John
Coach, I wanted to call him. Daddy. But I didn't. I was younger then, and it was harder to say things. In the light from his bathroom he took off his clothes and I felt on the edge of a cliff. The silhouette of his shoulders, his approaching figure eclipsing the light. I looked up and jumped.
When it was over I laid the small stack of twenties on his nightstand. The corner of his mouth pulled up and he looked away. "I'd like to get together with you again, you know, normally," he said. My mouth twisted to hide the joy. "I'd like that," I said. He walked me to the door, past the television we had pretended to watch. Did I kiss him goodnight? I can't remember. Though I left many messages, I never heard from him again.
11:48 PM | link
You WILL dance at my party
Imagine if you threw a Love Bomb and nobody came? Well, thanks to all of you, we can only guess. You guys ROCK. Thank you for your love and cooperation; thank you for making the Love Bomb a success, thank you for reminding me of the boundless confines of the human heart.
But wait, it's only Wednesday. Have you visited HCL yet? Have you swallowed your fear and pride and said hey sexy muthafucker, you make me smile? (ahem, did I say that out loud?)
Go on, go get him.
11:31 PM | link
Monday, July 29, 2002
Round Two
The Lou-meister and I would like to thank all of you who participated in the first ever Love Bomb, sending your positive vibes to the Eight-Legged One, a most deserving target. And just because a new week is upon us, you need not stop sending him fan mail or staging fire-twirling-to-J-Lo-dance performances in his driveway at night. (What, like I don't like J-Lo?) True love has no end. Or if it does, it doesn't sound as pretty.
I hope you stored up some love over the weekend. 'Cause guess what, it's time for the next target. Louie and I are going out on a bit of a limb here, because though we've been quiet readers of his site for some time now, this week's target has never heard from us. Before now. Through our usual complicated internal emotional nomination process, our next Love Bomb target is HCL, a man we feel deserves to hear from his usual friends and unusual strangers. Like you. Comments, emails, posts on your own site, his initials carved on the flesh of your forearm. Get thee to his site. What light through yonder flat-screen breaks? It is the East, and HCL is the sun.
12:55 AM | link
Thursday, July 25, 2002
The Lovely Mirrored Ball
Yes, Rob’s right. I could tell you stories. But they’re not very glamorous.
My friend Handsome, who also knew Tina quite well, came over to the new place before we did the AIDS Walk on Sunday, housewarming orchid in hand. He scanned my room appreciatively and said, “this would be the perfect tweaker room”, meaning, I think, its quiet surroundings and abundance of privacy. Well-suited to sex. Easy on the paranoia factor.
Schwinng’s last roommate before me was an out-of-work speed freak who had boys over 24/7 and generally made the house not a home. Schwinng literally burned sage when the guy moved out, cleansing the house of all evil spirits. I’m pretty sure it worked. The room doesn’t feel haunted. It just feels like mine. Which doesn’t mean I’m not haunted by the ghosts of summers past. I don’t think sobriety is necessarily harder during the tough times; I think addiction sneaks up you when the going’s good. It taps a wee finger on your shoulder and whispers “Man, you’ve got it good. Let’s celebrate.”
With such a perfect abode, I’m tempted to stay home more often. But what I’ve learned through my experiences with addiction and depression is that I need to stay,er...busy...to stay healthy. Shit, that sounded so lame, I know, but it’s true. My current Human Bullet campaign is working, mainly through physics. A body in motion stays in motion, no? Seven new pounds of muscle propelling me forward. No, not that kind of muscle, you perv.
When my friends were helping me move, I happened to casually mention that I disliked the full-length mirrors on my sliding closet doors. I said I wanted to get rid of them. Oh, my god, you should have heard the screams.
“NOOOOO!!! Oh my GOD they are so HOT!! You HAVE to put your bed in front of them. Are you CRAZY?? You’re SINGLE now, you HAVE to put them to use.”
So I backed off. And honestly, the only place my bed worked was directly across from them on the opposite wall. So I’ve been trying to get used to them. But sometimes I happen to glance up while I’m watching TV or reading, and I look like a TOTAL dork; a slack-jawed, vacant-eyed slouch of a man. They’re unnerving.
I admit it, I don’t want to see myself when I’m having sex. Sue me. If it’s an esteem problem, well, there’s always therapy. I wouldn’t mind seeing the other guy reflected back a few times, though.
Speaking of, I broke my 4-month spell this weekend. Yes, ladies and gentleman, the DogPoet got laid. And did he ever…:) Love? mais no. Two men in heat? But of course. I can truly say this guy knew how to press all the right buttons. Although after it was over, I can’t say I wanted a date. And we did it at his place, so I still haven’t broken in the mirrors. So to speak. The search continues.
7:38 PM | link
Wednesday, July 24, 2002
The Love Bomb
Hey, have you sent some love to Aaron yet? Remember, as this week's recipient of the Love Bomb, Aaron is entitled to hear from each and every one of you. I don't care if you don't know him yet, this is the week to get acquainted. If you do already know him (and who doesn't know our eight-legged teddy bear?), then what the hell are you waiting for? Get thee to his blog and drop the bomb. Toss your proverbial panties on his stage and keen wildly during the slow ballads. Can't you tell, he's singing to you.
///
In other news, researchers have concluded that we're actually wired to cooperate. This doesn't really come as any surprise to me. It's only dismaying how seldom it's encouraged. Haven't you ever gotten all choked up when someone does you a small act of kindness? The tiniest olive branch, the most fragile dove; don't these, even if only deep down inside, wreck you? I think you know what I'm talking about. There's no "i" in "TEAM". Ha! I can't believe I just said that.
Okay, so I finally added comments, and if someone doesn't say something soon, I'm gonna scream.
9:01 PM | link
Monday, July 22, 2002
Mondays with Louie
As though my new home were not enough, I've been dreaming about moving. Last night found me surveying a friend's inprobably sprawling house in a nameless location; a city that reappears in my dreams but that goes unrecognizable upon waking. My friend had not one but two rooms from which I could choose, two rooms containing a jumble of posessions belonging to his mother, who had just died. Suitcases and raincoats, drawers of jewelry and dry, powdery make-up. An expansive armoire containing sweaters and empty coat hangers. Cloudy, spiderwebbed mirrors reflecting back my nervous figure as I picked through the piles of clothes, trying to imagine my own posessions within the confines of the room, hoping my friend would move his mother's things on his own accord. I slipped into the walk-in closet which stretched on into the dark, stepping over her collection of shoes and handbags, drawn by a sliver of light ahead. I pushed open a door at the rear of the closet and like a buried treasure a luxurious bathroom appeared, its tile counters cluttered with hand lotions and ivy plants. "I'll take it," I said.
When my mother was diagnosed with ALS in the fall of 1999, my father gave me the book Tuesdays with Morrie. I know he was trying to offer some kind of comfort, and as I read the book I imagined the similar conversations I would have with my mother now that we knew she was going to die; the pearls of wisdom she'd impart like Morrie did. Unfortunately, her type of ALS included dementia, and unlike Morrie, her speech and swallowing muscles were the first to go. So I did not get those golden greeting card afternoons and, as my mother put it, Morrie was already in his goddamned 70's, while she was only 52.
She could not tell me in words what her cruel descent meant, if anything. What I had to work with were my own reactions, and the reactions of the others gathered around her. Even more, I had her actions; her simple determination to go until she could go no further. Whether it be travelling while her limbs still worked, volunteering where she loved, supporting her partner, spending time with the amazing numbers of people who appeared upon learning of her illness, she taught me at least one small lesson; What are you waiting for?
Which doesn't mean I've learned it entirely. Just that I'm trying.
I've decided to start a Monday tradition here at the Campfire. Every week, through a complicated internal nomination process involving numerous emotional factors, Louie and I will pick a fellow blogger and encourage everyone to send them some love. We'll leave the love, of course, up to you. Emails, comments, dedications, posts, singing telegrams, you decide. Just spread it around. You have a week.
Our first pick is only at the top of our link list by coincidence. So go tell Aaron how much you love him. If you don't know him, visit his site and get to know him. Spend some time with his writing and then say hello. He makes our world a little brighter.
2:46 PM | link
Thursday, July 18, 2002
And thus the Human Bullet
Is it just me, or are there an awful lot of horrible things done to girls out here in the West? Since I moved here five years ago, it seems like there's always another one getting snatched and killed. This little girl's murder threatens my usually solid anti-capital punishment stance. When the three women disappeared at Yosemite two years ago, I got so hooked into the story that the news of their murder devastated me. It reminded me of the whole Andrew Cunanan fiasco, which I followed not only because he seemed like a gay boy gone nuts, but also because he killed someone I knew in Minneapolis, in a loft about four blocks from where I used to live.
In other morbid news, here's an update on the girl whose body was found in a trash can a couple of blocks from my last apartment.
A fierce protective streak runs through me; one fueled perhaps by my Irish temper. My mother's illness was so maddening because I could not protect her from it. Abused animals, children, women, society's freaks, etc: Underdogs arouse in me the urge to pummel the cruel and viscious. I should have been a masked avenger.
4:08 PM | link
Balancing act
In my subversive attempts to access my blog at work, I've been using a "virtual" browser that doesn't block sites and that, apparently, covers my web-surfing tracks. All this, and I don't even surf for porn. Well, yesterday I made the discovery that if I try to update my template on the virtual browser, all hell breaks loose and my site becomes useless. So I spent a few hours last night tweaking the HTML (which I don't actually know very well) so that you, the reader, can get your fix of the aesthetically brilliant combination of green and orange. Not to mention Louie's sad-eyed photograph at right. There's still some minor font crap going on, but eventually I needed sleep.
Thank you for the congratulations and blessings you've all sent my way the past few days. It's been especially nice to hear from those of you writing me for the first time. If I haven't said it before, I love hearing about your lives.
Louie and I love the new place, our only minor complaint being the extended walking commute to work; what used to take ten-minutes now takes forty, and the way home is ALL uphill. Soon I'll get the car, so the sweat is worthwhile. Our street is lined with fragrant eucalyptus trees, and all I hear at night is the wind through the leaves. The fog blows over the hills and past my window at night, and even then my room gets more light than my last place; the pale orange glow of the city at night is cast across my bed, and I hug my pillow tightly as I drift off. I find I want to take more time off from work just to stay home and enjoy the place. But my ongoing campaign to become a human bullet demands attention. The alarm wakes me at 6, I burrow deeper under the covers for two snooze respites, and then I pull myself out of bed, go upstairs for coffee, then back down to pack the gym bag. By 7:30 I've dropped Louie off in the office and am struggling through sit-ups at the gym down the street. My routine stays disciplined only through momentum; I must be faithful.
While honing my physical shape, I quite naturally think a lot about sex. Love, too, but not as often. I hear myself telling friends lately that sex and love are the last areas not yet fully integrated with the rest of my life. I haven't exactly lived up to the gay male promiscuity cliche the past year. No regrets. Besides, few men could have held on through the ride I've endured. The extended periods of abstinence haven't exactly been by choice. If you've been reading the Campfire for awhile, you know I'd jump Ski if given half the chance. But an obessession doesn't count as "integrated"; its shape and weight throw my life off-balance. I can't yet say I'm completely ready to let it go, for whatever reason. Maybe I'm afraid it's the last good chance I'll get; a ridiculous idea. Of course there will be other men. Of course I'll fall in love again. Of course it'll hurt like hell. All this the mind knows. But the heart, the dick, they're slow to learn.
2:23 PM | link
Wednesday, July 17, 2002
The Welcome Wagon
So get this. My new roommate Schwinng made a cake for me and the friends who helped me move on Saturday. A cake. With fresh strawberries and powdered sugar. Bearbait and I grabbed three muscular sober boys after a meeting and we got it done in two and a half hours, and later we sat around the dining room table eating cake. I kid you not. Then the next morning (my first in the house; heavenly) he and I sat at the table reading the Sunday paper with coffee, and he asked me if I wanted an omelet. What, like I don’t want an omelet?
Within three days I had the Studly Couple, the Tattooed Monk, and my new friend Smart-Ass (you can take it) over to see the place. The Monk put it best as he looked around my bedroom and said “You have a home now.”
After they had all left, Schwinng asked, “Where do you meet all these nice, well-mannered men?”
I should have said “At my bible study class. Which reminds me, have you found Jesus?” That would have been good. Instead I told the truth. “AA”, I said.
Some other blogger lists as one of his pet peeves, “Recovery stories”. I’m not going to link to him because a) I can’t remember who he is and b) I’m pissy that way. It’s easy sometimes, in the company of good friends, to forget what’s at stake in sobriety. This past weekend Bearbait and I heard some news about another one of his sponsees who had checked himself into a treatment center for the third time. On July 5th, he swallowed a fistful of pills and downed a bottle of something and eventually his esophagus exploded and he drowned in his own fluids.
And this is what happens in “recovery”: people die, people drink, people disappear. And each time it happens we are reminded of the stakes, of the work needed to survive. And each time it happens I scan my life for flaws, and instead find it full of people I love, people who make me laugh, people who know the dark corners of my soul.
I wish for everyone a home like mine, but I especially wish it for the people I love.
3:50 PM | link
Monday, July 15, 2002
Settling in
Yo MTV! This is the D to the P-O, and we're jus' kickin' here at my crib. C'mon in.
3:43 PM | link
Friday, July 12, 2002
Home-free
I'm moving tomorrow, and nothing else has made me this happy in a very long time. Seriously, I'm levitating. Let me talk about it just a little more, okay?
The passive-aggressive roommate was showing my room last night to three different people, so I tried to make myself scarce doing laundry and chatting on the cell in the backyard. I figured it best not to meet any of the prospectives, should they ask me why I'm leaving. However, the couple cornered me as I folded whites. "He's going to charge $50/month more than you paid. He has it posted on Craig's List and we keep asking him for a copy but he won't give us one."
"Really?" I asked.
"And he told us that as long as he likes the applicant, it doesn't matter if we do or not."
Oh, I'm floating. Really, I am.
Home is so primal to me. Having a new place has opened a little door in my head, one that was locked and nailed shut over the past year and three months. Behind the door were all the various insults and degradations that I simply tucked away out of survival. With the door open again, they're slipping out, running and screaming through my cerebral living room. They're trashing the place. But then they pass a window and are stuck dumb at the vision, the simple idea of the new apartment. They're speechless. In 24 hours the truck will be packed.
I fed two more garbage bags full of clothes to the streets of the Mission again last night. This morning a single pair of baggy Nike shorts lay on the sidewalk. What can I say, I never liked them, either.
5:22 PM | link
Tuesday, July 09, 2002
San Francisco 94114
Why is it that all of my friends have prior commitments on my moving day? I think they missed that memo regarding my recent promotion to the center of the universe. I was told there'd be growing pains.
Filled out my change-of-address form today. Did I tell you my new address is going to be "something something Museum Way"? How hot is that? Nevermind that it's a little natural science museum stuck in the 70's at the end of my block. It does have a spectacular view of the city from its parking lot, where Bearbait and I did my fifth step on a drizzly morning over a year and a half ago, with the windows fogging up. No, not that kind of step, you perv.
///
One of the Mission's enduring qualities is its seeming boundless capacity to absorb everyone's hand-me-downs. I left two garbage bags full of clothes I never wear out on the sidewalk last night, even some good stuff, and within an hour they were both gone. Someone got lucky last night. I could have sold them to one of the dozens of thrift stores in town, but I have a rather stubborn belief in karma, and I secretly hope to see someone pushing a shopping cart wearing a Ralph Lauren flannel shirt in the next few days.
///
On Sunday, One Half of the Studly Couple (the Younger Half, how's that?) and I ventured to the Lone Star to bond and check out guys. Though I often wear a baseball cap from the Lone Star, I hadn't stepped foot into a bar since I got sober on October 3, 2000. Actually, long before then, too, because towards the end I almost always drank at home (cue violin). Slipping through the black leather curtains that blocked out the afternoon sun, we navigated past the card table where the beer bust tickets were being sold and bought some non-alcoholic drinks at the bar. It smelled of must and old beer inside, so we slid past the husky, hairy men sitting on the pool table eating peanuts out of a giant barrel, and went out onto the bright patio in back. I forgot how alcohol made going to bars easier, how it eased away the preoccupation I have with where to put my hands, how to stand, how to look friendly but not desperate. So we leaned against a wall in the sun, pressed up tight by the growing crowd, talking and laughing and looking for hotties (for me, not him). I only saw a couple here and there, one of them being a guy I've seen in and out of the rooms of AA, carrying a beer in his hand. Honestly, I'm not the sober police. I'm just sayin'. After an hour or so we left, heading back to his house where the Other Half was grilling chicken for us. "It wasn't as much fun as I remembered," the Younger Half said. I had to agree.
///
I came across this today. The intersection is a couple of blocks from my present apartment, a corner I pass every morning on my walk to work. In fact, she was in there when I walked by Monday morning. It made me think of this.
7:15 PM | link
Monday, July 08, 2002
I'll be your sidekick, your "youthful ward".
Five days till the move, and I'm already packed. So I've settled in with some take-out pad thai from the little hole in the wall down the street, having just finished, regretfully, this book. Since his first novel, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, I've followed Chabon, rolling through the chaotic, heartbreaking journey of The Wonder Boys, and now his Pulitzer prize-winner. Throughout the past few weeks I've passed several people with this book in their hands, on the bus, on the street, in the backseat of a car. Each time it's brought a little smile to my face, knowing there are others half-submerged in his world. I won't describe it; I'm sure others have done that better than I could, but I'll buy you a copy if you ask. Sorry, you can't have mine.
I haven't spoken much of my other two roommates, the couple, mainly because the three of us have reached a fairly companionable co-existence in the house. Their puppy had months ago driven me nuts with its separation anxiety, but then one of them went on disability for Huntington's Disease and so is always at home; not the best solution to the problem, but one that's kept the peace.
Tonight I ran into one of them while sorting through some boxes in the garage, and he asked where I was moving to, and I told him. "We're really sorry you're leaving," he said, "really sorry."
"Really?" I asked. For some reason I found it hard to believe they'd miss me.
"Yeah, really," he said. We kind of smiled at each other. "How much do you pay for rent, anyway?" he asked. I told him, and he shook his head, adding our combined rent and subtracting it from the total. I did the math too, twice, because the sum wasn't what I had always believed it to be. "He's a putz", my roommate said, and we left it at that.
10:48 PM | link
Getting out
A bus passed me as I walked home today carrying empty boxes for my upcoming move. An ad on its side declared; "One out of ten Asians has chronic hepatitus B", and underneath someone had scrawled "And ten white guys are always bitching about nothing."
///
Attended the Living Sober conference this weekend; a gay AA and Al-Anon convention of sorts, in the Bill Graham Civic Auditorium downtown. My second time at the rodeo. On Friday night one of the main speakers, a funny Latino boy from L.A., was talking about his childhood, and the lack of real life skills his parents had given him. He recounted a conversation he had with someone when he first got sober. He was bitching and moaning about how his parents taught him nothing when his friend stopped him by saying, "Look, Carlos, they never taught you how to suck dick either, and you know how to do that pretty good, right?"
///
Yesterday evening Bearbait and I arrived early at the convention to save some good seats for the final meeting in the main auditorium. We slipped through the doors into the vast dark space and out of the shadows ahead I saw a figure approaching, a familiar swagger of sorts that sent a jolt through me, a warmth that spread outward from my belly as Ski emerged from the darkness, smiling, saying, "Heeeyyy" in his deep Jersey voice. When we embraced I could once again feel the entire length of his body against mine, holding him to me for as long he'd allow.
I bought him a Coke from the convention vendor and watched as men walked by and stared at him, feeling that uneasy envy and possessiveness kick within me. We went outside and leaned against the stone building and tried to catch up as people began arriving for the final send-off. Constant minor interruptions, boys to greet, each of us pulled in other directions. It wasn't the time, one half of the Studly Couple reminded me gently, to resolve the situation; a resolution I both crave and dread. I need to get over it.
///
After the big final meeting a young woman lugs crates of vinyl records into the auditorium and they clear a large space in the center, near the stage. A sober dance; something that I've always found...lacking. I've stayed out of the clubs for nearly two years, kept still my feet that love nothing more than to get lost in the beats from towering speakers. But I stay for a bit, drag the Studly Couple out on the floor and, as the familiar grooves shake me about, I kick it out and relax and smile at the people around me, dancing for nothing but the sheer love of good music. Around me in the dark figures jump and spin and sway from one foot to another. My friends drift away but it's been too long for me, I stay put, my feet finding their way again, my bright new Adidas gliding in the intricate patterns I've settled into over the years. I sweat, my jeans stretch out and fall lower on my waist. A boy passes me on his way off the floor, shakes his head at me and smiles ," You're a great dancer", he says, almost incredulously. I'm a white boy from the Midwest, a child of two uncoordinated farm kids, and I don't know why, but I can dance.
///
I ask Bearbait for a ride home, dumbly missing the fact that he was in the process of leaving with someone he had just met. "All right," he says, "but I'm dropping you off first." The three of us step out into the cool night, my wet, warm clothes hanging limply from my body. I happen to look back and see this very adorable dark-skinned boy with a shaved head watching us walk off. I know his name but little else, and in a moment of tired contentment and courage, I smile at him and he smiles back. It lasts a couple of seconds, long enough to count for something.
///
I turn the key in the door quietly at home; it's one in the morning. The house is dark and silent. I slip into my room, thinking "this is the last Saturday night I'll spend here", but something is wrong. Before I switch on the light I know my roommate's cat, the one who spends all of his time in my room, has pissed somewhere in my room. I turn on the lamp and the fucking cat has pissed all over my bed; the dark circle is a foot in diameter, and the urine has soaked all the way through to the surface of my mattress, through my sheets and the new $200 down comforter I just bought. I am so exhausted, and I cannot seem to escape fast enough.
///
This morning the roommate left his dogs in his tiny room for a few hours and I woke to the sound of one of them alternately barking and chewing her way through the wood door.
///
I take my last Sunday walk from the house to the gym, determined to get back into my routine. As I close my locker and head for the weight room, Mr. Adorable, he of the smile and the shaved head, is walking in. We both startle a bit and smile again. I introduce myself and we chat inanely about the conference, grinning in that goofy mutual you're kinda cute way. I'm feeling rather conspicuous standing with him in the heavily heterosexual locker room, and I chicken out before getting his number. I tell myself I'll see him again. It's a small town.
1:18 AM | link
Monday, July 01, 2002
Everyone loves a parade
The Tattooed Monk lives in a building in the heart of the Castro, where Market and Noe and 16th Sts all intersect, across from Gold's Gym and the Metro bar, where at this moment drunken post-parade revelers have crowded out onto the balcony and are singling out cute boys walking below on the sidewalk, yelling in unison; "YELLOW SHIRT! YELLOW SHIRT! YELLOW SHIRT!"
///
I fell asleep pretty quick last night, especially considering that his bedroom looks out onto 16th St and the Pink Saturday block party was in full swing. At around 2 am I woke to a voice teetering on the verge of rage below the window saying, "I didn't kiss him the way YOU did, Kevin! I didn't kiss him the way YOU did! LOOK AT ME! I DIDN'T KISS HIM THE WAY YOU DID!" The voice passed by and I fell back asleep.
///
I woke late, rinsed off, threw on some clothes and drove quickly to work, where we loaded up a van with people and dogs and drove downtown where the parade contingents were gathering in the bright morning sun. Drag queens adjusting each other's fake jewelry, boys in sequined thongs practicing synchronized dance moves, flatbed trucks draped with rainbow crepe and peacock feathers. Two men twirling batons in the shade under the overpass, throwing them high in the air, the MCC choir warming up nearby. Human Rights Campaign Fund guys pulling identical t-shirts over their conservatively gym-toned bodies, rival radio stations kicking out thumping beats from the back of monster pick-up trucks. A flock of dykes and pit-bulls gathering under a sign that reads "Bad Rap." We are leashed to a variety of panting dogs; a deaf dalmation, a chow named Zeus, a lab named Thelma, an assortment of mutts and four six-week old Rottweiler pups that we divvy up and carry in our arms for an unprecedented people socialization opportunity. We feed them ice-cubes as the hours pass. We are contingent #55, and it seems forever before the floats ahead begin to move. As we round the first corner onto Market St in the heart of downtown the crowd is ten deep on the sidewalks and they're cheering and waving and capturing a thousand moments on a thousand different cameras. I carry one of the pups in my arms and walk near the crowd, and for the entire length of the parade there is a wave of "AWWWWWWWW!!!"s as the people ahead catch sight of her. I wave one of her little paws at them and they wave back. I know exactly what I am doing.
///
Later I am exhausted. I drive alone back to the Castro and lie on the couch in the Tattooed Monk's dark living room. For a weekend dedicated to pride, it certainly fucks with our heads. Another year has passed and I again resolve to do more next time; I will be happier and better-looking; I will have a beautiful body and a beautiful tan and beautiful new tattoos and I will dance to the music I love in the crowded sweaty streets. I will have more, more of everything that seems to matter the most on weekends such as this.
Instead I say a little prayer of gratitude for all the shame and disgust and secrets endured by those who came before me; the silence and the erasable lives, all the ones who died and are dying in all the beautiful cities, the girl trapped in the wrong body, the boy tied to a fence in the dark Wyoming night. I still love my parade, my people, my motley group of queens and dykes, my bears and bikers, my gliding dreams of rainbow crepe and peacock feathers.
11:10 AM | link
