So Many Ways to Sleep Badly

by Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore

  I know this is going to sound weird after I just jerked off, but I think I used to have a libido. I mean, just now I jerked off so I wouldn’t go to the Power Exchange, where I was going to go to see if I had a libido. Maybe I would have found it, though instead I bite my lip again: more blood.

  THE ANSWER

  There are so many things I used to do that I can’t imagine anymore. I used to sleep with sunlight streaming in through the window. I used to sleep with people talking, they would just keep on talking and I would sleep. I used to sleep with the lights on, shining right onto my face—no eye mask. I used to sleep on my side, and I’d wake up without every single part of my body hurting.

  Do you know about the New Economy Depression Syndrome, or NEDS—that’s when the career professional spends more than five hours a day online, and loses the ability to connect with people face-to-face. Most people I know are suffering from No Economy Depression Syndrome, or NoEDS. But now, thanks to the accessibility of the internet, people with no money can spend more than five hours a day online. Unfortunately, this sometimes leads to No New Economy Depression Syndrome—cure unknown.

  Every time I turn around, I eat another pot of beans. What’s that over there? Another pot of beans—oops, I ate that one. Rue says: I was talking to Blaine, my new AA friend, about alcohol and seroconverting and sex and it was the first time this whole year that I really felt it, I wanted to cry but I couldn’t, it’s stuck between my heart and my throat and I just feel this ache. A message from Benjamin: I just left this after–Phone Booth party and it’s 6 a.m. but I’m in a great mood, I’m enamored of Cameron—the boy I met on Friendster—I’m feeling artistically creative, and yes I did two lines of coke earlier and that’s informing my mood, but wait this woman says she knows me—I don’t think I know her, but maybe I’ll fuck her.

  I see a mouse on the counter, just sitting there, scared of me. It’s the cutest thing I’ve seen in a long time, and I really wish we could just be friends. All the little mice in my apartment could crawl everywhere and I would pet them and leave food out for them. There must’ve been some time when mice didn’t carry disease, and I want to go back there.

  Ralowe says he lives on the toughest block in the Mission—every time he leaves his house, he’s afraid he’ll get run over by a fauxhawk. Or a mullet. But should we put the laundry in the dryer? Should we put the car in the garage? Should we put the airplane in the hangar? On the radio: one-seventh of U.S. troops who’ve died non-combat deaths committed suicide. Someone mentions “our people in Iraq,” and I start crying—I’m actually sympathizing with them like any TV mother. Allison comes back from Costa Rica, where she got parasites, and Allen, her boyfriend, got dengue fever—they kept delaying their return because they were so sick. But there were monkeys on the beach, she says—they cracked coconuts and then came right up to you and stared.

  Allison tells me about something called a Swim-Ex pool that they have at her gym in Texas: it’s a one-person pool, with no chlorine, and maybe some sort of current, so you can exercise even though it’s tiny—I’ve gotta find one. On my way to chi gung and the bus driver takes away my transfer because I don’t have the extra quarter now that the fare’s raised. I’m so angry, I make him let me off the bus. But chi gung actually works; afterwards I can feel the bottoms of my feet.

  Okay—so it’s Thursday night at 2 a.m. and I’m completely wired—what’s there to do besides walk up and then back down Polk Street? I go to the Power Exchange. I know what you’re thinking: why does she break her own rules—it’ll only lead to disaster, and it does, honey, it does. I can’t even describe how boring and awful it is, but I’m a writer—that’s my job. At one point, I walk into a room and there are four guys jerking off, but not interacting with each other, just the porn. It’s like they’re straight except there’s not even the tension. I’m looking at these four hard cocks, and four empty gazes—well, okay, two hard cocks and two limp cocks and four empty gazes—and there’s nothing sexual about it. All I can think is that I want to hit them, I want to kick them, I want to spit in their faces.

  JACQUELINE

  Benjamin’s on her way to see Cameron in Marin, she’s taking the bus this time, so Cameron doesn’t have to pay the five-dollar toll, twice. She says it’s all going so well, it must be a lie—I got all my STD tests, and I don’t have anything, but Cameron’s a bit paranoid because I’ve had a lot more sex. Cameron likes underwear, and you know I don’t usually wear underwear, but Lacey hooked me up with some that are kind of fetishy, and I thought I’d surprise Cameron with them. I’m going to meet him at his parents’ house, they have two dogs and two cats, you know how much I hate cats but I hate dogs even more—I’m more nervous about the animals than the parents. Parents like me, I just don’t know if this is all going to end tonight.

  What my trick says about his cat: she’s such a slut; she’ll get in bed with anyone. Are you trying to tell me something? It actually ends up being fun, I tell him about my hand pain because he likes to be squeezed hard, and then he says I’ll just do the squeezing. It’s actually an incredible orgasm, the cat arrives just in time—she’s not throwing herself at the window any more.

  London calling, I mean really calling, it’s Andee—three times in a row on my cellphone, that’s nine minutes of talking time, I don’t have one of those fucked-up phones that cuts you off after thirty seconds. First message, summarized: I’m totally disgusted by the fact that you’re not answering the phone, I even dialed the wrong number and got Orion’s Organic Wagon, tonight’s my night to give advice to the real people, the cat lovers of the world. I had a transfumal experience tonight—through the fumes—I saw this awful choreography, I thought why isn’t Mattilda choreographing for the girls in London? I’m crossing my fingers and my legs, I’m here to tell you that you need a vacation, that’s it—just take a fucking vacation and it will all go away. Just break it down and take a holiday, just go there and get it, girl! But I’m not Chrissie Contagious with my messiness. Hmm . . . no, I’m not. Just take a vacation! Go on a cruise, I don’t care, Julie McCoy, though maybe you’re more like the Captain or . . .

  Message two, actually this one’s short: You have got some fascist . . . is she real, is she not . . . I can’t believe she cut me off. I’m sorry for interrupting whatever it is you’re doing . . . Message three: this is the third installment, there’s two points—one is that I’m not Barbara Hershey . . . And a fourth call: I hope I’m not off the list, am I off the list?

  I’m on some horrible internet connection site, and someone emails me—you look familiar, but guys downtown don’t usually come up to Haight Street, they’re usually pulling taffy. Very funny—turns out it’s Marc, the guy who I used to talk to on the phone line, we had sex once and then he’d call me when he was drunk, and pass out on the phone. It was kind of romantic, even though he freaked out when we went on a date—was it the mayonnaise in the Vietnamese spring rolls, or was I just not butch enough? We talk for three hours, turns out we’ve had good sex with the same awful guys online—Vince and Jordan—why can’t anyone deal?

  Eric, Matt and Jason are getting a dog. I don’t really like dogs, mostly because they’re so dependent, I’m like—get a grip. I like cats, or dogs that act like cats. Eric likes cats that act like dogs, though he grew up with four cats and three dogs, plus a few lizards—and possums who’d lost their mothers, and he and his brothers would try to rescue them. Eric didn’t like his brother’s lizards; one of them had a head that you could see through.

  Muscle spasms in my right hand—I hope it’s not from chi gung—my latest, greatest hope for ever feeling better, maybe just a little better? But wait—the Ethan Allen catalog has arrived! You can get a new country family room set for just $127 a month, for sixty months! Sixty months—is that a joke? I guess it’s better than a car.

  This happens a lot. I wake up, go to the bathroom and look in the mirror—no, don’t do that yet! Later, when I’m putting on my contacts, I look in the mirror ag
ain—oh, no, the bags!!! Lack of sleep and endless allergies and discontent deepening the blue and red—actually they’re kind of purple—creases. I walk into the kitchen just as the beans are about to overflow—for once, perfect timing.

  Today’s radio crying: this guy was a hospital chaplain who fainted a lot. But one time he didn’t faint, Jacqueline was a two-yearold who fell off a high chair and split her head open. Her father, Nick, was covered in Jacqueline’s blood. The chaplain took the man’s hands, even though they were covered in blood. The man said it was an accident, and that’s when the chaplain knew. Until I met Nick, the chaplain says, I always believed in the possibility of redemption.

  HEAVEN

  Jason’s doing a night at Vertigo, the yuppie bar that replaced the next-to-last hooker bar on Polk Street. For some reason, Ralowe and I go over there, I guess because it’s two blocks away, and we want to be supportive. I get dressed up because I’m feeling my music—fuschia wig with sunglasses and hot pink fishnets pulled over my head and enlarged lips. When we get there, I feel like an animal in a zoo, except everyone’s trying not to watch. It makes me even more alienated that I’m hot for some of the boys, their snide disapproval framed by understated trendiness. Ralowe says he wants them to die.

  Air pollution brings me to my senses. There’s a separate smoking room at Vertigo, but it connects to the bar and the whole place smells like smoke. Smoke makes me want to kill people, I want to bring drywall and seal the smokers in that room.

  Ralowe and I have the same trick, Room 610 at the Maxwell. Ralowe says did you fuck him? I did. How did you do it? I don’t know. Walking home, a straight couple asks me if there’s a bar nearby—I guess I’m passing. I go to the video booths at the Nob Hill Theatre, just to walk around in circles for a little while. Zan’s back in town, she says why didn’t you call me? Because I didn’t have your new number.

  Whenever Rue comes over here, she spends the whole time lying on the sofa. At her house, she seems to have more energy. We always lie in bed a little towards the end, because her bedtime is 9 p.m. these days. I like lying in bed with her the best. I feel like myself, which I guess isn’t always the case. So, I have to admit it—even though I’m sick of being a whore, I’m completely over it, I’ve got nothing left to learn from it—I still enjoy nothing more than the cab ride home after a trick that was fun enough, his apartment was interesting, I liked sucking his cock, I liked the view, I even liked coming. And then on the cab ride home, the driver plays, “In the still . . . of the ni-ight. I-I-I held you. I held you ti-ight . . .” And I just feel great. A little lonely, maybe, but not as lonely as usual. A little tired, but not as tired as usual. The air is cold and refreshing and I feel clear in this overwrought musical moment at 3 a.m., that beautiful time when the sky contrasts against the buildings, and I guess I’m really not so over it—certain parts of it, being a whore.

  I guess I could just be a slut, and have those moments too, but somehow that feels like more work. Jeremy and I visit the sea lions—there’s a new sculpture of two of them kissing, and I start laughing and almost crying and laughing and almost crying. But there aren’t too many actual sea lions around. There’s one group, but they’re on the furthest dock. We go into the marine mammal store to ask about them, apparently it’s different ones every time we go, because they’re constantly migrating, and this is just one stop on their migration. The so-called males migrate and the “females” stay in the Channel Islands and have babies.

  It’s fun hanging out with Jeremy, I like hugging him, it feels soft. Afterwards, I’m tired, but that’s to be expected. I meant to buy some new sleep herbs, but then we’re driving back to my house. That fucking herbalist still hasn’t called me, I’ve called him four or five times, and we met a month ago. I guess he must be a mess, but can’t he at least call me to tell me that? I pet the sea lions in the postcards I got at Pier 39.

  There’s absolutely no way to explain this, maybe it’s just walking out of the Ritz Carlton at 2:30 a.m., it’s just completely empty and it’s mine. That shouldn’t really get me so excited. My first trick, before the Ritz, is pretty hot—an Asian circuit boy—I come, he gives me 150 instead of 180. I don’t count the money until I get out in the hall, because it’s too dark. He doesn’t answer my knock, and I can’t really deal with causing a scene.

  The guy at the Ritz tells me I’m giving him the best head ever, which is always great to hear, and I love the marble floor in the bathroom—all the blue in the white! Then the guy says you didn’t give me anything, right—if I get anything, then I’ll hunt you down and kill you. How romantic! Then he says: you have a great personality, I’d like to get to know you but I live in Georgia. Is he kidding? Afterwards, I’m walking home and why do I feel so completely calm and alive—loving everything except the poison some guy’s squirting out of a hose to clean the sidewalk.

  Someone catches sea lions in a dish that’s way too small, they keep jumping up in the air to get out, but there’s not enough water. Where is the nearest ocean? The dish keeps getting smaller, until it’s barely bigger than a soap dish, but no one notices. That’s what waking up is for—if you can’t save the sea lions then you might as well wake up.

  Another trick that wants to know if I have any diseases, he doesn’t want to bring anything home to his wife. I have leprosy, lion bite fever, and ebola. I suck his cock anyway. It cures me. On the way home, I’m walking down Polk Street practically jumping up in the air, wait I am jumping up in the air. Until I see the cops, and I’m waiting by a red light even though the street’s deserted, which probably looks more suspicious than just walking, but I guess I’m white and dressed like a prep, so I can do practically anything. Not like the time they were going to arrest me for walking too fast, they even confiscated my bag of groceries. They were sure I was a tweaker. In this terrible world, tweaking is illegal while preppiness reigns.

  So at the Ritz Carlton, all five door people just smiled and waved me in. For some reason, there were six or seven cops in the lobby too, maybe someone important was arriving. Oh, right—me. The thing to remember about the Ritz Carlton is that the lobby is on the fourth floor, so when the trick’s on three, you’ve got to go DOWN.

  Benjamin, on the state of the world: I love my new shoes, but I hate my life. There’s one point in chi gung class when the instructor, Suzanne, looks at me and her eyes stay in my eyes, and I can’t tell what she can tell. We’re supposed to exhale the sadness and grief, inhale life and energy—I’m suddenly surrounded by the sadness and grief, flooding my sinuses so it’s almost hard for me to see. The best thing about my 4 a.m. walk down Polk Street is the Latina trannygirls on Post, singing songs in Spanish, practicing dance moves, and hugging each other in the rain.

  You know those times when you take a photo of yourself in the dark, and you just hope the flash works? So I’m sitting here, I’m getting ready for bed and I’m thinking: what does it mean to feel rested? What does it feel like? The best thing I’ve heard about this whole Democratic primary election drama is in this interview with a guy in South Carolina. He says: I have to decide what’s best for my two mortuaries.

  A momentous occasion: over a million people gather at a rally in Boston—to celebrate the Super Bowl victory. Three a.m. and I’m so wired, I’m licking the inside of my teeth. I’m so wired, I’m shaking my head back and forth. I’m so wired, I’d be doing back-flips if my hands weren’t so fucked up, or at least I’d be going dancing, or on a long long LONG walk back and forth from here to Atlanta.

  I call Rue because she went to some horror movie so she’s up. She keeps trying to tell me about the horror movie, but I won’t let her—I don’t need nightmares! All day long, it’s just pull it together, pull it together, trying trying trying really trying but it’s so hard, and then 2:30 a.m. comes around and suddenly it’s all okay, only it’s not okay because I’m just wired, it’s just a high, I mean exactly like a high like hello, my ecstasy’s kicking in or yes, that first bump, I mean really really like a h
igh dammit I know I’m going to crash and then still sleep like hell and wake up thinking: pull it together.

  Rue makes fun of me for getting all teary-eyed every time I think about sea lions, even while I’m talking about the postcard with the two sea lions hugging. But then I’m all teary-eyed, so Rue stops making fun of me and instead he sits on my lap, like a sea lion.

  Today’s proof that liberals are a mess: Al Franken, current pundit-of-the-moment, talks about doing an ISO tour for the troops in Iraq. The radio announcer asks how the troops reacted. Al says they loved it, but he didn’t tell them they were dying for a President who didn’t care about them, he asked who was from out of town, made Saddam and Osama jokes. He says: I was there to boost their morale.

  Today’s inspirational moment: Cesar Chavez’s daughter, responding to questions about an artist’s depiction of Cesar and Che kissing, says she thought it was beautiful. I go to a make-out party, where everyone likes watching me and Deacon, probably because we’re the only fags in the spin-the-bottle circle. Though there’s this hot trannyboy outside the circle who looks like the ideal blond young not-quite-jock. He comes up to me and asks if we can make out—delicious! Madison gives me a tour of his room, with a mid-nineties theme—but who are all these people on the wall with feathered hair? And that sequined shirt on the wall? Madison says he wants to play spin-the-bottle with me, so we make out. He tumbles onto the bed, and so we both do. Then the floor, so I go in the hallway. Pouneh steams carrots and chard for me.

  Outside, I’m ready to go and Deacon rides up on his bike—he says: I’ve come to warn everyone that the powders are arriving, the other party just got shut down—the coked-out one. Sure enough, two taxis pull up, plus a few scooters and the most ridiculous fashiony people from everywhere. The girls on the Vespas both have frosted shags, and their denim skirts look like they were cut with the same scissors, but they probably bought them at Gucci together. All the women have huge plastic hoop earrings, and the boys look faggier than any current fags.