a breaking point.
Merely witnessing a gorgeous landscape alone cannot salvage the wreckage of a poisoned dying land if there is a dominating human culture — nor can any strong set of rugged fingers or a pretty face could save a doomed love affair. He took this personally, often — my manner of attraction hurt his ego, festered ancient insecurities of his. But I say these things, not out of cruelty, but in sincere recognition of where wounds were unintentional and how seismic shifts happened over the course of events that transpired.
The physical is not what holds my attention on its own merit. It was his
cadence and the words he used and who I thought he was that drew me to him and then, bloomed into that sacred admiration — the thrills which captured me. I became deathly attracted to him as I witnessed pieces of an inner world.
Physical beauty in the rawest and more primal forms becomes apparent and blossoms in my eyes as I see a person’s interior. And more than that,
additionally — to similarly be witnessed and emotionally/physically safe — to
become tethered to them. His most captivating beauty now lies inaccessible to my eyes — a mist re-shrouding him back into the mysterious veil that absconds me from the experience of average allosexual ferocity. I can acknowledge the beauty I saw in trite terms, as I did — denote lines, clinically expelling observations. But where I once felt I stood atop a cliff and was electrified upon reading every minute detail of his form and face, now — I feel nothing.
I saw a post of his. That’s what started everything. I innocuously replied,
thinking nothing of it — that he’d probably not see something as small and
insignificant as me, or anything I said. When he did actually respond, I was
surprised, delighted even. And from there, I began looking at him — really
looking.
It started here, a small appreciation, a tiny scrap of admiration. He was a
creator/writer with prominence in niche circles who was on the verge of
breaking out more substantially. I was an individual who at the time, apart
from some very specific institutional accolades and new “up and coming”
gestures in the fine arts scene, was otherwise very much unknown. He was a man who towered tall digitally (as well as in real life, I would later find out). I, at the time, was of short stature — unsure of my standing in anything, largely a mystery, and still mentally unstable after years of repeated trauma and retraumatization. Still, even knowing this simple context, I thought I was above the fray — above being influenced to such a degree that I would lose myself or erode myself.
As immersed as we are in celebrity culture, I grew up mostly unaffected by the intensity which seemed to plague the people around me. In my adolescence, boy bands held the adoration of my peers — inconsequential to me.
It was something I didn’t emotionally understand in that transitory molting
stage. My younger self would internally grimace at my fellows with their fervent declarations of love for whatever set of mop haired youths had currently captured the media circus. I now look at this with a more nuanced understanding towards my distaste and am more sympathetic towards everyone. In retrospect, it was clearly a combination of internalized misogyny, general different preferences in what I found appealing (definitely not teen male pop stars), and the now obvious fact that I was profoundly queer.
So, admittedly, this was a new foray. Previously in terms of my interest in
public figures, I had brief periods of aesthetic romantic enrapturement with some living women celebrities that I could hardly recognize as such for a long time — the dominating lens of compulsory heterosexuality truly works horrors. Suffice to say, this sort of intense interest in what are functionally living strangers was not something I was terribly familiar with — and not something I thought I needed to be primed to be wary of. Sapphic obsessions and confessions aside, it was truly the first time (and the last time! I will kill it, rake my metaphorical knuckles over it, if anything dares to crop up again!) that such a fervor (which feeds all grounds of worship) had wrapped such seductive tendrils around me.
I began consuming his creations, consuming him. Initially, it felt private and small and harmless. It was a small fixation with which I found myself quite giddy to partake in. I should’ve steeled myself. But this is not something a society that encourages authority and its worship would hold important to teach anyone.
Even though he had some handful of thousands of eyes upon him (trifling
numbers compared to now, and compared to what could be though) I felt like Ihad found something special and precious before it had a chance to take flight — unhatched chrysalis, treasured untested inventions, hearts, burgeoning sunsets, fascinating characters, and other things which can soar to heights previously unfathomable. In a way, I felt that he was something of me — an otherwise innocuous curiosity (which I did not want to outwardly express because I was becoming increasingly un-poised) that had grown to proportions I couldn’t have predicted. It felt as though a singular subconscious that had long haunted my deepest desires had manifested into a physical presence of some idealized epitome of a man. A man I both saw myself in, and a man who intellectually stimulated me, and maybe, I could intellectually stimulate back. A man who had answers, who moved with those answers — a man who I found deeply inspiring.
This small innocuous thing — it grew. It reached a point where my affection was so unwieldy, that, in my own private self possession, I was bashful to voice much of any of it aloud.
Still. Of course she noticed. My dearest. My longest lover, my longest muse. My wife, life partner. And, crucially, my first nesting partner (we will nest soon, again!). Our charming life together was picture perfect, even with my emotional turmoil and the onslaught of recovering from trauma. The circumstances of the pandemic had eroded me, my sanity, my career. In the locus of loneliness and still being under my abuser’s control, I nearly died. Still, even as I was happy, this fragility — the sense that something is lacking in my life, inarticulable — until him. A wider community. Someone who believed the same things I did, who was interested in the theory I read.
In this time of fragility in my heart — multifold and multi-cracked on my
porcelain insides — in this time of transitory vulnerability where I was unsure of many things in my life or what I was doing — I found relief in him. A homing ritual, where I brought her along with me. Before I knew it, he started to permeate everything.
She would laugh as I would set my phone on to one of his videos doing
everything imaginable.
I would listen to him in the background as I would do chores. I would put him up on the tv to watch in excitement, whenever he released something new. And there, my partner and I would be eating our dinner — an elite movie experience. I would put him on as I diligently worked on my art — someone to talk at me, to be part of some of my artistic process. And I would carry his voice with me as I went to bed — falling asleep listening to the words that inspired me, that moved me, that taught me. Every day, every night.
Some might’ve called it “parasocial” — and, in retrospect, it probably was. In a tragically ironic and laughable turn of events, I fell into the very dynamic that devastated me — a dynamic I would later critique and seek abolition of in my future work as a theorist.
But I loved him, before he knew me, in a way. Or at least I loved this facet of him. I knew this version of him, absorbed him, studied him — through his writings, articulations, scarce gesticulations on a screen, I became a scholar devoted to the library of him. I’d sit, rapt in attention, spellbound, every time a new piece emerged from the internet vine. I wondered every day, what it would be like to be with such a man — to love and be loved by legend.
One day, I had the courage to message him. I never expected him to respond. That started a slow back and forth — from which, I could sense an enormous hesitance — a wall, if you will. And there was a fervent desire to understand that wall, to scale it — why was it there and what lies behind it?
Curiosity burned like fire. He offered for me to become a part of his
forum/online space he cultivated. I leapt at the chance.
We went from a call with others, to then, one on one. Someone who I admired so dearly, who I had essentially placed in a realm of perfection — was responding to me in a way I didn’t even know I was craving. Or perhaps I did — it was the same way with teachers, but this time — there wasn’t a barrier between professor and student. I was enthralled, enchanted.
Everyday we spoke, my obsession grew. I was consumed by infernal fire. It felt like every fissure in my body became golden — mutating into some
uncontrollable and unstable force that was ready to either give me
transcendence or agony. It felt like a spiritual mythological occurrence. It felt like I had transcended into a new reality. The potency was not merely in any general infatuated crush (it was much worse than that). No, it was the fact that someone who had once been so distant, someone who I saw as someone vastly beyond me, someone who was put on the pedestal of all pedestals — that near deity was now not merely accessible, but reciprocated the energy towards me, mere mortal artist.
Time had been split into a new distinct dichotomy. Even now, to this day, there is Before Him. And After him. I never would’ve met my current nesting partner and husband of 3 years without him. I never would’ve considered moving to CENSORED LOCATION, across several state lines — to still be with my wife and metamour, but leaving them our future nest. Really, the fact I almost abandoned my life I had for him. I never would’ve met friends of mine as well. He was more than just Him. It was everything around him. It was the building, frenetic energy. It was what he said. He was everything.
Thus, I placed him on lofty beautiful wings — untouchable. So the fact I was
getting those words, thoughts — really, that he did respond at all — was
something so intoxicating that it was dangerous for my selfhood. I nearly lost my own voice and affixed his own in its place. I contorted myself into fractions of myself. But we are getting ahead of ourselves.
In this regard, the idea of a soul mate resonates — not someone who necessarily stays with you through the journey of life, but rather, someone who — in their entrance and entanglement and departure — teaches you crucial things. I’m not spiritual. I don’t believe in an afterlife. I don’t believe in a preordained destiny or otherworldly entwined red strings of fate. I don’t believe in god(s), or the mythical. We are circumstantial creations, cosmic miracles, certainly. But happy or sad, we remain brilliant accidents.
Even saying all that, at the very least, I will admit emotionally — in the
manner he altered the trajectory of my life, in the ways he has changed me, in the simple matters, and in complex ones — in the collision of miracles and atoms and hearts — he was that.
A soul mate, but placed on a pedestal. An ideal and an image. More than a
man, a fraction less than a god. This, I think, was the first mistake, if there
was any mistake for anyone to make. I know it disfigured me. And, even if he craved it, I know it also disfigured him too.
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