Chrissie better be kidding. I make my eyebrows into glitter catastrophes, one pink and one green, then a mini glitter moustache and sure I just happen to be wearing pink and green too. Chrissie’s shaking on the sofa and then trying to shit, over and over again—too much crystal or not enough alcohol? Too many edges giving me too much pain, she says. We go to a party that’s so boring I’m already figuring out how to say goodbye. I flee to the party on Haight Street—three parties actually, which is what I need to hold my attention. I get all sweaty from dancing, but the highlight is when Brodie shows up and we take over a carpeted back hallway, synchronizing our eyes and steps and breath. It’s our fucking runway—turn, burn, shake it out and learn! Everyone’s confused; they don’t know what to do about our glamour.
Jeremy makes a late appearance and I sit on his lap, makes me all happy but he’s still getting over his cold, and the coke he did earlier didn’t help. At home, my back hurts so much that I’m stretching until 5 a.m., then a bath and finally bed at 6. Waking up and the full-spectrum fluorescents are way too bright; oh no it’s my own special hangover, courtesy of everyone else’s smoke. Rue comes over, but he’s still recovering from pneumonia—he says I’ve counted the times I’ve had drinks and it’s 4,000. Magdalena comes over for tea and that cheers me, 1 a.m. and it’s time for my hour of energy before I’m ready for bed.
But whoops—2 a.m. and I’ve got a trick, off to Diamond Heights. This trick likes straight porn, a gang-bang where all the guys take their turn at her pussy lips just opening up to say hello. Or her asshole, wow she’s relaxed. The trick wants me to tell him his mouth is just like a pussy, pussy mouth, and when he’s rubbing my balls and chest and sucking me off—yeah, relax bitch, yeah just like that, nice and slow, yeah keep your mouth right there when I shoot, yeah take it all—and the screen’s just one big maze of cocks and chests and hands, and somewhere a woman.
Kayti calls, I can’t believe her rent is $2,000 for a one-bedroom in Gaithersburg, Maryland where we took karate together when we were thirteen. She went to the doctor and her white blood cells were so low it looked like she had cancer. The doctor said no that’s normal for someone on all these psych meds for so long. So she stopped the meds and now she’s just a little anxious about someone’s baby on Friends. But can you believe she reads all the books on Oprah’s Book Club?
Apparently, someone vomited at the 11 a.m. yoga class on New Year’s Day. Leaning back into camel pose, the vomit splattering all over someone’s face—happy New Year! Waiting for the bus and this guy says to me: I had a seizure, went to the hospital and had two more, then in the cab home I had another seizure—so I had to go back to the hospital. At Sixteenth and Mission, there’s a pregnant woman screaming at the cops: I didn’t get any fucking presents! A betterdressed crackhead with a bike saves her—that’s my sister, I’m taking her home. The 22 never comes, so I take the 49 back home, sweet home, so sweet the roaches are getting bigger, but I love watching Jeremy’s eyelids flutter and droop, he’s so cute in bed. In the middle of the night I kiss his neck, he reaches for my hand. I can’t sleep but I feel good beside him. In the morning, he forgets to kiss me goodbye and I have his cold. I try to sleep all day. My trick fucks my armpit.
Every surface in my apartment becomes a desk: floor, table, kitchen counter, sofa, bookshelves, bathroom sink, and yes, even the desk. Jeremy takes me to the Powerhouse and actually it’s fun, they play Stacey Q’s “Two of Hearts” and I’m living for it, then we’re in the backroom, I’m on my knees sucking his dick, he’s smacking my face with it and everyone’s getting excited. This one guy wants to taste but damn his breath smells.
At my house, Jeremy and I play this game. I say, when I fell on the beach, that wasn’t the water I fell in but your come, right? Jeremy nods his head. But how’d you get such cold come? Two gallons of ice cream. Two gallons? For each meal. What flavor? Strawberry. But how’d it get so salty? Strawberry miso.
And I’m hard, pushing Jeremy’s head to my dick and then he falls backwards into the bed—sailor, you look unsteady. Jeremy wants me to brush his teeth—I’ve got an extra Brillo pad to remove that tartar. He says would you mind sitting on it? He means his dick, not the Brillo pad. I ask him when he’s gonna come in my food, vegans need more protein! In the morning, we make lentils but I can’t wake up. Jeremy plays Bach and I do my stretches. Later, my trick is even joking like Jeremy, he says you need some lube for that car; park it in my garage. While I fuck him, I hold his head like I hold Jeremy, manufacturing intimacy and it works.
NPR says people in Afghanistan are struggling to stay alive by eating grass, while the U.S. plans to bomb Somalia. I struggle to get out of the house; Kayti calls to ask how to get to the point where you don’t care what other people think of you. I tell her I have to think about it. I get a trick at the Fairmont, balcony that stretches on and on, but I’m still fucking sick. Sleep can’t even be a nightmare anymore because I can’t sleep. Just keep waking up wired. The fire alarm goes off, I get back in bed.
All day I’m exhausted—until 3 a.m., when I’m ready to start an art gallery, write three books, call everyone I know, and run naked through the streets in search of a hard cock. Nuclear neighbors: do you have a light?
Ten minutes before the hooker clinic opens, twenty people are already in line. It’s a fun crowd, mostly Filipina transwomen and one butch white guy with two girlfriends. Oh, wait—maybe they’re girlfriends, and he’s flirting with them. But already I’m too late to see a doctor about my never-ending jock itch. Back to City Clinic, where the doctor clearly thinks whores are vectors of disease—excuse me, can you please eat my shit? Allison calls to say we should be on Survivor together; the brother-and-sister team, or not Survivor, another one like Survivor, but it’s a treasure hunt where there are teams. But they’d pick you for Survivor, she says—they like interesting people.
Jeremy and I duck behind a stairway on Minna Street before he catches the last BART, I like the way he reaches his hands under my clothes to rub my chest. He comes in my favorite briefs, I turn around so he can grab my thighs as I shoot for the gold—look how far I got, look how far! Jeremy says you were saving up for me; funny thing is that I was.
The soundtrack of my destiny is just shake and break, take those steps every step counts. Feeling every beat, cold hands but honey oh the heat, the heat. Watch out world, techno before food and I’m ohso-manic, no need to panic ’cause it’s all—lovely. Okay, time for toast—then the depression’s back. I put Fugazi on, what was I thinking? Immediate images of staring through the vertical blinds into the yard as a teenager, huge tall pine trees and could I live inside one? I call the phone sex line over and over, everyone’s saying they’re twenty-nine—which means forty-five, and everything else I say is a lie too! Or party/play—no thanks, I’m not horny anyway.
This trick calls to say he’s on his way, and then doesn’t bother to show up or cancel. Guess he got scared away by the hookers outside. Magdalena reminds me of the time she got drunk and slapped Jake in the face, then chased Andee down the street screaming: SAY THAT YOU LOVE ME OR I’M GONNA BEAT YOU UP! She says I just realized how scary that must have been for him.
I hate it when my meditation goes the wrong way; I open my eyes and everything’s worse. I’m so depressed that peeling the price tag off the dishwashing liquid feels like the most satisfying thing I’ve done all day. When I wake up in the morning—it’s not fucking morning, bitch, it’s 2:30 p.m.—all right, when I wake up, all I want to do is piss and shit and vomit. Then get back in bed. Later, I dream that in place of my eyes is nothing but raw flesh and rivers of blood, sometimes I’m wearing a mask to keep it all in, but it still hurts.
THE FUTURE
The energy is exploding upwards through my head, and for a moment I can’t see except this beauty, expanding inside and out of me. I want to lie on top of today’s yoga boyfriend, namaste, tongue wrapping around tongue, hands on his head we’re grinding and squeezing sweat all over rubbing and dammit hi
s cock into my mouth, thickness feeding me his hands on my head his come tastes like butter, pushing him down we roll around until rug burn overwhelms us. The instructor says if we could just harness this energy and make fuel for our cars, we’d have a perfect world.
At dinner, Rhania’s adding red and white to her eye makeup while I’m shitting because my digestion’s too sensitive. Rhania walks me home and the kids downstairs see us kissing goodbye. I go in and one of them says you’re embarrassed, I can tell because you’re red. He’s right: I’m embarrassed because Rhania’s wearing fur.
Daddy Scott, who lives across the street from me, calls me up for a trick with another whore, Davey—it’s the three of us on the guy who’s a 911 operator. Daddy Scott’s got an electric dildo that fucks the trick in short motions that make him howl. Davey comes over to my place afterwards and I get all excited, playing music for him and talking about clubs I should just throw already, but for some reason Davey goes home to bed instead of just seven-and-a-half—or okay, maybe eight—steps to my bed.
I want to cuddle with Jeremy but he’s not answering the phone, really I’m worn out but also still high from last night’s sex with him, the orgasm that went on and on while Jeremy kissed me and held me all over. I want that high to continue, I want to overcome the brainnumbness so I can live in that soft space between my head and the sky.
I go on a detour to the Power Exchange. There’s this blond guy on the bench by the entrance with his hand on his crotch, a welcoming committee. Upstairs, the music gets gorgeous—so much space and why won’t the girls dance? And that’s when I fly upwards, laughing and smiling and cackling for every tweaker who looks at me with double question marks in his eyes. Let’s throw down a couple of definitions. There’s high hypoglycemia, when I’ve finally started a group scene at the Power Exchange—I mean, these girls stuff their entire faces through glory holes, but they’re too scared to do anything in public! This one shady bitch—high hypoglycemia is pouring lube all over her hair. Low hypoglycemia is when I keep thinking why am I here why am I here why am I here, but I can’t do anything about it because I’m so fucking hypoglycemic. There’s a porno with this guy doing anal sphincter exercises, and I notice the fly on his ass.
In the laundry room, a woman asks me if my earrings mean I’m a member of some group, do you need the piercings in order to join? Do you mean a cult—why of course! She asks me if I eat Filipino food, they have Filipino food in the basement every Saturday. I’d really love to say yes and be her neighbor, but I can only picture a tableful of meat and allergies. I’ve seen them setting up before. I tell her I work Saturdays.
Speaking of work, Chrissie’s back in the business—she calls me from Union Square, hello Fairmont! A trick comes over to deliver just what I was craving last night, a hot load in my throat—tastes awful but oh the feeling, once in a while I love my job. Funny how the guy won’t kiss me afterwards, honey it’s your come.
Speaking of come, Daddy Scott has this barebacking video on, one guy has come oozing out of his asshole and someone else shoves his dick through the come and starts pounding away. It freaks me out but turns me on: the abandon. The next day, this hot couple hires me—two super-friendly preppy guys from New England, staying in a fancy bed-and-breakfast in an old Victorian in the Mission on a corner once known for gangs. But this place has lace curtains and armoires. It’s some kind of kept boy situation—while I’m sucking the older guy’s dick, the kept boy starts teasing my asshole with his dick—which is way too long—but pretty soon it’s inside. I can’t believe it—I’ve hardly been fucked at all this year, and it’s suddenly so easy, even with a condom, a non-latex Avanti condom, product placement at it’s finest.
Except that after I come, the guy thrusts a few times more and then he shoots, the condom breaks and for some reason I don’t really freak out. What can you do? Then the come might be oozing out of my asshole like in that video, I can’t tell for sure because there isn’t a camera there. Chrissie arrives at my house with a can of Dust-Off, just as depression enters through my sinuses. Every ten minutes, she takes a sip through the straw until she’s got her pants down, leaning over the toilet to piss while talking to the bathtub. Huffing and puffing and she would blow the house down if I let her—maybe I should—would it do me some good?
So much air outside, encircling my headache but failing to enact justice. Three annoying tricks in a row—if only I could stay hard! The cab driver says: I like to go to a good movie alone first, then lie to my friends and say that I haven’t seen it yet. Are dust mites the root of all my problems, burrowing into my sinuses until I can’t do anything but dig? It turns into an excavation—entire lost cities—see, what an advanced civilization! Jeremy says as long as you don’t wake up with roaches in your nose.
When Jeremy comes over, at first I wonder who is this new person in my life, a few moments before I feel comfort. At dinner, I’m remembering how nice it is that Jeremy always wants to share, I mean he can eat practically anything on the menu. And usually I don’t even try sharing with other vegans. I mean I can’t even digest raw vegetables—let alone fried foods, sugar, tofu, fake meats, nightshades or refined oils. But Jeremy actually gets excited about shifting his options and then when he pours soup into my bowl or passes the stir-fry it feels so intimate. Later, I want to say I love you—just casually—but can that be casual? I say I’ll get some new pillows for you, I mean I’ll get some new pillows for you to use. He says what’s the difference? I’m laughing. All this work not to feel too vulnerable.
My trick says: do you like music? Too much conversation, I get on my knees and suck, suck, suck—watching him close his eyes and sway. On the bus, one obnoxious straight guy says to the other: so man, have you tried Viagra? On the radio, a seventy-five-year-old woman talks about selling her house to pay for arthritis meds.
At yoga, the sun is a spotlight, photoshoot, Kraftwerk in my head: “she’s a model and she’s looking GOOD.” Sun sparkles off my sweat, better than glitter, and the shadow of the ceiling fan creates a strobe. If only they’d open the window and let me breathe. Downstairs, the owner is flirting with every longhaired woman. He must be in his forties or fifties, but he’s wearing a frat sweatshirt. Telling some blond woman with overly plucked eyebrows: you just need to keep coming, keep coming. Yeah, so you can buy another Porsche.
Late-night expedition: I just need to get rid of one more blackhead, one more before I go to bed. Jeremy calls and says I heard your voice on the answering machine and I got all excited—that gets me excited, 3 a.m. and I’m playing dancing games, head peering out my window, and is it kind of warm out? I go outside, the rain feels so good. When I wake up, I’m still happy until everything floats away, fuck it’s a new day.
Later, Jeremy and I are hugging and hugging, he keeps telling me how hot I am in my magenta pants with yellow plastic floral belt, orange floral print T-shirt and a necklace made of huge clear plastic beads and a piece of a chandelier. It’s so refreshing that Jeremy gets all excited by my queeniness; faggots are usually so afraid of faggots. When sex is on the agenda, I’ve learned to channel a masculinity that isn’t exactly shutting off. I mean I can still experience all the sensations in my body.
That sounds awful—let’s get back to Jeremy—we go to the Berkeley Free Clinic to get HIV and STD tests. There are forty people waiting. On TV, there’s a fascinating history of diseases. Then it’s a movie where a guy is about to get his finger chopped off. Jeremy and I race up the Oakland hills in his friend Sarah’s BMW, searching for a place to watch the sunset. But it’s wall-to-wall mansions—blocking the sun with money! We race down and then up to the Berkeley hills, finally at dusk we arrive. The sun’s beneath the clouds and it’s freezing out, but the air is amazing, it actually smells like trees. I piss and someone probably watches. In the car, I’m grabbing my crotch and Jeremy’s head, he says we’re gonna get arrested. Ten feet away in their own car, a straight couple pretends not to notice, the guy is looking for his heart in the grav
el.
I know it’s a relationship, because we’ve reached an impasse: my asshole. Jeremy wants to fuck me, but there’s so much locked in there—I’m Cinderella in yellow gingham, pounding a frying pan on the washing machine. As long as I make noise and jump up and down I’m all right, otherwise I feel shards of glass poking at the pulp where my eyes used to be. Inside the washing machine, I’m a squashed frog, pulpy goo, and outside I’m a cat inside Cinderella’s head. I just want Jeremy to pet me. He doesn’t know all this yet.
Jeremy and I are making out on the street, hard-ons and all, and can you believe the homeless woman with the white wigs says disgusting? I mean, honey’s in the Castro practically 24-7. Jeremy takes my hand and says gay is good as we round the corner like we’re in some 1970s documentary, I mean we’re actually both wearing clothes from around that time period, the glittering dome of City Hall in the background. Jeremy catches the BART, at home I get skyhigh wired and horny too—I love it when I actually have a libido for more than five minutes, not just craving sex to crave feeling.
Now I know what mood I need for the Power Exchange: it’s like I’m on speed except I’m not gritting my teeth. I hook up a four, five, six–some and I’m grabbing everyone’s necks and chests and asses. I fuck this one guy after asking for a condom, it’s fun and then three guys argue about who gets my come. Afterwards, I’m in such a great mood, it’s another window into how I could feel, everything in my head so expansive oh open all the windows, keep them open it’s time it’s fucking time. 3:27 a.m., January 30, 2002, and I notice that the stamp on my hand from the Power Exchange is a peace sign.
Where’s Chrissie? Last I heard, she was turning a trick and then buying three quarters of crystal to treat her friends who’ve been treating her for the last few years. On self-immolation: Mike Tyson is barred from boxing in Nevada! Jeremy and I have these abstract discussions that usually I’d hate—college shit—I left college for a reason. The worst one is about the meaning of art. Jeremy believes in the classics, the European tradition, as in the Renaissance and everything’s been downhill since. No, wait: he’s all about the nineteenth century; maybe everything went downhill later than I thought. The worst part is that he believes in standards of greatness—there’s been no great art since 1950, he’ll say, and I’ll get caught arguing with him.
So Many Ways to Sleep Badly Page 3