by Michelle Tea
When did this big lightning bolt happen with Stella? Dancing by the DJ booth they erected in the middle of the Castro, in the street there, Prince, “Erotic City.” Stella yanked me into the sweating throng of dancing girls and started dancing at me in that sexy way I hate, all grindy, with the strategically placed knees, but for some reason—the drugs, certainly—I was able to do it. I gripped Stella’s squeaky vinyl hips and churned her on my knee, straddled hers, and on the sidelines my excitable friends jabbed and poked at each other. Me and Stella stared deeply into each other’s dilated eyes and gyrated. I hoped Iris was seeing this. It was so sick that Stella was wearing her jacket. The speed offered me terrific powers of concentration as I maneuvered my legs beneath her. Right before we kissed, my eyes snagged on this girl I’d had sex with recently, a girl whose calls to my home were going unanswered. I’d be checking voice mail and there it was, this unfamiliar, girlish voice streaming out from the receiver. I’d feel something, it was panic’s little sister. I’d jam my finger on a button like squashing a bug. Message erased. The feeling evaporated like sweat from my skin. Now this girl was at the edge of the dance floor, glaring. I snapped my eyes shut and dove into Stella’s mouth. It was like falling into a warm bath, or a swimming pool if you’re sweaty. God, speed is so great. I was in love with Stella. She was magnificent, so tall and strong and wrapped in that plastic outfit. She was like a bendable figure you’d pick up in the toy aisle at Walgreens, some glamorous girl warrior. What would the night give us?
We walked to a party, a short walk, and crashed into a living room crowded with topless girls dancing to Depeche Mode. One with a little pierced-up face grabbed us and barked, Take off your shirts, take off your shirts, pulling on the fabric. I peeled off my tiny Boston Red Sox t-shirt and stuffed it in my back pocket, starting to dance with Stella. She was probably Scrumptious by now. Tommy called her that, and it really stuck. That party was being thrown by this really sex-positive S/M dyke who was always trying to get an orgy going at other people’s parties. I grabbed her as she moved into the kitchen. Hey, Can I Have Sex In Your Room? Sure love, with who? She was British. I pointed to Scrumptious, dancing nasty between a new set of thighs, and the British girl went and threw down this really impressive spread in her room, gloves, a bucket of lube, shiny square packets of condoms, a holiday. Scrumptious came into the room, grabbed me and looked very deeply into my eyes. Do you believe in destiny? she asked, and flung me on the bed. It was hell getting those vinyl pants down. Stella’s wig was gone now, one of the topless girls in the other room had ripped it off her head. She was bald beneath it, just a tiny fuzz of blonde, her makeup stark on her face without the halo of hair to soften it. Stella talked a lot during sex, and I was glad. I was on all that speed, and I didn’t want to have to stop talking just because the night had taken this turn. My enormous jeans, barely held up by my belt, fell easily to the floor. Do you like this? Scrumptious asked. Do you like that? Before I could answer or even consider it, she’d zoom off to some other part of my body. Everything was frantic and crazy and she kept, I don’t know, telling jokes or something because we were both cracking up and talking and people kept coming into the room to get their coats from the foot of the bed. Tommy walked in and grabbed my jeans from the floor, picked my wallet from the pocket. Don’t Do It All! I hollered as she walked with it into the bathroom.
Stella left to get some water and came back with a third girl and we had sex with her too. We were like a pair of deranged lawnmowers. The third girl had this gnarly belt, metal rings looped together with bits of leather, and she was kind of going to town on my ass with it, and I could barely feel it with the many chemicals coursing through me. I liked the sound it made, though, a fleshy whap. My body was like a ball of light, it was supernatural. My friends were banging on the door, Come on, let’s go, we want to go. We Should Go, I said to Scrumptious, Before They Do All The Drugs. You guys are on drugs? asked girl number three, weaving her belt back into her jeans. Out in the living room shirts were still off, and the British girl was on the couch, an arc of glinting pins pushed through the skin around her breasts. Tiny creeks of blood dribbled out the holes and pooled in her bellybutton. Bye, love! she shouted as we left her apartment. Be safe!
Ok, so the plan was to not sleep, to stay up until the sun rose and make first call at this shitty boy bar in the Castro. By four o’clock I think we started to realize what a really meritless idea that was, but no one wanted to back out, and no one was capable of sleep, so we trudged on. To another party. A rave thing, right, so we figured, great, everyone would be as wired as we were, all drenched in awful synthetic noise. When we got there, it was liquid calm, an opium den with kids decomposing on pillows, looking up at the herd of panting elephants busting into their mellow. Another girl I had slept with recently and then needed to never talk to again was there, on Ecstasy. I ran back down the stairs and hid in a doorway until my friends got nervous and came looking for me. The only place we could think to go was Club Universe. An awful all-boy techno club with that terrible, repetitive headache music, thousands of fags with no shirts bumping into you with sweaty, steroid torsos. It costs like a million dollars to get in, someone protested, and I said, Don’t Worry. Deep in the dark alleys South of Market you could hear the club’s loud thumping for blocks, a dull bass beat pulsing through the pavement. We paused on a deserted corner and dipped the tip of a house key into the tiny pouch of speed, held the metal to our nostrils. We had acquired a youngish, sort of nervous girl at one of the parties, she was just there for the ride. We were like those guys from the Wizard of Oz, people could tell we were going nowhere fast and they wanted to come. She wanted some of the drugs. Can I have some? she asked, tentative, then, No no I can’t I can’t. What if I just did a little? I Guess You’d Get A Little Speedy. When we were done she took the key and licked the fine dust from its crevice. I had to try it! she gushed. We approached the mammoth dance club. It was something like fifteen bucks to get in. I tried Club Courtesy on the door girl, to get us in. Do you have a laminate? She was jaded and bored. Um No. I told her all about the little open mic for girls I hosted, a noble thing, maybe she’d let us right in, but the female minion of this throbbing cash cow was not impressed. Well I’m Also With The Film Festival, I said, whipping out a laminated card with my dopily smiling face on it. That’s nice. Listen, I commanded, pulling out my ammo. I Write For The San Francisco Bay Times, I’m Writing A Piece On Enormous, Alienating Dance Clubs And I’d Like To Get In As Press. This had actually worked for me in the past. I could see her hesitate, mesmerized temporarily by the Svengali of Media. Do you have a press pass? she asked, snapping back into door-cop. No, But I’m On The Masthead. Do you have the masthead? Well, No, I Don’t Carry The Goddamn Paper Around With Me! Behind me my friends shuffled awkwardly and twitched. Listen, How Many Dykes Are Inside There? I demanded of the door cow. None, Right? Maybe Like Two Dykes Are In There, But That’s It, Because Your Cover Is So Fucking Expensive We Can’t Afford To Come In! It’s Classist! There’s A Bunch Of Gay Boys With Too Much Money, Two Dykes, And That’s It! There’s No Diversity! It’s Goddamn Dyke Night And None Of Us Can Afford To Come Into Your Club! She looked at me, boredom sitting on her face like age. Hold on, she said. She went away, whispered to the guy in the hallway. You can get in for five, she said, and that’s it. I turned to my people, they looked pained. What Else Are We Going To Do? I said helplessly. We dug into our wallets. In my haste I yanked out the speed, the bag fell to the floor with a splat. Michelle, hissed Candice. Oops.
Inside was a factory of men. It was like they were being mass-produced in another room, hundreds of buff and shirtless homosexuals dancing stiffly to monotonous rhythms. We dumped our stuff behind a podium, and Scrumptious grabbed me. Let’s dance, she said. I Hate Dancing To This Music, I whined, I Don’t Know How. Scrumptious hopped up onto the podium and pulled me up beside her. Her wig was back on her head and she looked regular. There was a moment back at that party when I had looked at her ghas
tly bald head, the dark creases of makeup and realized she looked like a female impersonator after the show. I had felt a bolt of panic. The thought Who is this person? bubbled up my throat like unexpected puke when you thought you were just burping. But now I felt fine. Scrumptious was dancing. She danced good, and she was wearing those clothes. Fags clustered around the podium, hooting up at her, and then Tommy jumped up and took off her shirt, I took my shirt off, forget it, we were like a birthday cake plop in the middle of a dinner table. And I can dance to that shitty music on speed, I can do anything on speed, I’m fucking Jehovah. It was so moist in that club. Sweat rose from our bodies, condensed into a cloud that hovered by the disco balls, and rained back down on us. I took a break. Speed and water. You have to put your shirt on, some guy said, grabbing me. This happened to me a lot that summer. I couldn’t keep my shirt on. It was a hot summer, and I was very angry. I looked around at the sweaty naked chests of a thousand gym queens. What About Them, I demanded. He shrugged. Look, I’m sorry, it’s not me, I— It Is You, I snapped at him. You Are Part Of The Problem. I laid into him, I was on speed, my argument was finely honed and swiftly delivered. I could have stood there for hours debating with him, hollering above the impossible sound system. Put your shirt on or leave, he said and walked away. Fucking Asshole! Scrumptious rubbed my sweaty back, she was so excellent. She helped me tug the small t-shirt back onto my sticky body. It nearly strangled me. The summer I only wore children’s t-shirts. So cheap, sixty cents at Thrift Town, and they made me look like I had tits. We roamed around the boring club, bored. Downstairs was cooler and nearly empty. Industrial music, a little better. We danced. It was actually great, speed being a drug that turns all boring and repetitive tasks into something marvelous. I moved my body back and forth, back and forth, a glowing machine. I did it for hours, we all did, pack of androids.
I have to go, Scrumptious said finally. My feet hurt. She was wearing heels with that outfit. We stopped at a twenty-four-hour donut shop for donuts and coffee. Why bother with the coffee, right? But the drugs were running low. We walked the long walk up to Market Street, Scrumptious’s arm wound round my waist like a vinyl belt. Scrumptious was a physical therapist. She had a beautifully furnished apartment in Canada. You’d love it, she said wistfully. She had just broken up with her girlfriend, and her dog, Plum, had just died. This was her collar, she said, fingering the studded red leather she wore around her neck. Everybody loved Scrumptious, all my friends. You have to move here, they begged, we love you! It was like we’d all gone to high school together. Don’t you want her to move here, Michelle? Oh, she swept Michelle off her feet! In like, what, two hours! You have got to move here. My friends were completely ready to marry me off to Scrumptious. It was like we’d all forgotten we were on drugs. Scrumptious blushed. A bus dropped us off at the Castro, and we met more friends at a diner there. Vinnie and Bruce. I tried to tell them about our night, but I just couldn’t. It was too much. The sun was up and the air smelled like someone had cleaned it. The dykes had really made a mess of the Castro, there was shit everywhere. Jesus Christ, said Vinnie, surveying the carnage. Vinnie, That’s Scrumptious, I whispered to him. She’s . . . She’s Incredible. I’m In Love With Her. Really? said Vinnie. We sat down at a long table inside the diner, and everybody ordered toast. The boys ate real breakfasts, big steaming plates that made us sick to look at. We nibbled our toast and pushed it away. Nobody could eat. Just chewing felt unnatural. Smoking was good. The drugs had made us synthetic. We were polyester. How gross bodies are, so needy. Swallowing, ugh. We gossiped about which waiters used to be waitresses and vice versa. We paid the check and left, through the thrashed neighborhood to Castro Station where everyone was on speed like us or else had just woken up and was drinking the bad bar coffee. Gay Pride Day. We leaned against the wall in the sunny part of the bar open to the street, drinking whiskeycokes. A guy from Oklahoma started talking to Tommy, who was also from Oklahoma, and they got close over that. The guy was pretty drunk and kept hitting Tommy’s glass with his own, saying, We got out, we got out! It was about nine o’clock. Soon the parade would start up, boys were already walking out into the morning debris of the Castro. We went to Tommy’s house to take showers. I was still sticky down there from sex with Scrumptious, whose motorcycle I would soon be stuck on the back of.
I feel like I’m not telling you enough about Scrumptious, particularly since by now we were in love for real. Her outfit looked even better at nine in the morning. The day looked lazy around her, like it wasn’t trying hard enough. The simple streets and all their houses. I’ve got to go back and change, she said. Oh, I said, Do You Have To? Yeah, she laughed, looking down at herself. And I don’t think I can ride my bike. My heart slumped in my chest. Really? Yeah, she said, I’m wrecked. Are you disappointed? She touched my cheek. We kissed passionately in the street outside Tommy’s, and Vinnie took pictures. Upstairs I begged Tommy for something to wear. Something clean and not gross. I got to wear her one-piece Team Dresch bathing suit, with Mariel Hemingway leaping a hurdle on the front and tour dates on the back. I felt better after the shower and the fresh outfit, but we were all crashing. The beginning of the end. We dumped the rest of the speed onto Tommy’s drawing table and cut it up fine, divided it into lines. Vinnie and Bruce wanted some. You Don’t Understand, I told them. This Is To Keep Us Alive. We gave them a little. Where Is Scrumptious? Scrumptious was taking forever. We phoned the home of my ex-girlfriend. I had forgotten all about her. Scrumptious, Hurry Up. Irritated. No one could decide whether to ride with Dykes On Bicycles or skateboard or what. Ride a bike with me, Tommy begged. I Can’t, I said, I’m Dying. The bell rang. It was Scrumptious. Her face was blank and uneventful with no makeup or hair. She wore a tank top, neat shorts, sneakers, and . . . freedom rings. Freedom rings! everybody shouted, Freedom rings! Everyone wanted to wear them. As a joke. Stella didn’t get it. You couldn’t really call her Scrumptious now. It didn’t work. She looked like eight hundred other lesbians, she looked normal. She was normal, she was a normal lesbian from Canada with a very nice apartment and a job as a physical therapist. She kept talking about how much better Canada was. They had socialized health care and no guns. We should all move there. You’ll come and visit, right? I wondered if her Ecstasy was still working. What’s so funny about freedom rings? she asked. You couldn’t really explain it, you just got it or you didn’t get it, though Tommy did launch into a brief monologue about capitalism and assimilation and the marketing of homosexuality. She was like Linus going on about the true meaning of Xmas and wrapped it all up with a passionate plea to please let her wear the freedom rings. How could Stella say no? They jangled on Tommy’s bony sternum as we slopped to the parade. I’m Gay! she kept yelling, delirious. Happy Gay Day!
Brand new girls were with us. Bonzai was on acid. She took one look at the tiny band of protesting Christians clustered around the Muni entrance and started having a freaked-out bad trip. They had their big bleeding signs, hell this, sodomy that, and Bonzai started crying real tears, her big brown eyes all swirly and pained. The Christians were surrounded by a blue fence of policemen. Bonzai turned and ran back down Market Street the way we came, and Ashley, who had done no drugs and was very clean and well-rested and centered, turned on the heels of her little boots and ran after her. I couldn’t deal with Bonzai or with the Christians. I sat down on the pavement, and Stella wrapped her arms around me from behind. I had a 40. I thought it would somehow help. I drank it and watched the parade float by. Everyone had so much energy. Who was this girl hugging me? Sleep deprivation makes me question my relationships to everyone. I get really confused. The sun was so hot beating down on our heads and when the gay cops passed we booed them and everyone around us booed us for booing them. A good person is still a bad cop! Tommy shouted. She seemed to be holding up pretty good. Barbie oppresses me! she screamed at a pack of drag queens, clunky and hung with the dolls. We all got nuts when the mayor rode by in a limo. He Is Not! I shrieked. You Are Kidding Me! We
gaped at him. Such a bad man, he looked totally Weekend at Bernie’s with his bloated hand propped up and that dead little smile. Mayor Jordan. Remember when he got naked with those DJs? Bonzai came back to the fold, her eyes haunted and dilated. Oh God, We’re All On Drugs, I moaned. Bonzai looked at us accusingly for not feeling the pain of the protesting Christians. I know what it’s like to be struck by injustice while you’re fucked up, it’s catastrophic and isolating, but there was nothing I could do. I could barely make it to the giant mob scene shopping mall eatery in the grassy area. We waited in line for food and tried hard to eat it. I lay in the grass with Stella and attempted to sleep. All these people with life inside them kept coming up and taking our picture. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t form sentences. I could breathe and I could twitch, that’s about it. And I had to co-host the open mic that night. A band was booked to play, and I expected it to be packed. Somehow I made it back to the Mission on a bus and me and Stella separated, each to sleep and freshen and meet that night for my gig. Finally home, I lay in my bed and thought about every horrible thing I could think of: poverty, my own and the world’s, Iris, who didn’t love me anymore, all the people who didn’t love me anymore, plus all the people who never did and never would. I thought about loneliness and all the years my fast-paced lifestyle was shaving off my life, how my lungs were blackening and how my teeth were falling out because I had never been to a dentist. I thought about all the people who didn’t like me because I was loud and I never stopped talking. I never shut up, never let people get a word in, and probably I drank too much. And my writing was self-indulgent. I was vain.