Jeremy leaves. I take a nap. When I get up, I want drugs so badly that I can’t leave the house. I talk to Jaysen, then Zero, then Rue, then the phone sex line for way too long, and then I go to bed.
The next day I’ve got it all figured out, so I’m in a better mood. I ask Jeremy if he’d come over if there were an emergency. He says of course I would—he didn’t realize how important it was for him to stay. I need to make sure that he understands. I say: then if it happens again, you’ll stay? He agrees and I’m okay, then I get all dressed up, cab driver asks if I’m heading home. It’s 4 p.m., and the cab driver means are you heading home from a long night? I get to the Gay Shame meeting, which way is the club? You know, the club. Later, I’m dancing in the street for the tourists, then at Jeremy’s housewarming, where straight women and gay boys point to guys and ask each other: is he or isn’t he? My plaid shirt and fuchsia hair match the plaid cellophane on the wall—photo op! The best part is that Jeremy keeps saying you’re so sexy, hands on my thighs, just between the bloomers and the thigh-highs.
As usual, I love waking up at nine in the morning—with a headache this big, I could take over the world! Heat wave—at Rhania’s party, it’s so hot that I take off my clothes and put on an apron that says More Time For Misbehavin’ Since I’ve Been Microwavin’. Blake, Annie and I play word games and everyone else sort of gets it, maybe. I’m the first person to arrive and the last to leave—as long as I can sit on this sofa, I can interact with anyone. And share my jock itch powder.
On the 22, this white guy almost falls over this black woman, he says well I guess it is the Fillmore and then he mumbles something about everyone on the bus being black. He says I’m the minority here. I ask the woman what he said, she doesn’t know. I say: obviously something offensive. He says: I fought in Vietnam. The woman next to him says so fucking what—you’re right, you are a minority here, and we’ll take you down—the three of us laugh together. It’s a beautiful moment.
At 7:45 a.m., I wake up and every muscle in my face hurts. At 8 a.m., they start the construction next door, feels like my sinuses are filled with every single grain of the debris—how’d they pack it all in? Then come seventeen different fire engines and an ambulance—an ode to city living! I just want to go back to the innocent days when I slept forever and never felt rested.
At 12:41 p.m., I get up and check my voicemail. There’s a message from my mother, sent at 12:41 p.m. There’s a fine line between awareness and Tourette’s syndrome—I call a trick and say hey this is Mattilda. Aaron says your friend Candy from the 7-11 says hi, she’s the Pakistani woman who plays folk music when she’s working. When her son with red-and-blue hair is working, he plays hard rock. When they’re both working, they alternate.
Anyway, Candy told Aaron I reminded her of a friend back home, a dancer. When they first met, she thought something was wrong, so she asked a doctor. He said it’s perfectly normal, a certain percentage of babies are born predisposed to be dancers.
In the bathroom of my dream, I piss into the spout of the tub—will it go back up? The bathroom is larger than I thought—three tubs and at least six urinals—I should unlock the door, but in the yard there are these weird animals, like fat cats with big hammer heads. They come running up and I’m scared, they’re butting my legs until I lean down to pet them—they just want affection too!
At this fancy French restaurant with a trick, there are so many waiters it’s ridiculous. I have to put the melon gelée in my napkin because it’s the first course. Fruit gives me indigestion. The trick tells me service stories—good service, bad service. Doesn’t he realize that I’m in the service industry too? Next to us, this old couple holds hands—it’s their thirty-ninth anniversary. Just after dessert, the woman says: you shouldn’t have said that we couldn’t expect her parents to contribute to the college fund because she’s dirt poor. They’re not holding hands anymore. He says I didn’t say that, I don’t even know that phrase. She says yes you did—remember, I was that way too when we met.
In my dream, I’m meeting two people, but I don’t know how to say hi to the second one. She’s a metal box with arms of steel. Her friend starts pushing her buttons but she doesn’t respond. She’s a tank with two levels, upstairs is where she is and her friend goes up to see what’s wrong. First, the top half of a body comes floating down, but it’s Styrofoam. Then the second half, also Styrofoam. There’s a garbage bag filled with discarded organs—we’ve been tricked, this person has bought someone’s body to house her own organs and now she’s escaped.
I wake up from the dream because fighter jets are flying overhead, one after the other and I’m just going to keep sleeping. My building’s shaking and then I get scared—what if this is the end of the world, the anniversary of 9-11 right around the corner and all? I look out the window and it’s hundreds of vintage motorcycles driving down Polk Street—what the fuck? I call Rue because the discarded organs are her dream imagery—she sounds all manic, but then she says she was getting shivers down her back, because sure enough—she’s been having that dream for months.
Rue says stop stealing my dreams! I say stop invading my consciousness! Jeremy and I have the conversation I’ve been dreading, delaying, trying to avoid.
It starts because he’s smoking in the car and I get in, say oh you don’t even bother to open the window when I’m not in the car. I say it in a joking way and I even kiss him first, but he says it’s my fucking car; I’ll smoke in it if I want to. He looks really upset and angry and full of hate. I say don’t talk to me like that—is something wrong? He says maybe something is wrong. I say let’s get dinner, and then we can talk about it afterwards.
I get really scared, I think: as soon as we’re done with this conversation, I’m going to do coke. Just once—I’ve gotta feel that high.
We get dinner, I try to taste it but I’m too nervous, afterwards we go to Dolores Park. We’re sitting on the staircase at the bottom, or I’m sitting and Jeremy’s standing. Jeremy’s telling me that he wants his emotional independence. He says he doesn’t want to change or question anything about himself just to grow closer to me.
I wonder about my faith, that’s the word I think of. Faith that Jeremy will open up to me, if I just keep making myself more vulnerable.
I want to feel vulnerable—I just don’t want it to end up destroying me. Jeremy keeps talking about transitioning from being boyfriends to being friends and I’m kind of in shock. I just want to continue holding Jeremy and going to visit the sea lions—friends or boyfriends, whatever. But Jeremy keeps insisting that we need two weeks without talking, to start the grieving process. He’s got it all worked out. He keeps saying we have to meet again like we’ve never met before.
I don’t like people who I’ve never met before—especially when I know all their faults ahead of time. I thought this novel was turning into a love story, but now Jeremy’s fucking that up. Did I even mention that our conversation started with Jeremy declaring: we’re not having good sex. Sex for him is that aggressive, charged, orgasm-focused activity that’s all drive until the comeshot and then it’s naptime. Maybe I should have paid more attention to the first time we had sex—at the height of it, he was trying over and over to slide his dick into my asshole without a condom, without asking. Later, when I confronted him about it, he said it was good that I kept angling away.
Jeremy doesn’t want to hold me when I feel triggered, or lie in bed petting me for hours—that isn’t sex to him. He keeps saying: everything should be easy. Everything should be easy. Everything should be easy.
I don’t even know what that means.
WILLPOWER, MINK COATS, HUMANS, CITY ENTERTAINMENT, A DEEPER RELATIONSHIP, SHEEP, RAW KALE, LEFT FIELD, PINWORMS, LAURYN HILL, AND MY SOUND FACTORY MOMENT
Imagine my all-too-common predicament: sweating on my bed as the sun pours in through my window, and this trick’s balls smell like fish, but I’m sucking his dick anyway. Every time he touches me, my jock itch burns. I feel like a hook
er in a movie—save me from my degradation!
As soon as the sun goes down, it’s cold out—what a relief—I was sick of that SoCal realness. If I want LA, I’ll fucking move there. Finally I get to the clinic, balls burning and they’re playing The Matrix in the waiting area. I get an adrenaline rush from all the killing but no gore—maybe that’s why people watch these movies. Though some people like the gore too. The doctor says I have contact urethritis—whoops, I mean neuro-dermatitis, ’cause the fungus is gone but it’s in my brain—pain pain pain pain PAIN—no, he means I itch and it erupts, I itch more, it never goes away.
Bedtime feels like “Willpower” by Kate Bush, even though I haven’t heard that song since I lost the Greenpeace benefit album in high school—don’t scratch don’t scratch don’t fucking scratch. Jeremy thinks you can’t change anything by willing it—look at me now, bitch. She’s got Whiteboy Syndrome—doesn’t want to work on anything, doesn’t want to feel vulnerable. Oh no, the sun’s coming out—turn it off!
At the Power Exchange, I’m sucking this guy’s dick, he’s shoving it into the back of my throat, I can feel the skin stretching—internal yoga. This other guy says, to the guy I’m sucking: that’s a great blow job, you better come—and the guy pulls his dick out of my mouth and walks away. Doesn’t matter because I’m shooting, though physical contact might make it better. The second guy watches and then walks away too. Ah, the community!
In the bathroom, this guy’s taken the wrong combination of drugs. First he’s banging his head against the marble stall walls, and then he’s struggling to do something at the sink—anything—while his whole body lurches out of control. Eyes bugging in and out, he keeps lunging—definite seizure material, one step away from the guy at Dore Alley. So much extra pain but still no weight gain—flawless! Outside, there’s a line-up of oh-so-sexy smoking teeth-grinders, cab driver asleep at the wheel. I’ll take the next cab, thanks.
Why do they tell you to take antihistamines before bed? I take this one for my itch and then it’s heartburn city, like I didn’t already have palpitations. When I wake up—wait, I can’t wake up! It’s like someone shot a hole through my forehead ’cause there’s no center, all around is just pain. Nothing works except maybe my brain. I can hardly even piss. If I keep this hooded sweatshirt over my head, will the world go away?
In therapy, I’m two years old, looking at my sister and she’s so cute but so scared. She doesn’t like being naked; they do things to her when she’s naked. They do things to me too, but I’m older.
Then I see all the cute seals that are killed for mink coats, and the lobsters people boil alive, and then all the little kids on buses who aren’t protected and you can see it ’cause their eyes are rolled back, and no one does anything. Then I’m crying for all these little kids, I mean bawling like I haven’t done in months or maybe even years. I hate humans so much, I’m crying and crying because what can I possibly do? When I leave the office, I don’t quite feel hopeful but I feel like more of myself.
I go to Ralowe’s show at the End Up. The doorman throws away my eye-drops and water—at least he lets me keep my food or I’d be tweaking with the rest of the girls in this legendary speed den. Salim says what’s a tweaker? My favorite part is when Ralowe pretends to have a fit, like a seizure but he keeps on rapping, going from really fast to really slow, and afterwards we head over to City Entertainment, but it’s way too boring for me—standing in the hallway waiting for action, reaction, distraction, traction—forget satisfaction. Though I must admit that I’m enjoying the giant poster of syphilis sores, Health Department love just oozing out at us.
I know I’m living in the Tenderloin, because it’s 3 a.m. and an alarm in some building has been going off for five hours. In the morning, I feed the pigeons dandelion greens, scallions, shiitake mushroom stems and onion skins. It’s hard to write about Jeremy because I talk about him so much. When will I stop feeling hopeless? On the phone, I have this sudden insight that if Jeremy would open up about his emotions, then maybe we could have a deeper relationship—I could hold him while he cried and cried, every tear intensifying my love! Then I remember he doesn’t want a deeper relationship.
This guy comes over from the phone sex line, what a chore. Was I this compulsive before I met Jeremy, sitting at home all day just trying to hook up? Outside, this guy says who are you—Little Bo Peep? Why yes, of course—but where are my fucking sheep? The guy who collides into me says stop fucking following me. Benjamin wants to know who’s in my support system. I drink four glasses of water.
One minute I’m desperate to come, the next minute I can’t even imagine it. The taxi driver is quitting smoking in twenty days. He says: the New Century Theatre is always so crowded because it’s practically a brothel, they do nasty things at Mitchell Brothers too, but they don’t go that far. I’m wearing Jeremy’s underwear, first I think I don’t want that bitch’s underwear, but then I think: that bitch isn’t getting her underwear back from me. Do you know what I’m saying? No—do you know what I’m saying? Thank you.
I think the pigeons prefer raw kale to steamed kale. Personally, I can’t eat kale unless it’s cooked. I get a trick at the Travelodge down the street from my house, it’s two guys and I’m supposed to suck them both off. The first one’s cute and young and Latino and the second one’s the usual. They’re from Fresno. Finally the first one comes and then it’s daddy’s turn, he says: I won’t take as long. Gold chain under wrinkled neck and too much tan, but at least he powders his snatch. He comes and is that really blood? Oh no, it’s a horror movie remake! I go in the bathroom to check my mouth. It’s time to go back to the clinic.
Talk about nurse! The young one’s out to get Diet Coke for daddy, who says we don’t have sex, I’m old enough to be his—father, well—grandfather. And mine too, sweetie, except that if daddy had given me an STD in the good old days of my so-called childhood, well maybe that would have tipped someone off. Though if they’re willing to ignore everything else, pinworms piling up like dried potatoes in the wrong cabinet—well, maybe not.
Another sunny day in San Francisco and I’m ready for winter. Though then I have a trick with graffiti on his walls, he hired someone to paint it, and I almost want to fuck him longer. Outside, it’s the right night, foggy and damp and not too cold. There’s a cute cat outside of the Hayes Street convalescent home. I feel so close to this cat, its strong head and all those lost cats from my childhood, cut open never pasted back together. But this cat is here, living for the sidewalk. In Alamo Square Park, the moon is just past full, trees relaxing upward with me, the dark sky. It’s the right kind of night, when suddenly I can breathe, I feel calmer—I’d even use the word “happy.”
Table tennis in your eyes, honey—they only call it table tennis after 7 a.m., before then it’s just ping-pong. For some reason, I always wait until every restaurant in the city is closed before I go out for food. Hypoglycemia strikes and this girl is crying behind the scaffolding across the street, I want to invite her up for tea. I follow her, dark sunglasses and a dark bob, dark skin and a red top that shows her broad tranny shoulders. I wait too long.
Did I mention my dinner with Jeremy? Just dinner, we’re only allowed to have dinner. There’s a car parked nearby, with planters attached to all the flat surfaces, and not cactuses but what do you call them? Succulents, growing out of the planters. Jeremy hugs me and then we’re off to dinner, I’m nervous. He wants to know why. I let him think about it. He asks me what else I’ve been doing. I say it’ll come up. He’s so afraid of the silent spaces. He surprises me by saying that yes, he does want emotional intimacy, though later he qualifies that: to a point. We talk about his new roommate’s eating disorder, is it anorexia or bulimia? What can you do?
When Jeremy comes over to my side of the booth, that’s when I really love him—and when I really feel sad. His touch feels too powerful. He says I’ve missed you and that’s sweet, really sweet. He says in six months, we can re-evaluate if this isn’t working
for you. Always on his terms. At home, my jock itch starts burning again. I wake up from a dream where I squeeze my foot and a stream of mud comes out, then a pebble, then—is that shit? When I get out of bed, I twist my ankle.
Cala Foods at 2 a.m. and every drunk is trying to buy liquor. I get gum from the machine, my last occasional drug. I chew it and then crash, think about reading Jeremy—just tearing her apart—bitch, do you know who I am? Really I just miss holding her hand at movies. I’m at Espresso Brava for the Gay Shame meeting and Jeremy walks by, big smiling doll-face. Did everyone notice how fake that was? The good news is that there are a lot of people with the capability of getting online while watching TV at the same time.
Benjamin says: I was in the bathroom at City College and these white boys there, they take a look at my black cock but they’re too scared to do anything. This black boy though—he was just as fine as any of these white boys, actually finer. He knew what he wanted. That’s what I need—someone who sits down on it like he’s not gonna let go—I’m not gonna give it up, this is mine. Forget the white boy bullshit. She says it a couple of times. Forget the white boy bullshit.
Speaking of aspirations, why on earth do I go to the Power Exchange? I just want to walk around for an hour and a half without any hope of getting fresh air. I want to hang out with tweakers; one of them whistles at me so I turn around—my friend thinks you’re hot, he says. Something about the place actually calms me, and it’s not the circular pattern of my walk, how Zen! It’s the music, but why don’t I just go out dancing once in a while? I’m worried about the pain in the arches of my feet, but it doesn’t really help to walk in circles.
So Many Ways to Sleep Badly Page 10