Zan and I go to Buena Vista Park to look at the full moon and it’s the closest I’ve felt to him in a while, like neither of us is on guard because we’re focused on this simple act of beauty in the sky. Later, he sends me the pictures of Jeremy and the gay.com boy. The boy’s ad is all about needing loads of come up his ass, I think he’s the dancer that flew to Hawaii to marry his boyfriend, then called Jeremy to say: I’m in love with you. One of the pictures is a huge blow-up of Jeremy’s cock in the guy’s ass, without a condom, the other picture shows Jeremy fucking him. Jeremy never mentioned the barebacking part. I can’t tell if I’m turned on, all I know is that I need to come immediately, it’s almost like spitting it’s so fast.
My grandfather is dying, and my grandmother says when are you going to make up with your father? After two months of asking for a rent reduction, I get a rent increase in the mail. I call the building owner and at least they offer me $125 less—a $900 Tenderloin studio, what a bargain! Rue calls, slurring his words, to say: I took five Ativan and my legs are made of tube socks, everything is tilting off my desk, the desk is bending, no it’s breathing—the ceramic pot is nudging the computer mouse like she wants to have sex with it.
My next trick tells me he didn’t find out about masturbation until he was twenty-three, and then he became compulsive about it. He would do coke and look at GQ or Exercise for Men Only, and jerk off all day. It took him another twelve years to realize he was gay, he says the wires were all wrong. Then another twelve years to have sex. It’s been eight months of hiring escorts and finally he’s okay, he lives in a two-million-dollar house. He doesn’t look okay.
At home, I can’t understand the words to the music, but it better get me out of this cranky mess in my head. Ten, nine, eight, seven—go to heaven? Eating a pear on the fire escape in the sun, the pear’s too sweet and the sun’s too hot. How did I get so dehydrated: six glasses of water on the counter and I drink them all. But wait a second—I only have four glasses, plus the one I use to catch roaches, crawling up and down the walls as soon as the light goes out. I tell Rue I need another 45 minutes after I’m already an hour and a half late to meet her and Jupiter. Jupiter says who does she thinks she is, Billie Holiday?
I write my dying grandfather a letter: I’m learning that everything can be as comforting as it is scary. Lauren, the receptionist at the chiropractic office, has a dream that she’s taking care of elephants—elephants in a loft, elephants in an elevator—it’s stressful. At yoga, the instructor talks about crushing garlic with her hands. I slide right into camel pose: back arched, ass tight, chest up and belly forward. All of the sudden, my hands reach my ankles. Later, from my window, I watch the cops pull over a car, question the driver, then let him go and arrest the passenger. It’s one of the women who works Geary and I feel so powerless. She stands tall.
Rhania’s starting the Society for Cutting Up Boxes, but outside it’s grey—whatever happened to summer, spring—whatever that was? Jeremy’s back from New York and what is it about this boy—I can’t stop hugging hugging hugging him; Jeremy’s best New York story is some guy he meets at The Cock, who takes out a stack of pictures on the subway and says I’m a model—this is me with the editor of Vogue Homme, this is me with David LaChapelle’s assistant, this is me with Christy Turlington’s publicist. Then he tells Jeremy about the house he shares in Brooklyn Heights with three other models—his bed is so big he stores things on it, and he doesn’t even notice them. But why is he getting off in Williamsburg? All the cool people go to Williamsburg on the weekends.
This guy calls me three nights in a row to ask me the same questions. Before he hangs up, he always asks: so, there’s a chance you won’t get fucked? If only I were a machine, my asshole swallowing each cock and push the button, next, grunt, next, grunt. Someone else calls, it’s two guys and they want me sucking both of their dicks. Well, that’s better! Though there’s a third guy tweaking in his room, he’s making the decision—he’ll call me back. I knew it was too good to be true. Now I’m wired.
Jeremy and I are so horny for each other, he’s getting ready to fuck me but I’m not ready—I’m not hard, I’m scared. I go to the bathroom to shit, when I come back, I say I just had a mood swing. We lie in bed and talk. I’m such a good facilitator, even when it’s my own pain—help, brain drain! Jeremy wants everything to be easy; he thinks talking won’t get us anywhere because no one ever changes. He says: I’m used to everything going my way. Well, congratulations—you’re a white man. I would say straight, but the context would be strange.
Maybe Jeremy’s been reading too much turn-of-the-century European literature. Inside I’m vanishing, breathe, outside I’m calm. I just don’t understand—we’re so excited by each other, holding hands is a celebration. One small conversation and Jeremy’s saying maybe we’re not compatible. How do I get beyond his fatalism and into the beauty when we talk through our skin, eyes steady?
Jeremy: I’m worried I’m not turning you on. Me: what do you mean? Jeremy: you’re always moving my hands. Me: but that’s how I let you know what I want. Jeremy: I’m not used to that. Me: what do you want me to do instead, should I stop and tell you what I want? Jeremy: no that would ruin it. Me: if you don’t want to talk about sex, and you don’t want me to show you what I want, then how can our sex get better? Jeremy: I just want it to be easy. Me: It is easy. I just want to feel more comfortable, like I can stop and talk if I’m having an incest flashback and you’ll hold me. Jeremy: I don’t know if I’m willing to do that.
Jeremy is holding me, or maybe I’m holding him. At least he’s talking about his fears too, not just mine, piling up like trash in a windstorm—there’s always more. Oh Jeremy Jeremy Jeremy, just the sweat on your hands is enough. He says: maybe you’re just a top—doesn’t he know that I don’t believe in that shit? He says: if it’s too much work to get fucked, then maybe it’s not natural. I get dramatic, I say: if I believed in natural, I never would have gotten anywhere.
I go home, and sleep so badly it’s worse than fate and destiny put together. When I’m telling Zan about Jeremy and me, he says oh no you’re giving me flashbacks of Franz. Franz is Zan’s ex-boyfriend with masculinity issues. Jeremy calls and says: I’m just a big baby, I can’t handle anything, I’m sorry. My stomach feels better.
There’s a preppy blond white woman playing violin on the corner of Polk and Geary, right in front of the homeless shelter. I can’t imagine she’s getting much change. I end up getting a trick and then Jeremy comes in my mouth, his come tastes weird and strong. He says maybe it was the hamburger I ate at Fuddruckers—bitch, spare me the details. I go out and dance so hard that I’m covered in sweat, and then I dance some more. The show ends and I’m still dancing, this random woman and I are twirling around the floor and damn I need this. After I swallow Jeremy’s come, he admits he’s scared, but the two aren’t related. Jeremy’s scared of getting too involved, scared of hurting me.
I’m scared when we don’t resolve things. Jeremy’s scared when we talk about talking; I’m scared when we don’t talk, when getting fucked becomes a desperate show of bravado. More fear: Jeremy feels guilty about being a slut, and I guess that’s another difference between us—anonymous sex is new and exciting for Jeremy, he’s new and exciting for me. My grandfather dies, I wash my sheets with my underwear and everything is stained yellow.
I don’t feel sad until I call Rose to see how she’s doing. She’s struggling for words—this is so hard on your father. My father: the monster devouring my sleep. Spring roaches are smaller—how cute, I should start a petting zoo! One day out of the hospital, and maybe my grandfather was ready to die, but Allison says he was so bitter; it was such a horrible place to be. Rose says I wish you could be here, which means: you can’t be here.
HOUSES
Chrissie shows up with Forrest and another can of Dust-Off, crooked glasses and a safari hat. She’s mid-eighties Banana Republic, Meryl Streep in Out of Africa. We get to the Fourteenth Street House for T
uesday Sucks, but Chrissie’s banned because she got too drunk and caused a scene or something. There’s too much chlorine in the hot tub, and I’m somewhere between calm and bored.
The next day is another day of shitting. It’s sunny out but freezing. At midnight, I take two herbal sleeping pills, plus passionflower and a Vicodin—I can’t possibly deal with being awake. I lie in bed for at least two hours before drifting away. Then I wake up with a back spasm and horrible stomach pains. Poison?
I remember what I mean when I say valerian and poppy give me incest flashbacks: I don’t literally have memories, but everything becomes a flashback. Taking an elevator, trying to get into Belgium with my sister, but the border is a mental ward, je parle français, but it’s too late. Did they shave my head for this bed?
Socket and I watch Trembling Before G-d, the movie about Orthodox Jewish queers, and it’s a vocabulary lesson for wayward Jews: frum means Orthodox, I wonder if that’s where frumpy comes from? The Jews who are still practicing have their faces obscured like crime victims—it’s hard not to laugh when they’re crying, ghosts of rebellion. Jeremy says where were you fleeing to Belgium from—Germany? And everything goes to my head, mostly tears, which don’t quite emerge—they stay stuck behind my eyes, blurring my vision anyway. Another Holocaust dream, always had them as a kid: joining the resistance, fighting the evil—my father—waking up in terror just as I was about to die.
I just want to keep touching Jeremy. In bed, I stare at the red light bulb in the ceiling lantern while he takes a nap, hand between my legs, my hand between his hip and belly and wow I feel so calm. Someone breaks into Jeremy’s car and ruins our perfect day, right after Jeremy says nothing bad has ever happened to him, which is still mostly true I guess. I go across the street to see Rhania and Benjamin’s bands, afterwards I feel like I’m going crazy but it’s just hypoglycemia, honey—haven’t you learned your lesson?
So much come on Jeremy’s face, he says how long has it been? Nine days. He can’t imagine, with all those trips to the S.F. State bathrooms he comes at least twice a day. The funny thing is that I still feel horny afterwards, phone sex line at 4 a.m. for this guy who says he wants someone to eat it, yes I want to eat it, yes yes yes yes YES. But he doesn’t want to respond; I eat toast.
My mother calls to say that the flowers I sent Rose are the most beautiful flowers she’s ever seen, well then I guess they were worth eighty dollars. Florence calls to say each individual rose was in a plastic tube of water and Rose was touched. No matter how exhausted I get, there’s that little voice in my head: keep going, keep going! That’s why I’m toasting to toast at 4 a.m.—to calm the voice, not just for more stomach pain.
I should carry a notebook for the funny things Jeremy and I say to each other. The grammar show on NPR is hilarious, is it take it all, bitch or bring it all? But maybe this flower legend is going too far: my mother says Rose told her every other arrangement pales in comparison to my roses, rising through the ceiling like hot air balloons. When I talk to Rose, she’ll probably say the flowers are dying because you won’t talk to your father—poor little boy hasn’t been the same since his daddy’s death, why you treat me so ba-ad? After yoga, I stare into space for an hour—all I can feel is my sinuses throbbing. I call the phone sex line to wake myself up with desire; it doesn’t work.
Is yoga fucking me up? Songs of beaten and broken flesh, but dammit the calm moments are worth anything. But oh this fucking headache, it’s so exhausting just to change the radio station to escape spoken word. Rhania says she’s moving to the East Bay, needs to live alone, find more purple dresses.
I guess I could go out—is that what people do when they’re exhausted? If I’m not horny, why do I keep thinking sex will rescue me? Though I like the guy on the phone sex line who says he loves sucking it down, but he’s on the Peninsula and I love sucking it down—we could fight. For the right of way—hey, blue jay! My sinuses are opening up a new store: victimless crimes, elevator alarms, and used battery acid.
This woman in the car better be on acid, otherwise she’s got no excuse. Trying to impress the fags by talking about big dicks, honey you’re tacky. Then she’s screaming because she can’t breathe. Whining I just need to get fucked. She makes a big deal about not getting dropped off on the wrong side of Market Street. On Geary, all the working girls are lined up against the wall—my building, I guess—four cop cars, this is awful. In the morning, it’s spring again.
Why is every day one of those days? On the radio: wild daffodils are much more delicate and they flutter in the breeze, growing on mossy stones—unlike the somewhat more stiff garden varieties. While these failures are widespread, they are not deliberate. More rain is expected in the hard-hit areas where sometimes people let down their guard. Rick calls to tell me about Hong Kong: everywhere people are jumping off buildings. Mothers carry their children out the window with them, policemen run up gambling debts and it’s the honorable way to go—they have guns so they can just shoot themselves. Thousands of Filipino maids meet on street corners on Sundays, their one day off.
Rick wanted to get some of the chocolate tofu at the market, but it was congealed blood. He says everywhere there were carcasses, everywhere, and the air coming out of the Holland Tunnel in New York was like a fresh breeze compared to the air in Hong Kong. The bar where Rick worked only paid $1,000 a month for 54-hour weeks, but the gay bars were fun, and China was another world.
I go to a trick, guess he’s in another world because no one answers the door. Of course I take a cab home—Rue says I turn tricks to pay for my taxi habit, but see—I proved him wrong: I don’t even turn tricks. In the morning, my sinuses explode. Volcanic eruptions of blood up to the ceiling and then back down on my face, a fountain, but I’ve always hated horror movies. What else is above or behind those juicy eyeballs? Smashed TV screens that my head peeks into like a hand, broken glass scraping at everything ouch ouch ouch ouch OUCH. On the way to yoga, I drop my keys down the elevator shaft.
For once, yoga gives me energy and I keep it. Then Sara, the building manager, gives me free replacement keys instead of charging $150 like she’s supposed to. She says: the way that I look at it, we’re already paying more than enough to live in substandard conditions. Watching the sunset on the Geary bus, all my senses feel activated, though Rue says: first I’m depressed, then I’m obsessed.
I try to avoid the obsessed part because it’s too exhausting. Alex goes to the Lexington and someone’s handing out pieces of Brie with American flag toothpicks. Someone else comes up to him and says: have you seen the new Grand Marshall? Turns out it’s a party for the trannyboy who I guess just got chosen Grand Marshall. Alex says: I thought they only had Grand Marshalls in the Klan.
Sometimes when Jeremy’s sleeping, he makes these little shudders, but one of them’s bigger, is that an earthquake? In the morning, I watch Jeremy’s eyeballs move under closed lids, crisp thick eyelashes, pouting lips—last night he said I didn’t think my life could get any better, but now I lost my job so I have two more free days! If I dream his world, will my headache go away?
At the Odeon, Jara says who’s your friend? Oh, my boyfriend? Jara’s scandalized, well you know: once every eight years. You mean he’s your second? Well, that too. Jeremy wins the Longest Pubes Contest, even though I’m embarrassed because he’s so drunk. Then he heads out to some party in the Castro. I don’t want to go, but when he leaves I feel sad. He’s loving me so much, pulling my shirt up to rub my belly and then kissing me and even saying it, oh how sweet! But he wants to party and I want to go to bed. Why do I get so scared?
Sushi and Magdalena can’t find the car, but it’s nice standing on the hill watching each of them walk in a different direction. And watching the angles of the houses against the sky; the air is fresh. Sushi asks what I do when I’m not sleeping or dancing. Magdalena says: she’s setting a good example by loving herself. That’s the highlight of my night. Driving up Mission, I’m just staring out the window at the brigh
t lights and storefronts, trying to lift all that light inside.
Magdalena’s working at a Montessori school, one day Sushi drops her off, Magdalena’s boss is upset and Magda can’t figure out why. Finally, the boss says: you know I like the way you are with the kids, but I deal with some very conservative parents—it’s not my business how you lead your life, but next time, could you get dropped off around the corner? Magdalena doesn’t get it. The boss says: you know—the mobile home, the pit bull.
The mobile home, the pit bull. Jeremy doesn’t call in the morning, I decide it’s crystal or a car crash. Or he’s still fucking some boy, fourteen hours and going strong. I leave a message: are you at the End Up? He was joking about it earlier—I have nothing to do for a week, might as well stay up.
Jeremy calls. It was three awful parties, coke and then a sex party, he says you should’ve come with us—you were so sexy last night, I wanted to hump you—you’re always so sexy. And I’m not sketched out anymore, see it’s just when I don’t know what’s happening that all that fear builds inside me, searching for a way out. Now I just need to deal with the sinus headache, the exhaustion, and the depression—laundry in the dryer. Trying to locate my anus—oh, that cut-up thing.
Jeremy kisses more with his tongue when he’s drunk. Otherwise, he waits for moments of abandon. Tonight, we’re going grocery shopping and then we’re gonna cook together. The shopping is the fun part, later I’m getting a cold and Jeremy’s ripping holes in my sweatpants, I say wait until I get a new pair and you can tear them off me. If I’m getting a cold, why do I have to wake up wired at 7 a.m.? Fuck it’s bright; I need curtains.
My father’s fingers are in my asshole, cut open and blood pouring out—he’s trying to pull something out of me, I’m a dead chicken with its head cut off. Running into the fireplace until I’m burnt to ashes, floating up and escaping through the chimney, a charred bird. Karen, my new therapist, says remember your body was powerless but you were not—I’m not so sure that I agree with this rather contestable claim, but somehow it makes me feel better. Rhania says: do you ever feel like you’re in touch with something extra, and if you get too in touch, you won’t be able to go back to being out of touch?
So Many Ways to Sleep Badly Page 5