This woman on Geary says I like your colors, you have to be brave to wear those colors, I wish I were that brave when I was young. Crying while listening to the radio—the U.S. demands immunity in international criminal court, 400,000 protest war in London, half a trillion dollars spent putting people of color behind bars in the drug war, stiffening blood-caked corpses lining the streets of Sierra Leone. I know I mentioned that the pigeons prefer raw vegetables to steamed, but I’m not sure about the roaches. The good thing about being really tan at one point is that I can go out in the sun late in the day for a half hour and boom I’m golden.
Jaysen quits smoking, says he went out the last few nights and he felt like his soul was being rubbed out with an eraser. At the restaurant, I get a New York flashback—it’s because it’s so crowded and they’re playing Lauryn Hill, plus everyone’s drinking fancy cocktails. Maybe I should just have a few cocktails. Three a.m. and I can hear someone choking and vomiting down below, my contacts are off so all the lights blur. I want to have a contest for worst night of sleep in my life, but there are just way too many contestants. And I don’t know what to do about the seal stuffed animal Jeremy gave me. Before, it made me so happy, now it’s just another loneliness death wish. Benjamin says can you help me write my bio—I know you can’t type because of your pain, but maybe Ralowe could type and you could write. I just need help; I’m asking for help, I need help.
My chiropractor goes to the Folsom Street Fair with his girlfriend; he says there were two interesting things. He leans in to whisper: this guy had the biggest dick I’ve ever seen, I looked over at Elaine and her mouth was hanging open, I said close your mouth Elaine. Later on, there were these two bears just going at it, sucking and fucking and sucking and fucking—two bears!
Billeil’s got a new slogan: I’m okay with homelessness, as long as they keep it in the bedroom. Every time I see a VW convertible, I think of Jeremy—I never realized it was such a popular car. Paper failure—I feel like a failure too. Rue says did you fan your paper before you put it in? That’s so Paris Is Burning. This trick says I’m an older man but I still have all my hair and most of my teeth, and my tastes are roughly the same as Oscar Wilde.
A trick right on Buena Vista Park—how convenient! I’m not gonna come, I’m not gonna come, I’m not gonna come. He collects telephones in boxes—until the late ’70s, you could only rent phones and you had to pay extra for colored ones. The first guy in the park pulls away before he shoots, three shots—is three my magic number? He says I haven’t come in a month. The second guy approaches me with a big smile, touching my French cuffs: I thought you had carpal tunnel. I do have tendonitis, but these are just sleeves. We hold hands. No boyfriend and now I’m back to wanting romance from anonymous sex. Just a smile brings back my libido, I’m craving more but not in a desperate way. Just like I feel good and I want it to last. Walking downhill from Buena Vista destroys my feet, later on a tweaker trick fucks me and the condom breaks. Polyurethane condoms are shit. Another VW convertible drives by.
Ralowe, Benjamin and I hang out at Taqueria Cancun for way too long. There’s so much mold it’s unbelievable—in the front, it’s rotten flowers and in the back, it’s salsa from twelve years ago. Coed bathroom and the seat is covered in piss, Benjamin tells me I have gender guilt. So? Ralowe says the only art is activism. Benjamin says all art is amoral. Oh, no!
A drunken straight boy sitting outside of Cala Foods tells me I’m sexy, that’s how I know he’s straight—a faggot would never say something so nice. We can’t go to his house because of his roommate. I say let’s do it in the alley. He starts with kissing—what a novelty! He’s Benjamin’s usual pick-up, closeted but he knows what he wants, ravenous for my cock. His roommate rides by on a bike, but doesn’t see us.
Fighter jets flying over my bed—please no war, please no war! Allison’s kitten dies and so does Sonia, our childhood cat. Benjamin, Ralowe and I just can’t stop talking, I make them quinoa and we have a 2 a.m. family moment listening to the Fugees “Killing Me Softly” because I think it’s the only good thing Lauryn Hill ever did—and then Kevin Aviance, because I think she’s genius, or at least she used to be. I mean, my Sound Factory moment was when I saw Kevin Aviance do the Noon runway, gold stilettos and short-short metallic dress with a huge Afro, every step it was like she was going to fall over—but she never did. Then the climax was when she threw off the Afro, head shaved to the skin and I almost gasped. My ecstasy was over, the K had faded, but I was enthralled.
I get wired talking about electro and minimal house with booming bass, Kraftwerk and Save the Robots, every backroom bar in New York and why not here? Benjamin used to live in New York too and Ralowe’s curious. Then I put on “Everybody Dance Now” and it’s just what we need. Benjamin says she’s going to make a goth metal opera version and I can’t wait.
DIAMOND BRACELETS
You know those tricks that’ve had 50 years of practice sucking cock—and I do mean 50 years—and still it’s sandpaper city. What’s up with that? This straight boy on the street says you remind me of Alice in Wonderland, how sweet! Though I think my father molested me during that movie. Alice just kept falling and falling.
Three a.m. and of course I’m wired—remember the early nineties? Tweakin’ and tweezin’, tweakin’ and tweazin’. Every time a trick hangs up on me, I gain a renewed faith in humanity—someone really cares! Looking worse in the mirror, do you believe in insurance? Aaron says there’s an online community called pneumothorax.com—his collapsed lung finally has a home: Donna Karan Donna Karan Donna Karan.
Fighter jets and fire engines, oh it’s my mother’s birthday! She leaves a message; did she really say I love you? More sirens. I’m so dehydrated and Congress authorizes President Bush to wage war against Iraq while fighter jets just keep flying over and over. Everyone in the street stops to stare. But where are all those jets going?
The U.S. government is already talking about post-war occupation of Iraq, and the tendons in my feet and hands are burning. The sky is still so loud—is that a bomb? So much pain in my head, everybody’s allergic to war. But wait—there’s good news: the stock market is up 7.8 percent in two days and you’ve been invited to celebrate Disney’s 100th Anniversary with a four-day, three-night vacation stay in Orlando, Florida, near world-famous Walt Disney World. Plus, you’ll enjoy three days/two nights on the white sand beaches of Daytona—all for $99 per person. The confirmation for your invitation is Magical 752.
News brief: someone on the phone sex line used the word tender! Apparently the roaches enjoy the base of my electric toothbrush, a safe warm home for the fringe. I hate it when I get so exhausted that I can’t function, and then I get depressed—wait, that happens every day. My trick loves this weather—we have this weather every night. If I stayed in bed for two months, who would feed me?
This trick says wasn’t it fun to watch the Blue Angels? A taxi driver tells me air shows are America’s number one pastime. The toast at 7 a.m. is so dry, and I can feel my depression creeping up on me—HELP! There’s a good luck penny in the hallway—okay, everything’s going to be fine. Sick, sick, sick, sick—kick!
My next trick has such pale skin, reminds me of when I was afraid of the sun too—was I that pale? My favorite moment is when I tell him his hair is soft; he says thanks, I work on it. Felix’s mixing takes me out of depression, through nostalgia and into the border area. Like I could cry, or fly. Which do I prefer—using a dildo and fucking up my hand, or using my dick and inflaming my jock itch? The bride is arriving soon, and I must please her. Over the phone, he says: I just got in from Paris and I feel like shit, are you up for fucking? I just got in from Paris and I feel like shit, are you up for fucking? I just got in from Paris and I feel like shit, are you up for fucking?
As soon as the trick walks in, I know I’m not going to be able to fuck him. He’s working the receding hairline with gooey gray ponytail and blue contacts to contrast his leather tanning salon skin, Fila jumpsuit and big
silver rings on all his fingers, round tortoiseshell eyeglasses. This girl is married, with kids—and now she needs tea, then a shower. But God Save the Queen, he comes while I’m jerking him off. Then the best part is when he tells me about his town, he says the racial composition is twenty-five different shades of white, and the architecture is like Taco Bell designed heaven.
In the depressed area of the trick’s town, the houses go for $500,000, but to really fit in you need to own not only a pool, but an indoor pool, a North-South tennis court and a two-story garage for the $500,000 RV. It’s not just a gated community; they’ve got armed guards on patrol. Everywhere there are blue-haired ladies in designer jeans wearing enough diamond bracelets to get a hernia.
Did I mention the trick’s umbilical hernia, a bubble of mushy skin oozing out of his belly button like a force field? Rich people are so glamorous. The next trick hands me a glass of tap water—the bitch doesn’t know if she can get money out of the bank, but her apartment must be worth three million, and the doorman has to unlock the elevator. This is just the San Francisco apartment.
Dreams of new houseplants, changing what it says on the computer screen, and stress, stress, stress! Did I mention Ralowe’s show? We performed together at this hipster nightmare, he finished the night with layers of noise, drums that were just another instrument on top of the machines and then Ralowe shaking his body and shouting rap vocals over the commotion. It was delicious. Everyone left.
Today the sun is filtering through the clouds, and I’m rooting for the clouds. Shit—here comes the sun—and is it really 4 p.m.? All the little memories loading me down—like I’m eating tom kha soup with Rue, and Jeremy introduced me to that soup. Buying plants together, going to visit the sea lions and I can’t bring myself to get rid of the stuffed animals, even though they just make me think of petting Jeremy, sweet Jeremy. I want to call him and tell him I miss him, but I don’t want to call him.
I know it’s dangerous to get all teary-eyed about the time when my white boyfriend introduced me to a Thai specialty, but that’s how nostalgia works—nostalgia is dangerous. Kayti remembers when she used to say she was Persian, so people wouldn’t know that she was Latina—people thought it was more glamorous to be from Persia; we both had a lot of Persian friends. Kayti says they were really from Iran, right?
Dreams that they’ve changed my front door, can I get out? I’m thinking about how many pairs of eyes we look into each day—there’s this guy on the bus with beautiful gray eyes, I can’t stop looking. I catch another eye in the back, just one, a blond guy. The bus arrives. At home, I jerk off so I don’t have to think about hooking up.
I’m telling Justin and Owen about Jeremy, and then all of the sudden ten people show up at their house, I guess it’s 2 a.m. Owen says you switch so easily into social mode. I don’t know what mode I’m in, suddenly I’ve got so much energy, and Xylor says I saw you earlier and I was telling somebody about your outfit—it was the most preposterous combination of colors I’ve ever seen, I even remembered the red socks, though it didn’t make sense. The person I was talking to said yeah, Mattilda likes red socks.
Ralowe starts freestyling and I’m dancing on top of the ottoman, it’s all about the hands and body twisting and tensening, breathe in, out. Almost falling off and recovering. I have so much energy, it’s crazy—and too late, really. Xylor says I wonder why. I say no, that’s not why. She looks at my eyes. Well, maybe you’re just a night person.
I’m so glad everyone goes outside to smoke, Billeil even checks to make sure. Ralowe and I leave; I’m looking at the doors in front of the apartment. The apartment’s so long and thin, was it made for immigrant workers or did they subdivide it? Then I’m looking into the funeral home, and wait the doorframe next door is gorgeous and Ralowe says he’s exhausted. I’m getting exhausted too.
Just as I’m hailing a taxi, the bus comes. Ralowe tries to get on the back and the bus driver calls him out—get off the bus, he says. Ralowe gets off; I’m waving him to the front and the bus driver speeds away. This woman says just because they’re black, they think they can get on for free. The bus driver, who’s black, says shut your mouth already. The woman looks at me, she says your daddy raped you and that’s why you’re a faggot. I say my daddy raped me, but that’s not why I’m a faggot. She says your daddy raped you and that’s why you’re a faggot. I say your problem is that you tasted shit, and then you just kept eating it. She gets off the bus.
I call Ralowe on his cellphone: honey, you should have asked me for a dollar. Ralowe says I’m gonna walk home—all the way to North Beach? He says: I’m gonna work on this song. I say well I’ll call you when I get home, ’cause I’ve got a story for you. He says don’t call me because I don’t have any minutes, I’ll see you tomorrow. I say I might not get up in time. He says then I’ll see you Tuesday.
We’re all crazy, holding it together with such fine threads. I’m waiting for the 90 at Van Ness and Mission, and I’m getting all emotional—it’s not okay for a bus driver to make you walk home because you don’t have enough money for the fare—and does the 90 ever come? Finally it pulls up, I can’t believe it, and just as I get on the bus there’s a 10-foot-high ad for Tommy Hilfiger, the whole ad is this guy’s abs and the stars-and-stripes. It’s sickening and suddenly I’m horny in that desperate way.
LAYER CAKES
Asked on the BBC how she feels about the sniper who shot and killed three people in the D.C. area, a Virginia woman says: I don’t think he has any regard for human life! Benjamin says make sure you quote me—but honey, you already asked me to change your name! News bulletin: Thai food that I’m not allergic to, and it’s right across the street! A 3 a.m. screaming fight outside, and three cops arrive within ten minutes—how charming. This guy on the phone sex line wants me to stick my cock inside his foreskin; he’ll be over in ten minutes. I watch the strippers in velour jumpsuits pick up their cars at the parking lot across the street, bodyguards on lookout. After I come, I just feel terrible—maybe I shouldn’t ever do that again.
I wake up crying because is there hope—there is hope—or is there hope? Talking to the stuffed animals Jeremy gave me, and I try not to look at the picture of us hugging. Forget about that bitch—I’m at the Gay Shame demo; we bring a Haunted Shantytown of cardboard shacks to Gavin Newsom’s posh Marina district. We’re protesting his ballot measure known as Care Not Cash, which would take away homeless people’s welfare checks, and replace them with—“care.” We make a sudden decision to march up the hill into ruling-class Pacific Heights because the cops won’t let us stay in the Marina—it’s such a beautiful moment, pushing the sound system up and taking our festival further. The cops won’t let us into the temple where Gavin’s speaking, even though it’s supposed to be an open forum. We circle the block, and when we return in small groups there’s news: now we’re too late to attend.
The Chrissie Contagious update: at the Castro Street Fair, she’s breathing fire and the crowd is cheering, the next thing she knows there are six cops tackling her. Twenty-four hours in the padded cell and then twenty-four hours in the psych ward. It was just a waste of time, she says—I haven’t been partying and playing as much. Just partying?
I get out of bed thinking it’s late, but really it’s only 11:30—that’s what I get for stopping myself from looking at the clock. On the radio, they say it’s the biggest anti-war demo since Vietnam, over a hundred thousand in the streets but I can’t get up this early.
It’s going to be a great day—the only thing I have to eat is barley, which I’m allergic to. I end up going to the anti-war demo, late. I wasn’t going to go because those big demos always feel pointless, but the news coverage gets me excited. The best thing I see is an older woman with her daughter, or maybe granddaughter, handpainted sign that says WAR IS SO LAST CENTURY. And a bus with a Jean Cocteau quote: “Film will only become art when its materials are as inexpensive as pencil and paper.” A few thousand people are left; at least things feel better than
usual.
I’m telling Jeremy about Kirk’s cat, and I feel like my sister—how excited she gets about cats. But I don’t like it when Jeremy tells me about sex—stomach pain. I drag him to the beach in the darkness and cold, the cops shining their lights into everyone’s cars.
Seeing Jeremy makes me feel like a little child, wild with anticipation and vulnerability, but lonelier afterwards like it’s all just empty. What does he give me back? A hug, just one hug—my kingdom for Jeremy’s rug! My trick is a sloppy drunk, he keeps whining: you don’t want to fuck me? I don’t want to fuck you. I walk all the way to the Castro for the parking lot orgy area by Collingwood. The gate is locked.
I sit on the stone bench outside Starbucks, and this guy asks me if I’ve seen the moon tonight. On the beach, there wasn’t any moon—new moon? No, he says. I stand up to look: oh there it is, a tiny sliver, a shiver—delivery! The pizza place across the street is crowded; I guess they’re open ’til three.
Later, my feet hurt. But the political funeral is gorgeous, torches on Castro Street—what more could I ask for? Well, that everything burns down, but at least everyone is screaming and pounding drums and I almost start to cry right away, so why the fuck do I stop myself?
Jeremy opens his door to look out, but activism isn’t about hating ex-boyfriends who don’t join you. We march to the police station; the cops are scared. Later, Benjamin calls to say she woke up to turn the heater off, and started crying. She had two conversations with people who were at the action—they wanted to protest for Gwen, a Latina teenager strangled and beaten to death after she was exposed as a tranny, but not for Jihad, a black man shot to death at point-blank range by the SFPD. Jihad was waving butcher knives, does that mean it was okay to kill him? Benjamin says I’m worried that we might not have gotten our message across.
So Many Ways to Sleep Badly Page 11