what was that?

maybe the bus/train is the most exciting part of the first day of my last semester adventure experiment. the unexpected lurks at every bus stop. you never know what kind of queens or hipster jesus freaks are going to get on. the four queens who get on at West Portal are not really surprising except that they're so young maybe thirteen to fifteen and so loud which is probably more insecurity than confidence but still it's working. there they are, copying LeBeija's walk from Paris is Burning right there on the moving train. taking turns to see who can do it better. talking about his ex-boyfriend and why those bitches always looking at me. faux-hawks and purses, and maybe a couple of anne taylor sweaters. that's san francisco on the M Oceanview. but on the 29 Sunset, watch out, some jesus lovers talking about meeting the lord, loving yourself, the lord loves gangsters but the devil is punking them and then they're punking other people, but the have amazing energy those gangsters, there's so much to learn, and more of the lord, and something about the father. what? is this for real? they're sitting behind me. the woman sitting next to be is rolling her eyes and laughing under breath. we all get off at geary and i've got to get a look at these comedians. not what i expected. they look like san franciso funky, not conservative and bland, but ratty/earthy. now i'm scared.

plaid

i found that jacket, but it hasn't changed my life yet. maybe tomorrow. at least, i didn't buy anything new, made of synthetic fabrics, or from a giant corporation. instead i bought from a high-end vintage store where they treat you well and the clothes are already dry-cleaned and actually smell good. it was expensive-ish, even on sell, but it's my money right? i mean the government's money. i mean my credit card company's money. I just wanted it. Something to do. Why do I have justify it? But now Indian summer is here so I won't see it again for six months.
Victor cooked so much food, six different vegetarian dishes from Spain. It goes on for a while eating and talking and drinking. it's nice. i get horny at some point during the meal, but then it passes and by the time that it's time for sex I sort of just want to go home. but i guess this is how people do things. eat huge meals and then have sex? i don't know about that. he probably doesn't always cook six-course meals. maybe we'll just eat macaroni salad next time and fuck over the dining table. i feel sort of un-excited about the whole thing, but that's probably not a bad thing. it may be fabulous thing. when i get excited about a guy it's usually because i'm hoping he will save me from oblivion. but they're never interested in saving me. i can't relax, i'm anxious, i'm worrying. always. it's getting worse as i age. god, i'm aging now on top of everything else. i might have said this before, but here it goes,it's like dr. nina simone says, we're all gonna die and die like flies. i find this comforting. victor plays a joy division song for me before i go to get on that bus. he doesn't play love will tear us apart but still i can't stop singing love will tear us apart.

something like that

all i want is a new warm jacket. if i had one my whole world would be like - bam! you know, like on. like stepping out the front door and like ready to hit it. pret-a-porter and all that shit. but i couldn't find the right one at any of those dung heaps in union square. i mean dung heap city baby. but where's all the dung beetles to take that shit away?? instead there's only tourists. the stores seem almost empty except for a few rich-looking tourists. and then my broke, but credit-infused, ass ready to throw down. lay down. roll around. smoke grass. and get back on that bus! but first some coffee in that underground cafe that puts me right to sleep. i haven't done anything today and it's really a weight on my shoulders. i still have to stop at trader joe's. frozen berries, cabbage, red peppers, multi-grain bread, two cans of cuban black beans, lavender dryer bags, vanilla soy milk. i still don't have anything to eat. i make grits instead.

walk on by

i'm sitting in the church street cafe. tired from walking all the way from 24th and Valencia, but excited about new purchases. ha! superficiality doesn't go away after turning 30, let me tell you! but a new wardrobe is part of my reinvention project so it has some meaning beyond meaningless shopping. and can we really escape consumerism in 2009? i don't think so, mama. but back to the cafe and more importantly, this neighborhood. this neighborhood is like flashback city, honey. there's that i guy i always see on campus with the big purse and for some reason is always giving me shade or thats what it feels like. he's looking at porn on his laptop right now. is that straight porn? i can't make it out from here. but watching the people go by on the street is much more interesting anyway. i'm drinking my coffee. the old ladies next my are talking about the word "mama" and its universality. i'm looking out the big windows. i feel okay. and then and then and then. there he is walking by. my ex-boyfriend. the one that i haven't seen in three years. the last time i saw i slammed the door in his face with a cigarette hanging out my mouth. that was when i lived in that crappy apartment on market street and had that horrible job and was still going to city college. i mouth the words oh my god. i laugh. there he is just like that. i don't feel anything but oh my god. he looks the same. same black hoodie. walking with a forty-ish white guy which is good because i have no pangs of jealousy. and then he's gone. oh my god. and then there's ron walking by and that guy that i almost had sex with on sixteen different occasions at blow buddies. i just couldn't decide. and then that other guy. i've got to get out of this neighborhood. where's that 22 Fillmore?

late night dining

the week of lunches

oh no! cat puke on my bedroom floor. thanks, tiger! i scream when i see it. it's just a shock, you know. thank god i bought those latex gloves. clean that stuff right up and finally i'm ready for bed.

`etoiles

i returned two half-used bottles of pro-biotics to the whole foods on franklin and california, no receipt required. $32.17, woo-hoo! i was elated as i bumped into yuppies in the crowded aisles, finding things to spend that extra cash on. grits - i've been missing those!, kiwis, enzymes - help!, gingko biloba - help!, cabbage, toilet paper, bananas, strawberry preserves, frozen blueberries, tomatoes, brown rice, dark chocolate with mint crisps - all for $37.07. so i'm really loving whole foods now, right? i mean as much as i can love such a hideous place. i used to work here, sort of, as a personal shopper, so i know what a mainstream masculinity machine it really is. but then, i'm reading the huffington post and there's an article about the ceo of whole foods and his op-ed piece against obama's heathcare plan and now i really loathe whole foods, no matter their return policy.

the professor comes over to see my pink room. everybody loves it. we go to this taiwanese place on clement for lunch. he orders beef ligament. so you actually eat that, i ask. what is it exactly? not really ligament, right? but yes, really ligament, and lots of people love it. they cook it for days, so it's very flavorful. i was thinking we were probably going to have sex later but do i really want to kiss a mouth that had just had ligament in it? no, but i do. the adventure, lady, the adventure. we go to green apple books and i find jean-philippe toussaint's The Bathroom. and then i have to go to the bathroom. the sex is fine and i'm alive.

routine

it's warm tonight on clement street. i just want to get out the house. headaches and naps and nightmares. neck pain, stomach aches, ejaculate. i finally do my sun salutations in the morning. all of my routines are askew since moving back. fuck i want some crack! no kidding, but maybe something sweet. the blue danube is too bright and crowded. same for toy boat. i need dark and dirty cafe. oily, sour, bitter, and blah. at the library i return a slighty read book in the after hours drop. two guys sitting outside with their laptops, the wi-fi is on all night. on craigslist, a human urinal is looking for dom piss tops. i think about responding. i mean, i am in the neighborhood, so maybe... i take Henri to mountain lake park, but then i have to go to the bathroom. what is it with me and lakes? walking past green apple books, i spot michelle tea's novel Rose of No Man's Land in the discount bin, marked down to $2.98 and finally, i feel like smiling. not because i'm happy that her book is unloved and unwanted, but because i just read it, a library copy, and it's funny to see it sitting there on the dark street, waiting to be discovered and for such an amazing price!

the zoo

Sitting on the steps on the east side of the building, my usual spot, waiting for lunch break to be over, counting down the minutes, the seconds, until I can escape the unsupervised teen aged hillbilly masses -- there's that one who thought that To Kill a Mockingbird was pro-racist when I started to describe the book to him, I hear you man, kill them all he said, and there's that one who's always shooting me with with a water gun, and that one who calls me sexy, thanks! Just a sampling of the really cool people that I go to high school with. I'm counting down the minutes until the relative security of the classroom where homophobic teachers are the norm, but still they won't let me be blatantly harassed in class, or usually not,anyway, it's more of an of off-handed harassment in which they participate fully with comments like doesn't it make you sick to see those men holding hands in Natchitoches -- I've never seen them but it is a college town and Steel Magnolias was filmed there so it is like gay mecca for Northwest Louisiana, or asking some other students if it's true that I'm gay, and they're all certain that it's true. This is Coushatta High School in Coushatta, Louisiana -- the other mecca of Northwest Louisiana, of backward thought, redneck style and the perpetuation of every negative stereotype of the South that ever was. That's why a crowd starts to form while I'm sitting on the steps, counting down the endless minutes, around two new students who just appeared seemingly out of nowhere standing uncertainly against the red brick walls. Brother sister, Jose and Rosa. You get the picture here- Jose and Rosa are from Mexico, the children of migrant workers here for tree planting season. Apparently, they're planning on sticking around long enough to have their kids go to school here, but what a depressing thought. Jose and Rosa are cornered now, pushed and prodded like petting zoo animals, real excitement for these hillbilly children who never get to go nowhere, never get to do nothing. I want them all to die except for Jose and Rosa. I already feel solidarity with the recent arrivals. They're the only Mexicans, and I'm the only fag. I'm sure we'll be friends. I have a hard-on unrelated to the recent arrivals and now break/hell is over. I rearrange my stuff discretely and proceed towards some version of education.

bib

high-speed internet is fabulous, but just a little too tempting. i wanna check this, look at that, once more, just once, and then again, and then in an hour, and once more before bed. and that's not including facebook. i only really like about three of my friends on facebook. i don't even know half of them and some of them i just down right hate. but i've got my pink room and i'm feeling happy-ish and it just different. i hope it lasts. maybe i'm not lonely anymore. could it be? moi, not lonely? i'm not lonely and not looking for sex. bizarre times for sure. i found a pink jacket at american rag to match my pink room. gotta pull that wardrobe together before the semester starts. statement of style, girl. statement of style. i want this semester to be different. i want to approach it differently. i don't want to miserable there anymore. maybe style will help. it's one approach. and well reinvention never hurt anybody. except maybe anne heche. i used to think what a crazy bitch. but now after reading about how she was abused by her father and her denies and trying to convert gay people to heterosexuality, i can see why she had a breakdown. i hate my family. sometimes. going to temple was fun-ish. i like going out with m. because there's no expectations to have a good time and no one pressures me to drink seventy-three cocktails. he doesn't drink at all and i do sometimes and only a couple max. i didn't drink anything at temple because i wasn't sure if my body was up to it. one screwdriver would have helped me loosen up though. i like the music and managed to dance a little but couldn't relax with all the people standing around just looking at the dancefloor. i need everything to align for me relax and have fun at a club. the perfect amount of people on the dancefoor-crowded, but not too crowded which means enough room to move around in but also surrounded by enough people that you don't feel like you're being examined. at least on cocktail. amazingly addictive music. mixed crowd. cute clothes. comfortable shoes. i was lacking a lot of those things at temple. but still, the bitch is back and she's pink.

the walls

statement of style

so i painted my room pink today. a new color, a new life. it's a happy color. the same pink you find on some houses in florida or some place like that. you can find one or two in san francisco, too. maybe that happy color will rub off on my personality. it's the first time i've ever painted my own room in any of the fifty odd houses and apartments i've lived in over the past thirty-one years. i guess i'm looking to settle in and stick around. and i never wanted to stay too long in any of the other places. except for when i lived by buena vista park. i lived there for three years, but my room was already a gorgeous shade of green so i never thought about painting. now i'm settling in and doing so in style. of course, of course, of course.

the neighborhood

I'm looking for the Real Foods on 20th and Geary. At least I think there's one around here. I ask someone and she points me to a Russian produce store. No, that's not it. I keep walking. I like this part of Geary. There's a funky old ice cream place. And that place that's a diner and video store in one. The booths are occupied by solo senior citizens eating pie and drinking coffee. I want to hang out there in the future. I ask another person about Real Foods and then the adventure really begins. She doesn't think there's a Real Foods around here. But she know all about Rainbow and their twenty percent off coupons in the Yellow Pages. She tells me at least three times. She tells me about the Tokyo Shop on Clement which has cheaper green tea than in Japantown. The Chinese restaurant with a happy hour. A sushi place. She's third generation Japanese. She keeps all this information inside her for when someone needs it. She tells me to always bless my food. I say okay, but I won't. I thought this would be a five-second conversation but it must be more like ten minutes. After the eighth time I say thank you and wave good-bye she offers me orange. are you sure? Yeah, it's from the senior center. So I take my orange and get back on the 38 Geary.

platinum cum dump

I went to see the film Sex Positive at the Roxie mainly to get out of the house. I was supposed to see it with mattilda but the timing wasn't right. Timing, timing, timing. So I went alone. But before that I stop at Whole Foods and spend $19.73 on dinner. Macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, pomegranate chana masala, tofu curry, and a dolma from the prepared foods bar, an acidophilus drink, a sweet and salty energy bar, and a gingerade kombucha. The movie depressed me more than I already was. I might never have unsafe sex again. Hell, I may never have sex again. I'm worried I aspirated some food into my lungs. Just had to throw that in. David Berkowitz invented safe sex in the early eighties as a response to AIDS. People thought he was crazy. Being gay meant you never had to use a condom. He also thinks that hiv is not the only factor that causes aids which leads him to classified as quack by some. He was an S/M hustler too. But he doesn't really want to focus on that. He gets really defensive talking about hustling and drugs at first but eventually opens up about it. Micheal Callen talks lists all of the STDs he's had and it's like every STD in existence and it's a little too close to home. I wince, I cringe. Syphillis, gonorheraa, shingella, giardia, claymidia-I can't spell them, but I know there horrible. He thinks having all of these diseases, taking antibotics, taking drugs, drinking, lack of sleep etc have led him and other gay to contracting AIDS. They call it the multi-theory factor which nobody in the mainstream believes in. When I walk out of the theatre I see Kyle. I'm already depressed, I don't that. But I don't think he saw me. He turned the corner on valencia otherwise I would have said hi to him even though he hasn't returned my call from three years ago. The last one where I said, kyle I can't believe you're not going to call me back. And he didn't. He looked very adult like. He must be like twenty-four now. He looks smart and employed and purposeful. Happy maybe. Then I'm thinking about how the last time I saw him on the street and how that was the last straw-I had to get out of san francisco. It was in the castro on 17th just past cala foods. I was walking with jeff and there he was walking past us. It just a flash but there he was. He was laughing I think. It felt like he was laughing at me. But maybe he was just happy to see me. It was a flash. He didn’t say hello. I looked back and he was laughing I think. Laughing at me for walking, for existing? Yes, I'm still existing even though you never called me back. I don't know, why but I know I just wanted to lay down and cry right then. But why? He's just a boy and so I am and if he wants to laugh or think that I'm a loser because I kept dropping my speech class well does it really matter? So now I'm in oakland. But I can't blame kyle. He went to stanford, he can't help but be an elitist cow.

mr. clump clump

My father drives some kind of Plymouth that was produced for about two years. It's gray, a hatchback. So economical. Frugal, not cheap-that's what he calls his lifestyle. I call it cheap ass cheap. We're driving to meet my Mom at the Bills Dollar Store parking lot in Ringgold-the mid-way point between Coushatta and Minden. This happens every Friday night-I escape from living with this sad clump of life called my father and enter the more lively but still troublesome world of my mother's house. I put Boy George's single The Crying Game into the cassette player. We whizzing by all the staples of Coushatta life on Highway 71. The Piggly Wiggly, The Dollar Store, Fausto's Fried Chicken, the Cheverolet dealership, a few gas stations, the Dairy Queen, the nursing home, the motel-but whoever stays there, I can't imagine. I ask him if he likes the song. I tell him it's Boy George. He says, if it's radical, you're all for it. You got that right. I'm bringing the Crying Game to Coushatta like it or not, Sag Bag. Of course, I know Boy George is far from radical, but there's no telling that to Mr. Clump Clump. We're out of the strip now, thirty miles to go to Minden. There's lots of pines trees and pastures along the way, cows and broken down farmhouses, long abandoned stores waiting for a fire and time, time, time. God, just step on it. I'm counting down the minutes now. I'm always counting down the minutes until this will all be over. We ride mostly in silence but sometimes we have political conversations. Never religious ones cuz he goes ballistic when I question his beyond scary beliefs. He thinks Boy George is radical from his early eighties days. But he has no idea about The Crying Game. First there are kisses, then there are tears. Jaye Davidson is cute, that's what I'm thinking about in my silence. I can't imagine what he's thinking about. Finally, we make it to the parking lot and there's my mom in her car waiting for us and what an amazing yet most likely momentary feeling of relief. I have escaped yet again. Drive like hell, lady.

skipping

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class

In the seventh grade is when I accept that I'm into other guys dicks. This is the year when they seem to be everywhere at school. Hard and soft, black and brown-that's right, none of the white boys were showing off- they're popping out all over the place and my eyes are glued to the spectacle. Most classes are a free for all where the teachers can only pretend to be in control. I don't think learning ever really entered into anyone's mind. We were off the streets and getting fed and that was enough. It was non-stop acting-up, cutting-up, beating-up, and yes, getting it up. In Science class, Richard is the most ready to get it up and I'm all too eager to encourage him. Maybe we don't even have a teacher at this point. Mrs. Leggit got fired-maybe for wearing slutty clothes-and then Mrs. Jones comes out of retirement to "teach" us, but I think there was a lag. I use my friend Joey as a ruse. Richard, Joey wants to see your pubic hair. He's all grin and instantly hard in his lose fitting pajama-style pants. He comes over, pants lowered just enough to show of his tight, neat black pubic hair. Joey's all giggles, screaming no, no! But I know she wants to see it as much as me. Show her your cock! But he doesn't and I'm so disappointed. At least I'll have good masturbation material this afternoon when I get home from school.

sleep

All during the time I live in the matchbox house, I'm afraid to sleep by myself. Or at least from age four to fourteen. i can fall asleep in my bed as long as someone is awake in the house. Usually my father stays up to watch the ten o'clock news. And maybe my sister stays up writing in her diary. That's before she moved out. But I always wake up in the middle of the night, scared to close my eyes for too long. Or even worse-I don't fall asleep at all. I'm dreading the night as the TV is turned off and everything gets dark. Sometimes I pretend I'm sick so that my father will let me sleep in his bed. Having a sore throat works for a while, but one night he's just not having. There I am next to his bed telling him that I have a sore throat but really meaning that I need to get in your bed if I'm going to get any sleep. But tonight he doesn't understand, he thinks I've really got a sore throat and that it needs to be treated. Into the kitchen we go, bright lights, looking down my throat, yelling. Is there a flashlight involved? He has a stash of antibiotic samples because his boss's brother is doctor and because he's paranoid. He wants to give me an antibiotic for my sore throat. I don't want to take the antibiotic and then I'm crying. I just want to go to sleep. I won't take the antibiotic which means I'm lying about the sore throat which means I have to go back to my bed. For now anyway, maybe I can sneak back into his bed without him noticing. Fuck antibiotics, give me a sleeping pill! Maybe it's hereditary. My Mom was like that when she was a child and my uncle too. Now I can't sleep any other way than alone.

make my day

Technotronic's Pump Up the Jam is my favorite song to dance to in the seventh grade. This was before I discovered Tina Turner, but that's a whole different story. And it's before my Dad comes home, otherwise he would get pissed about me having my door closed and playing loud music. Oh, the things I did when that motherfucker wasn't there. I mean, I really cranked it. I would dance until I was sweaty and exhausted. I think there was a lot of bent over head banging. Not that Technotronic makes head-banging music, but it just feels good. Nobody would think I was a good dancer. I mean I probably wasn't a good dancer but I wanted to dance, I wanted to move, and people would have trouble believing even that. But I work hard at it. Make my make my ma-ake my day. Then I feel better. It's another small way of being connected to the rest of the world. Thank you Technotronic.

It's a red brick house in a dead-end all-white neighborhood just off of highway 7. We're in the low-rent section of the neighborhood closest to the highway. The bigger houses with the kids who go to private school are farther back. A matchbox with three bedrooms, it's badly designed. The door off the carport leads into the kitchen. White linoleum floors with an abstract pattern of black squiggly lines. Pink formica counter tops and some shiny-looking wooden cabinets. Girl, I'm ready to puke. There's a door to the left that goes directly into my father's room or one straight ahead which leads into the living/dining room and that's where things really get ugly. Forrest green shag carpeting and gold yellow walls, what were they thinking? It's a big room divided by a wood burning stove-that's for heating not cooking, it's cheaper than central heating. And I guess he likes to make fires, but I don't think he likes to chop wood. Linoleum floors, some pale orange color in the rest of the house including the bedrooms and ugly wooden sliding doors round out the full-on ugliness factor of the house. My father says the man who built it, built for a woman but she said it wasn't good enough and left the man, so he sold it. My father finds it dumbfounding that the woman thought it wasn't good enough, but I understand completely. But the mortgage is one hundred and thirty-three dollars a month, so hey. I wonder if I'll inherit it? And if I do what will I do with it? Go back and remodel it and reclaim my past? No I'll just sell it. There used to be five giant pine trees in the front yard by the street, but he cuts them down because he's worried about the roots messing with the water line. He's always worried. I was always afraid to sleep by myself in that house.

hill castle

The truth is my whole life is dependent on credit. Without my credit cards and student loans life as I know it would be over. But I'm not sure that would be a bad thing. I'm worried about running out of cash before I get my student loan money when the fall semester starts so I use my credit card to buy groceries. The cute one, the one with the reproduction of the impressionist painting "Paris: A Rainy Day." And that's fitting because that painting captures the time of the rise of consumerism. People say, I like your credit card and I say thanks. I can hardly take a walk without having a shopping goal in mind. And if I don't find something, anything, then it feels like a waste of time. That's why walking to Whole Foods is always a good option. I can always find something in that dump.

The fireworks are starting, it must be the forth of july. My neighbor, the one who can't call herself gay or even bi, even though she did have a relationship with a woman for six years, invites me to the roof to watch the fireworks with her friend from the east coast. They're both psych nurses. Scary, I say. What's really scary is that she's sixty and has absolutely no wrinkles. I didn't even know we could go on the roof. Isn't the roof slanted? This is a tudor style building after all but I guess the key word is style. The slant is just an effect, it's all flat on top. I can't believe I've never been up here. I adore rooftops. The views, the privacy. I'm way more excited about the rooftop than the fireworks. I mean I'm not at all excited about the fireworks but I'm trying to be friendly. More people arrive to enjoy the spectacle. We think we might have to hit the ground because of the errant rockets being fired from other roofs.

neopolitan

i don't want to get out of bed. Nothing's wrong exactly, but ain't nothing right either. i don't want to be this person today. i want to wake up in a different body, or at least better clothes. i don't have anything to wear. never nothing to wear except rubber band bracelets. I think about good intentions, about living in the moment, but instead I keep wallowing in old memories. I know I'll feel better once I get up, but still that's not enough motivation. When I finally get on the street after three hours of moving towards presentable, that's when I feel good, feel alive, feel okay. It's just walking. Walking to the station, waiting, sitting, riding. These things I can do.
Rahim tells me I'm autistic, but he's an arrogant a-hole from hell. He's all cheerful about it. It's a good thing, you can get help, there's drugs you can take. He not serious, but he is serious about me taking drugs to be normal. To rise to his level of normalcy. I'm socially retarded, but not autistic, there's a difference. He thinks he's got me all figured out. Why? Because he went to Davis and before that Berkeley and now he's a lawyer so he should be able to figure me out. But now I'm thinking maybe I am somewhere in the austism spectrum. Asperger's syndrome, anyone? I read an article about in the newspaper and convince myself that I have it even though the paper doesn't really list the symptoms but apparently a lot people have it. I rush to the library and look for books about autism and then I feel silly and I know I don't have it. I'm just broken. Are there any drugs for that?

rituals

There is a point in the seventh grade when I think about suicide. I get all after-school special-y about it. This is something that teenagers go through. I ask Tara if she ever thinks about. I'm trying to stand out amongst the rednecks and hillbillies with my depression - suicide is so urban and sophisticated. Being alone inside the house after school before my father comes home, I can process the horrors of the day. After escaping the last possible opportunity for harassment for the day, getting off the school bus, now I'm ready for my breakdown. I take out the serrated kitchen knife and run it across my wrists. It's the isolation, I can't breathe. I know I won't do it, but take comfort in the option. And as long as I have the option I can keep going. I know my existence doesn't have to be like this, but I'm trapped for now. I take a few sips of my father's vodka to be dramatic. I was never into getting drunk even back then, but apparently I am into wallowing in my misery. It's the fear, never being able to relax, never feeling safe. Sitting on linoleum floor in the kitchen, leaning against wooden cabinets, wanting to hide, to disappear, I put the knife down. The insanity of being harassed and never fighting back, hiding it, being ashamed of it, never talking about it to anyone is hurting me. I'm living two lives now, both bleak. There's no help, no hope, not even a glimmer. Sometimes I pray before I go to sleep that when I woke up in the morning everything that I have known to be my life will actually have been just a dream. TV helps. I watch Oprah everyday after school. I put a frozen burrito in the microwave before the show starts. I eat a Little Debbie snack cake while I wait for my burrito to be done. I drink nothing but coca-cola, day after day. I take my burrito to the living room and eat it in a blur of gagging despair while I watch Oprah.

deadpan

At Springville Middle School, circa 1991, in Coushatta, Louisiana, I was named "king" of my seventh grade class. Or king of the white children anyway. On your knees, hillbillies, the bitch is back. The black children elected their own kings and queens. I suppose they had to do it that way to keep white children happy. No white king or queen would have ever won otherwise, Springville Middle School being a mostly black, public school. The white children will have equality! Welcome to every horrible stereotype of the South. It was the worst of my school years in a lot of ways. The most harassment, the worst alienation, and realizing that yes I did want to suck cock and I was okay with that, but having no access to cocks to suck. But I guess I still had hope, or I hadn't totally shut down anyway. There must have only been about ten white boys in the seventh grade and I don't think any of them would have been up to feminizing prospect of competing for the title of king. The irony: sometimes it takes a queen to run for king. And I can say with some confidence that I was the obvious choice for the job. How did the nominations work? I think the election "officials" came into class and asked for nominations and then students raised their hands to vote. Since there were so few white boys I was bound to be nominated. I didn't want to be king, the limelight would be too intense. The culminating experience, well, really the only experience for the kings and queens was a crowning ceremony and dance. oH and there was a parade through town. This sounds like Homecoming? But I don't remember homecoming or any football themes. When I was nominated, I suddenly did want the title, badly. I guess there was a run-off, but I'm sure the other contestants had no interest in competing. And this is the funny part, in order to win I didn't have to get the most votes, I just had to raise the most money for the school. When I told my father this part of the process he was troubled by the ethical standards of this election and decided not to help me. I started crying. Why couldn't he ever help me? I realized the absurdity of it too, but still I wanted it. Finally he conceded to help me raise money in order to become king. I went to my grandparents and they rolled up all their pennies for me. I was pissed. Can't you write me a check, Nanny? Now I know where her son gets his cheapness from. Other contestants had more creative ways of getting money. Wendy Wilson who was competing for eighth grade white queen put a donation jar at Fausto's Fried Chicken. It was good chicken, but not my scene. I continued to bamboozle family members for donations. Wendy lost and I won, but then again she was a legend of sexual promiscuity in our school, so she was already a queen in my eyes. Maybe I thought being King would change things for me. Or maybe I just wanted to go to a party or just be a part of something. To be, well, yes, validated.

telegraph

burgeoning success through failure

failure is success. success is failure. failure through success. succeeding through failing. I wish I had never eaten his ass. I mean I never do that, but for some reason those three times that we hung out i wanted to, and did, eat it every time. there was something about his asshole, freshly shaved, that i wanted. it probably just means that i was just really attracted to him. But that's probably where I got it from which means that he has it, too. But he must be asymptomatic. when i ate him out (ha!) the first time he said, don't worry i washed everything. so he must conscious of what is and could be going on down there and i'm sure he wouldn't be knowingly spreading parasites. What a disaster that most every attempt at dating has been lately. and well, always. But this one, wow, I mean really a disaster. I thought it was mostly me before, but now it appears that he gave me a parasite. I should have just stayed at home. Again. It never would have worked out anyway. He's into houses, cars, success, labels. But he's an introvert which makes me think I could have loved him. Cute introverts really do it for me. Note to self: must retain sense of humor. There just seems like so many reasons why it doesn't make sense for me to pursue a relationship or even sex at this point. I keep telling people it's over, no more dating, no more sex. It's meant as a joke but it's also feels kind of true. It feels good at the moment to not be thinking about those things. Well, I mean I'm thinking about them, but to not be pursuing those experiences feels fine. But I'm probably just denying to myself what I really want/need. That's not necessarily a relationship, but it's definitely more, of something.
I said I was going to read Midlife Queer by Martin Duberman to celebrate the 40th anniversary of Stonewall. And I read it, or the first eighty pages. Alvin Ailey cruised for sex in public restrooms. That's best tidbit yet. Oh, and apparently Foucault praised gay men in the u.s. for creating the "first new form of sex in hundreds of years" with fist-fucking. I went to a gay shame thingy with mattilda. It was about de-centering the center to make it accessible to poor and marginalized people of the community instead of about making money. The demands they made and their manifesto seemed right on and inspiring, but it seemed to attract a very specific crowd that was as interested in fashion and being arty and cute as creating actual change. I've often thought of going to the Gay Shame meetings at Modern Times on Saturday afternoons, but I've always had to work on saturdays and now I'm glad I never went. Mattilda said there would only be like five people there. I wouldn't have anything to say. Never anything to say. Alice Walker says that when she went to Palestine with Code Pink she was surprised at how much talking all the Code Pink members were doing. She said sometimes it just better listen, to just be. Thank you for that Alice!

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the view

happy together again

Watching Wong Kar-Wai's film Happy Together again brings back memories. First there are the memories of earlier days in San Francisco, hanging out with Frankie at Café Flore, gossiping about Hong Kong movie stars and learning to say “you’re handsome” in Cantonese. We talked about travel a lot, too, and always international, of course. The film is all about travel and everything that goes with it: beauty, longing, excitement, loneliness, lust, boredom, adventure, mishaps and misunderstandings. So then I’m remembering my trip to South America which was partly inspired by the movie, but more specifically by my desire to runaway from reality and to go as far away as I possibly could. In the film, two men from Hong Kong live out their tumultuous relationship against the gorgeous backdrop of Buenos Aires. They are travelers, but stranded, which heightens their beautifully dysfunctional relationship. Or at least it seems beautiful when paired with the glamour shots of Buenos Aires decay and the roar of Iguazu Falls. Ho Po-wing and Lai Yiu-fai continuously treat each other horribly, but then get back together based on their willingness to “start over.” I didn't travel with an impossible boyfriend, but I definitely traveled with my own set of impossibly mundane problems. I was trying to escape a dead end job, ever-present loneliness, and of course, myself. I wanted to start over, too, and there’s something about a foreign country and thousands of miles that makes it seem like a possibility.
Walking to the obelisk at sunset my first night in Buenos Aires, I was holding on to the dream of reinvention. Everything was a shimmering pinkish-purple color that night, or that's how I remember it anyway. The clouds were pink, and everything was shiny and glowing. Yes, that's it. I sat there with everybody else looking at the beauty, feeling the beauty. It was the newness, the foreignness, the otherness that I loved, and that left me empty. And then there’s that question already, what am I doing here? I didn’t find any answers back at the dusty and drab, Hotel Maipu. I remember everything inside the hotel as being some shade of the color brown. But somehow even that became beautiful in the dim, distant lighting created from some unseen skylight, bathing everything in a lost grandeur. Or at least that’s how a gay man would write about it in a novel. There was no front desk, just a couple of elderly men sitting on opposite ends of a torn up leather sofa for hours on end. My room faced the street which was so loud and congested that I just wanted to stay in bed. Reading a left-behind copy of James Baldwin's Go Tell It on the Mountain, I got so depressed. And then there was that rash on my hip which made me think I had caught some nasty disease. Unfortunately, I didn’t leave my hypochondria at home. There’s a lot of things that don’t go away just because of different times zones, continents, and languages. I didn’t really go out at night and what’s a young gay male traveler doing if he’s not going out? I attempted a couple of times, walked by a couple of intimidating looking bars. Now I can’t remember if I was afraid of being out alone at night or just afraid to go into bars with loads of attractive men because of my low self-esteem. I mean what would I say to their questions? No, I don’t really know why I’m here. I’m just waiting form something unexpectedly beautiful and exciting to happen to me which could only happen here and would never happen at home. It will happen here because I’m different here. Obviously that was a lie because I couldn’t even make into the bar to have this imaginary conversation in reality.
During the day, I thought about Happy Together and tried to track down some of its landmarks. The cruisy bathroom at the train station was first on my list, of course. It’s portrayed with comic melancholy in the film. Yiu-fai goes there because he’s lonely and horny after Po-wing breaks up with him. I can relate. Certain aspects of cruising reality are so real in the film, like the guy pretending to fix his hair in the mirror but we all know what he’s really there for. It’s busy when I go in, so I’m excited, but I know I’m just falling back into old patterns and it’s more melancholic than comical. Later I peak in the window of the Bar Sur where in the film Yiu-fai works as a doorman and runs into Po-wing again after they’ve broken up. It was empty when I walked by, closed, too early in the day for the tango dancers to be putting on their show and it didn’t matter anyway because it’s just a fancy tourist place where I would never go. Although, according to a journal entry written while in Buenos Aires, I did want to learn the tango. I guess that’s inspired by the film, too. In a beautiful scene, Yiu-fai and Po-wing practice the tango in the run-down communal kitchen of their building. I guess what I really wanted was a man like Yiu-fai. What I got were three drunken guys. Walking down the deserted street, I pass them sitting on the sidewalk, drinking from bottles and looking for trouble. And no surprise they whistle as I walk by. It’s a shock, although it shouldn’t be. What else would they do but whistle when a queen walks by? They’re just playing their part. But it’s a call back to my reality. Something like that didn’t happen in the movie. And I haven’t escaped anything by coming to Buenos Aires and I never will escape myself. I’ll always be this and only this no matter where I am. Not that I’m trying to escape being a queen, but I just wanted to be different. I didn’t want to have any experiences that I had before, but that’s all I was having. My film and travel fantasies were cracking.
There was a transportation strike on the day I was leaving, and I thought I might not make it to my next stop, Santiago de Chile, where I was now desperate to get to. Now it wasn’t myself, San Francisco, or the United States that I needed to escape, but Buenos Aires that was keeping me down. I hadn’t really talked to anyone accept for a guy I met in the cruisy bathroom at a mall who wanted to take me for a drive, but I refused because it felt risky. The remnants of Happy Together that I found in Buenos Aires were flat and blank without the camera lens and soundtrack to weed out the dirty, noisy, bright white background of reality. My own movie of Buenos Aires is tired and lifeless and not anywhere near to the reinvention of myself that I’d imagined when fantasizing about the trip. It was all so much better in the movie. But still I’m not ready to give up on that dream of reinvention. Now I just need to go back and do it again, do it better.

represent

The movie was good and that was the good part. Usually the gay film festival movies are just not worth it. But the gay men pack the houses anyway, more for the social experience I suppose than for quality films. And, of course, the possibility of seeing penis on the big screen. Or maybe they're just really desperate for images of gay life represented in film. But if its really, really bad representation, what's the point? Documentaries are usually a safer bet than the fictional films, and It Came From Kuchar lives up to this theory. The Kuchar brothers are twins, both of whom have been making "underground," experimental films for something like fifty years. They're totally wacky, not following any conventions in their work or personal lives. Outsider cinema from head to toe, socially awkward and not afraid to show it. They received an award from the festival on the night of the screening. They both got up in front of full audience at the castro theatre and rambled on, only vaguely on topic, and it was great. The audience loved it. And maybe that's why people show up to see these films - the possibility of coming in contact with something obscure and strange, but amazingly fabulous and totally camped out. But with films like Greek Pete, which sadly got two screenings, the festival insults its audience by thinking that semi-hardcore sex scenes are going to make up for a pointless and depressingly dull look at the world of escorts in london.

The date with the guy that I met in Rockridge, but who lives in san francisco, where I'm going to be living again very soon, which led me to the Kuchar film was confusing. Do I like him or not, or am I just desperate? Does he like me or not? He seemed really smart and interested in a lot of different things. He has some money. He's a real live successful San Francisco homosexual. This is their city. And yes, I'm jealous. But then not jealous and just sad. And then not sad, just defiant. And then not defiant, just sleepy. Being on date a with someone is also kind of like being on date with yourself. I mean, if you're at all self-conscious, which I am just a tad. I notice all the bad habits I have which I thought would have been squashed by now. I don't speak loud enough. That's because I'm uncomfortable in public. Or with certain people. Well, most people. Especially when surrounded by a bunch of loud gay men. But then that's true when around a bunch of loud straight people, too. Not only don't I talk loud enough, but I'm so uncomfortable I can't think of anything to say anyway. And then I drop my fork on the floor with a splash. We start talking about Isabelle Huppert and then I've got something to say. I worship that woman's screen image. M. Streep, eat your heart out. Then my chopsticks fly up in the air. Splash. At his place, we eat lychee ice cream instead of drinking beer and there's three reasons why I shouldn't stay. But of course I do stay because I'm so open to the experience. And that's it, I should have just left. But then the sex was hot. But now there's not going to be anymore sex so does it matter. I realize how desperate I am when I go on a date. How just barely holding on I really am.

walking in the dark

have a wonderful evening

If only, if only I could. The first time I came to san Francisco I had platinum colored hair. And platinum colored eyebrows. Not really a good look for me. I had wanted to dye it blonde, but jesse insisted on platinum. If you’re gonna go blonde, you might as well go all the way. Well, I’m all about all the way, so I said hit it. And he really did me up. Burnt my scalp and the whole nine. This is in Lubbock, Texas at the Looking Glass Hair Salon. The salon is in downtown, the storefront of an abandoned hotel. It’s a huge building, must be ten stories and that’s tall for Lubbock. We walk through it once and it is predictably creepy. Rooms in disarray, curtains gently flapping. Dusty red brick streets and dusty red sky, that’s Lubbock. What’s that smell? Fuck, it’s burning. I mean, that smell is cow shit, but my scalp is burning. Rinse it out, I can’t take anymore. We go to lunch at this sort of upscale restaurant. The mother and daughter at the table next to us stare. And if I remember correctly I might have flipped them off in the parking lot. Those bitches. We dyed my hair because I was going to San Francisco. Now I’m moving back to San Francisco next month. Maybe a dye job is in order.

when a diva goes hiking...

Things are so desperate I apply for a job at starbucks. Black polo, black or khaki pants, black shoes. Can you deal with the dress code? If you give me some free coffee I can deal with anything. Can you deal with people younger than you giving you orders? Sounds exciting. I'm not sure if I wowed him. I really tried to bring it, but those starbucks corporation questions are tough. I did get a free tall soy latte, so it wasn't for nothing.
Hiking in point reyes with henri is gorgeous. Maybe the best part is the next day, waking up with those images of grazing elk, wildflowers, the ocean, and the hills, still in my mind. And what about those giant black beetles, the weasel, and that snake! Or course I scream. But no divas are injured on this hike. We walk for miles and miles. About eight, I think. And I'm tired before we even begin. But then when you start going, you start forgetting. Everything.
Watching The Ice Storm for laughs and Sigourney Weaver is a revelation. No kidding! She can really chew the scenery. But then again everyone else in the film is a sucking bore. But the best part and the real reason that I adore, I mean j'adore, Sigorney is that she has the most gorgeous yellow teeth you've ever seen in the movies! Thank you lady S. for keeping it real.

deserted streets

It's getting dark and I'm riding my bike in koreatown, or is it koreastreet , I spot two cute young guys walking towards broadway. I decide to follow them to see where they're going. But then I feel like a stalker so I ride on to chinatown. And there's a tiny pizza place on the corner that I've never seen before. And people are actually eating there, sitting outside. It is warm tonight. I'll have to come back for pizza in chinatown some other warm night when I have absolutely nothing else to do. I guess that will be tomorrow night? I'm wondering about those guys again. Why don't I know anyone who I can walk down semi-deserted dark streets with? No one who I know in san francisco would be into that and everyone I know in the east bay-well, I don't actually hang out with anyone that I know in the east bay. But there's that adult bookstore over there. Is anyone there? There's one guy who might be my flavor if you know what I'm saying, but it's a big IF and just too depressing to go inside. The homemade booths with recycled 70's paneling and the stark lighting are enough to kill any of my chinatown sex fantasies, of which there are a few. I hear on Fresh Air that nine murders in the U.S. have been linked to white supremacist groups since Obama was elected. I read something similar in the newspaper and I feel ill. The hate rhetoric is heating up apparently. And I think of my family and its racism. They all say they're not racist, but they say such racist things and live in all white worlds. The father of my mom's second husband was rumored to be in the kkk. Way, way too close. Thanks mom! That marriage didn't last long thankfully. His parents lived in trailer in the middle of nowhere. I've been in way too many trailers in the middle of nowhere in my life and that scares me when I think about it. I tried to watch this documentary called Southern Comfort about a transman and a transwoman who fall in love in the rural south. But I couldn't get past the first fifteen minutes because the transman lives in a trailer in the middle of nowhere and it was just a bit too real. I want my mom do something about it. I want her to educate herself and talk to her family and be a leader in her community against racism, homophobia, and people living in trailers in the middle of nowhere. But what I am doing? Just thinking about me, me, me. And honey, whoa is me.

looking for work

Oak Street is a hotbed for random social interactions. Walking out of the lake merritt bart station, I'm worrying about finding a job. Standing at the corner waiting for the light to change and the girl standing there peaks around the light post. Excuse me, do you have a cell phone? It's been over a year, but I remember her. The last time she asked me if I had a cell was at the 19th street bart station. She must be fifteen and not too friendly, but cool. I say, didn't you use my phone before. She looks at me and laughs. Oh yeah, you remember faces. Well you're the only one whose ever asked. She says thank you after she's done talking and I say you're welcome. I wish I would have said what's your name, see you next time. I go to an interview on 14th Street, just a few blocks from my apartment. It's with a IT recruiting company, I think. Even after the interview I'm still not sure what they do or what the position entails exactly. An ability to surf the web is one of the main requirements, as is familiarity with microsoft word. I feel myself shutting down as soon as I walk in the office. It's all plastic and fake. It's a large office, but there's no one in there. I keep wondering if its all a scam. It only pays $8 an hour. She wants me to tell her about myself. She wants a real interview, but she can't really tell me about the position. She wants me to explain what Humanities is. Lady, I don't have a clue! Look it up in the dictionary and let me know. All I know is I can't spend another second in this office. Interviews are a form of torture in which you have to pretend to be happy. No, it' not going to work out because yes I'm into art and culture and not low-paying fake positions with fake companies. I could never work here no matter how broke I am. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I have this other interview for a phone canvassing position with an environmental company. They're always hiring, but who's giving them money in a recession? It's in Frank Ogawa Plaza. As I'm rushing there, I'm thinking I don't really want this job either. Calling people and asking for money even if it's for a good cause is mind-altering torture. I finally find the building with two minutes to go before I'm late. I'm trying to decide if I should go in or just go get some coffee. I opt for the coffee. Waiting for the light to change in Old Oakland, a man coming towards me is yelling at everyone he passes. I'm trying to go wherever he's not going. I don't make eye contact. I think he does call me a faggot, but it feels different because he's obviously not well. He's making everybody scared even the middle-class white dads on their lunch breaks. They've stopped on the sidewalk, waiting to see what he's going to do. He calls them faggot. That's weird, I think. I wonder how they process that one. I wonder if they've ever been called faggot before.

sites of injection

Someone is always frying something in the apartment upstairs. I hear that sizzling, bubbling sound in the morning, and in the evening, too. I'm thinking that can't be healthy. I'm picturing batter of some kind dropping into hot oil. Foreign breads I've never tasted, frying up all golden and crispy. It's comforting somehow, that sound, that image. I hear it when I'm in the bathroom with the window open. The window that opens to the airshaft, not the lake. I guess they hear me flushing. I hope they don't mind. But I do have a view of the lake if I lean out of the windows facing the street and turn to the left. Apparently, part of getting ready for Pride includes Botox injections. They're advertising $250 per site. I would do it, but I've got too many possible sites, so I probably can't afford it. I mean, I definitely can't afford it. Yesterday, I was thinking of moving to back to the city. To some hotel, the Sweden House. It looks kinda cute, not SROy, but do I really want to give up my bathroom and kitchen(ette) just to be back in the city. Why am I poor? That's what I'd really like to know. Maybe I should ask my formerly, and still, mostly, estranged family for money. That's probably what they're expecting and lord jesus knows they owe me big time. But honey, THEY can't afford it. But I'm not going to ask them. I don't want their jesus money. And why am I longing for the city anyway? Didn't I move to Oakland to escape that shit? All those dead ends burnt bridges bad memories. And that apartment with the shared bathroom covered in mold because whoever designed it thought a window that actually opened wasn't necessary. I moved to escape and now I want to move back to escape but I can't afford to escape anymore. I'm walking as broke-ass faggoty bitch for the fifty-third time and I'm hoping to finally win a trophy. Now I'm saving all my love for new york city. It's sounds perfect, right? After I graduate, I'll move to new york, become a new yorker once and for all. Get rid of all my shit, pack a few choice items, board that plane all airy and weightless. Step on the gas, I've got to get the fuck out of dodge. Flying fantasies, those are the best. And I'm talking about flying coach, not with feathered wings. But Arnold wants to cut grants for college students from the budget. That reagan wannabe. That charleton heston look-a-like. Maybe I'll never graduate, maybe I'll live in oakland forever, maybe I'll always be sad. But guess what motherfuckers, I've already won.

just a stay at home girl

again, sometimes it's just better to stay at home. forget every good thing i've ever said about oakland. i take it all back. one night out, that's all it takes to erase every dream and possibility you ever had about a place. now i know i'm just a skinny bitch white faggot. always, forever. and somehow it was all my idea. i asked sergio if he wanted to go to this hella gay party. i met him on adam4adam, of course. we had a burrito on tuesday and that was fun, so let's see where it goes. he asks if we can stop by his friends house first, they're going to the party, too. i don't want to, but i say okay. so there it is, the real problem right there. doing things i know are going to be horrible. but still let me blame it on oakland tonight. they're all educated i guess. but loving their drugs and bad tv. the nicest one says, "i like watching tv, you don't here many people say that today." sergio is loud and bitchy. i don't have much to say, big surprise. how do i get myself into this shit? their house is all middle class but i guess they're some kind of cutting edge lesbians. on to the party and sergio is now driving after drinking two beers and now i'm really just wanting to be at home. he's dancing as he drives. why me? the party's on san pablo in a neighborhood i've never been to. i like seeing the different neighborhoods, so that's a plus. it's an interesting space. funky, red and black. behind the bar, "hella gay" is blinking off and on. dirty oakland stank skank realness everywhere. sprawled on sofas, legs on coffee tables covered with bottles and butts. smoke everywhere. mean people everywhere. skinny nerd chic. tough butch style finesse, with highlights. what's up? the dance floor is moist. i think i see michelle tea in the corner, taking notes for her next novel but it's just my imagination running away with me again. if all the women left and were replaced by men, this is exactly the kind of place where i'd liked to get fucked in public. my vodka cranberries aren't doing a damn thing for me. and i still don't have a damn thing to say to these people. why doesn't ms. coleman have anything to say? that's what one of those high schoolers says. oh jesus, let me out here. then the butch one says, or maybe i just imagine it, he's a faggot, he doesn't say anything. definitely the word faggot was used more than once. am i offended? they liked to talk about white people a lot, probably to make me uncomfortable, which it did. i am working some castro clone look, i realize, but they probably don't realize that i realize it. they probably think that's castro realness. if they only knew. it's all horribly wrong. i don't like sergio, i don't like his friends, i like looking at the people dancing for like two minutes, but then i need to get out of there. they want to go to some other party. i go home and i love it so.

time management

They put me in home economics in the eighth grade because I'm a fag. I was in aerospace as my elective originally which often consisted of making and flying paper airplanes. The class was too large so four kids had to be moved to home economics. It was supposed to be a random draw of names by the teacher but I think he lied to get the fag out of his class. I was too distracting when I flew my paper airplanes. My right leg always kicked up when I threw my plane into the wind. So, two fat girls, the nerd, and me left the paper airplanes behind and started doing needlepoint, measuring flour, and talking about acne. Obviously, it was a much more useful class than aerospace. Crafting sounds good right now since I'm celibate for at least the next sixteen hours. I've been meeting a lot of guys lately. On the street, online, and in cafes (in Rockridge!). I wouldn't say too many, but it does take up a lot of time. And yes, I too wish I had something other than sex to write about. Like something political, but I don't know anything about that stuff. I've also been buying a lot of books which I'll probably never read, and checking out even more from the library which I'll definitely never read. What to do with all this time. Trying to figure that out takes up most of the day. At the library, a boy of about thirteen watches gay porn on one of the computers in the children's section. I'm pushing my black cart stacked with books and I freeze when I see the computer screen with one ass being pounded by one big cock. No faces, just ass and cock, pounding. I don't linger because the children's librarian is right there. I wonder if she's seeing this? Suddenly I love the world.

letters for jesus

I finally wrote back to my estranged paternal family. As usual, I thought I couldn't think of anything to write until I actually put pen to paper. I received three letters in the mail two months ago, one from my grandmother and probably gay aunt who live together in shreveport, louisiana, one from my aunt in uncle in atlanta, georgia, and one from another aunt and uncle also in shreveport. This all came about after I contacted my cousin on Facebook out of curiosity about my father. I wanted to know what he was doing and if he was completely crazy. Seems like he's the same as always. Same town, same house, same solitary existence. They all say they miss me and they're praying for me. Love that. I haven't seen or talked to any of them for about fifteen years. It's strange to get letters from them now saying that they miss me. I've never missed any of them, including my father or my grandmother. How can I miss insane, ignorant, evil, religious people? But still I wrote them back and I kept it all very surface. There were three choices: surface friendliness, dramatic realness, or silence. They all went for surface friendliness never mentioning anything about my father and why I've been out of touch for so long. They're all so happy to know I'm doing well. I can imagine they thought I must be living a troubled life without their love and support. What a joke. Do I need to tell I'm gay? I assume that they realize that I'm a queen. But do they even know what a queen is? I'm not even sure my butch closted-lesbian aunt knows what a queen is. But how do I throw that into a letter that's all about surface friendliness and my love of southern cooking, which is the one thing that I do miss from that life. Am I still in closet?

scrap metal

reading sarah schulman's work makes me think about my relationship with my mother. and then i get angry when i'm thinking about my mother. i go into a rage, really, thinking about all the things i could say to her but never do. all the things that would put her in bed for two weeks straight with guilt and sadness. like your life totally excludes me but yet you imply that you want me in your life, but then i'm the one who has to make the effort to be in your life. why do i have to make the effort? why do i have to travel to you when i have no money and you live in a place that makes me uncomfortable, surrounded by people who make me uncomfortable? when i visit, it's like i haven't changed at all. especially when the others are around like step-dad and uncles and cousins. i'm still the silent, sad, mute. god they make me so uncomfortable, but they're so comfortable. they've never questioned themselves and i'm sure they have no idea that i hate them or that i would have any reason, too. part of me wants to go visit. in some ways, i'm most comfortable around my mom and my sister, but only when the others aren't around. and my mom and my sister are so into the others. they're successful and fun and normal and totally fucked up. like scary TV fucked up. plastic, superficial, god-friendly, racist, suburban, hillbilly, redneck, all that bad stuff. my sister tells my niece that i'm weird and then my niece repeats it like a mantra to me the whole time i visit. i say if you're normal honey, count me out. she doesn't get it. sometimes i think if i did actually speak around the others, portraying some sense of my true self they would think i was really crazy. i can't imagine them getting my humor or simply understanding anything that i say. mouths would be agape. but maybe i'm wrong. how would it be if i was just myself the whole time, all the time. they might think i'm crazy but i would be happier.

modern possibilities

i deleted my adam4adam account after one week. hours and hours of looking at severed cocks, heads, and chests, i felt more indecisive than ever. adam did give me three interesting encounters, so it wasn't a complete waste of my life engery, i suppose. the first one was my neighbor from down the hall in number 507. we had chatted in the elevator, of course, and i thought he was sort of hot, but he seemed kind of like an asshole in that way that highly-educated, successful, fifty-year old guys can be. so i didn't pursue it. but then he saw my cock on adam and he was very excited. talk about a convenient hook-up, i just walked down the hall. it was excitement, it was joy. but then i could feel the hillbillies watching me on the 24-hr surveillance cameras as i walked down the hall. the always ruin it. he talked for an almost an hour and told me a story about this other hook-up he had where the trick told him that he talked too much. i didn't know what to say. i asked him if he was a bottom and then things started heating up, sort of. i couldn't really stay in the moment. it was mid-day, i knew i didn't really want to be here doing this, and i knew i couldn't fuck him with a condom. still, i came. unlike the second adam hook-up. i rode my bike all the way to the top of this hill with all the gorgeous houses. oakland has so many of those, so there, haters. anyway, this one is just too much. one thousand year old gates, tribal doors, totem poles, canoes, but modern, too, stucco and stainless steel, windows everywhere, balconies, god the view, rugs, paintings everywhere, and plants, plants, plants. he's a designer, he has a boyfriend, he's from somewhere else, he's busy, he might have to go, oh yeah he has to go. and there's his neighbor at the gate asking for advice on pouring cement and then i'm just some client, well you have my number and e-mail address, call me if you have any questions about the quote. i'm laughing, is he for real. thank god i have my bike so i can zoom away down the hill and forget everything that's ever happened. how do people get like that? so rich, so sure, so boring, so dumb, so fulfilled, so dumb. the third one, well the third one is yet to be determined. this might actually lead to something, but there i go being positive. see the thing is that i had already deleted my account and took a bath to cleanse my hole from the disease of online hook-ups. and there i was at the gorgeous laney college campus-seriously, i love that campus. there i was walking, and this boy is walking towards me and he says hey what's up or whatever it is that people say these days and i of course said hi and of course i keep walking. but really i know instantly who he his. or i know him from his adam profile. i look back, but he's still walking. i stop and i think i should do something. i follow him back to his back and i say hey don't i know you from online.

thinking too much

Some days it feels like I should just stay at home. I know I should just stay at home but then if I just stay at home there must be something I'm missing so I go. To go anywhere, but nowhere good, meaningful, important. Coffee, reading-okay, good. Looking at clothes-okay right now that feels good, too. Wait, go back. The real problem is that I can't make a decision and what does that mean? Maybe I am autistic after all. But anyway, the decision of what am I going to do today is just overwhelming. Mattilda's going to see the sea lions at pier 39 for his birthday. He invited me a few days ago, but now I'm thinking that he probably doesn't really want me to go. He's going to be with two other friends, and oh my god, I can't deal with the social interaction. So maybe I should just stay in oakland and meet some guys from adam4adam, or maybe call Vincent, or Toni, or just stay in and read because it is really cold today. It takes me forever, and more than one try, but I finally I leave. And that's after an unexpected fuck with Arthur, the occasional fuck buddy who is probably married. It was hot, but that is never enough. So my decision is to delay my decision. Go to the city, the city, the city. I'll call crissy when I get there and see what he's doing. He doesn't answer so I just go to the chruch st. café and drink tea and read which is fine. then I call mattilda to try to figure out whether or not she really wants me to come. I still can't tell really. I sort of don't want to go, like it feels like a big effort-pier 39, new people, the cold, etc. Christian calls and I go over, a good distraction. He really brings out the queeny bitch inside of me or maybe that's the real me that's always hiding underneath, but either way I don't think I really like that side of me. But why don't I like it? It's kind of exhausting to be that way. It feels negative, maybe. And ultimately, pointless…. But fun and funny, though. I decide to go to pier 39. I take the f market from church street. Getting off at pier 39 is like stepping into the middle of middle america. It's freezing. As I'm walking by the water to the sea lions, a lesbian rides past me on her bike and I figure that must be one of mattilda's friends because what would she be doing down here otherwise, and I'm right. Part of me wants to turn back, but I'm trying to push myself to take chances with social interactions. It's okay, I talk a bit, here and there. I just hate the way I feel in groups. I can't communicate like that. I can barely communicate one on one. The dyke is nice. The guy from montreal is nice, too. He's a writer, and she's a photographer. I don't really know how to talk with mattilda with other people around. We usually just hang out alone and I guess he accepts my weirdness and I'm fine with that, privately. I make jokes and he does most of the talking. It's like an education. But in a group, it's like who are you, do I know you, what could we possibly have to say to each other? It's freezing. Part of me just wants to go home. Part of me wants whatever this moment will bring. Thankfully it brings a cab and then a restaurant. The food is good and the conversation is okay. I feel tired and autistic, in my own world. But I do participate a little in the conversation which is actually a change for me. And with mattilda who talks a lot, a little is okay. But now I really feel like I need to be at home in warmth and alone. It's like being with them somehow confirms my aloneness, like mattilda, my friend, is this person that I don't even really know and who doesn't know me and probably doesn't even like me, so I need to go home and be alone where I can truly feel comfortable, sort of. I mean, these are just thoughts that run through my head. I've never felt comfortable anywhere or with anyone-that's the thought that comes up-and I never will, and that's the really scary part. Everything's been pretending for survival, but survival for what? For this? Yes. Now I think, I'm here for education, that's it that's my focus, that's my reason for being here, but that's scary too because I hate the school I go to, and I don't know where my education is leading me and now it's summer and I'm underemployed and nothing to do expect be indecisive and feel depressed. I think I just need to read more. Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, that's all there is.

from sea to shining sea

i think she meant to say graceful, but instead she says gracious. you have such a gracious walk. she says it at least five times. i'm walking by that building on jackson street where the, mostly, pleasantly, insane live. i say thank you. she imitates my walk, and i think if that's really how i walk, then....i don't know how i've made it this far, or maybe i think, work, mama! but i can't remember now. i am wearing that new bright red jacket that's got gay written all over it, so i expect a little attention. i look at the hummingbirds. they're amazing. those wings are vibrating, girl. peter had just posted a blurb on facebook about how often he gets harassed in oakland. i was slightly offended, not that i need to defend oakland, but it's not accurate to say oakland is homophobic and san francisco is not. i've been harassed for being a fag all over this country, and world, for that matter, including san francisco, and including the castro. i'm not saying the gracious lady is harassing me, she's just drunk and and slightly crazy. she's bored, and she knows a hot walk when she sees one. i'm all about that shit.

better than roses on a piano

the oakland rose garden is nice. oakland is nice. i'm not nice. i'm like polished rice, only less shiny. or maybe more shiny, depending on the time of day. all the time i don't have to spend writing papers for school, i spend writing ads for craigslist. and then i spend all that time i used to spend procrastinating by looking at craigslist ads, building my new adam4adam profile. i think my neighbor in #503 responded to my ad. i wonder if he know it's me? i've always thought he was hot, but i didn't know how to pursue it. thanks, adam. but with all these security cameras, how will we be discreet? i know the hillbillies, or building managers, as they call themselves, are huddled around the monitors watching my every slutty move. so jealous. last night, instead having yet another trick over, i got picked up by my trick. speeding up the hill to montclair, i worried this might be a mistake. how old is this guy, really? but i was excited too. maybe because i knew he would worship me. and i like getting old straight guys to do things they've never done before. like fucking boy hole and loving it. but he can't really tell if it's in or not. i can barely feel it myself, yet i still want it. who explain these things? why am i not getting paid for this? he house has seven levels!

i'm leaving

watching Happy Together again brings back memories of earlier days in san francisco. hanging out with frank and being introduced to wong kar-wai and slutty phrases in cantonese. it also brings back memories of my trip to south america, partly inspired by the movie. i remember walking to the obelisk at sunset my first night in buenos aires. everything was purple that night. the hotel maipu was old and dusty. the street outside was loud and dirty. reading james baldwin's go tell it on the mountain , i got so depressed. there was that lesion on my hip which made me think i had aids. the cruisy bathroom at the train station was jumping. i went to eva peron's grave and no i didn't cry. three drunk guys sitting by the gates of cemetery, catcalling as i walk by. i peaked in the window of the bar sur. got caught in the rain with lightning and everything, and didn't enjoy it. there was a strike, i thought i might not make it santiago. i was so lonely. it was all so much better in the movie. i want to go back and do it again, do it better.

on the L Taraval

i celebrate the end of the semester by hooking up with my old fuck buddy, tommy. he's an emotionally unavailable, straight-acting, cock sucking freak. i've sworn him off a hundred times, but for some reason the sex is always super hot. so i always get lured back into his world of endless text messages about swapping loads and throat fucking. but this time, instead of a text message, he calls. nice surprise. i think maybe something's changed, maybe he's growing as a person. he even let's me come to his place which has never happened in the two years that i've known him. he's discreet. now i'm excited, rushing out of my apartment before he calls to tell me it's not gonna work. or course he calls when i'm on bart and says his roommate is home, so we'll have to be really quiet. his room is so cultivated straight boy aesthetic. oakland raiders flag, 30 pairs of sneaks neatly lined up against the wall, computer desk pilled with vitamins and deodorant, flat screen tv. it's all about mtv jams. the sex is hot, and completely exhausting for some reason. i know he's going to tell me to leave. he's all nervous energy like that. every time after we've had sex before, he always looks at his watch and says shit i've got to go. so i'm resting, waiting, trying to cuddle, knowing what he's thinking. but i want more from him. i want him to be human and not straight-acting for a change. he says you know how i am. i say, yes, i do and that's why i'm fucking with you. you said you wanted three loads! but no he's too nervous about his roommate. he's never brought anyone over before. i want to ask him to be my boyfriend, but he pushes me out the door before i can get the words out. i took the L Taraval for this?

no fun

walking by the lake at sunset is gorgeous. shockingly gorgeous. or maybe it's just because i've been staring at my computer all day writing an essay about images of modernity in the works of Foucault, Kafka, and Walser. oh, to be a flanuer in oakland. this is where i live? yes. but it's not enough. or maybe it is. i can't tell with this conjunctivitis blurring my vision. where did i catch this shit? maybe i have chlamydia of the soul. if i really let my mind go there, i have the urge to pull my eyes right out of their sockets. control, girl, control.

i am not a mannequin

the lady with the hairy chest came in library today. the fist time i met her was at folsom street fair with raheem. she gave me attitude and made me feel like a skinny white boy. there she was big and brown with her hairy chest and her super-butch, black girlfriend. who was i to rain on their brown party. but she was so friendly in the library, i guess books have that effect on people. i wanted her to remember me and then maybe she would tell raheem that she saw me working in the library and somehow that would elevate my worth in his opinion, because yes i still worry about what he thinks of me.

community theatre

he says it so cheerfully. yes, i'm into s&m and bondage. i giggle, and then he gets rough. i'm afraid of the hot wax at first but after the shock of the first splash, i'm all over that shit. it's the hottest, most massive load ever and it's all over my chest. he's so excited. i say, pour it on my nipples. really? it's too much, i can't take it. i want him to fuck me, but he doesn't fuck the first time. i like the way he pins me down roughly but kisses me gently. i say, i wanna be your bitch, and for a second i mean it. treat me like a dog and i'll know it's not a pointless hook-up. hidden desperation floods out in strange moments. but what would you do if you received a text message that says: but are you sure you don't have any stds?? honey, i've got everything!

five fairies and a ticket to vancouver

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hypocondria holiday

i had convinced myself that i had anal cancer right before he showed up. i was already in a fragile state of mind and anxious about meeting this guy, yet another craigslist hook-up. of course, five minutes before he arrives, there i am examining my asshole and what strange things they are under bright lights. something just didn't look right, some discoloration and a sort of protrusion. but amazingly after he finger-fucked me all my symptoms magically, and beautifully disappeared. maybe i was just horny. thankfully he didn't bareback me even after i begged. that would just have been one more thing to worry about. after he washes his hands and leaves, gil comes over and tells me all about his new york city sugardaddy drama. for the fourteenth time. he tells me he's never had a really good friend because they always want to talk about themselves and never listen, which is exactly what he's doing to me. i say, uh-huh. everything is going to be perfect for him in new york. but i understand. after i watched The Devil Wears Prada I knew moving to new york was the right thing to do. same thing with Blade Runner. LA never seemed like such a good choice. fantasy travel sugar city daddy. all i want to do is escape everything.

the tweaker arts

in the never ending to quest to make my teeth even more yellow, i drink two cups of coffee , a coke, and a cup of tea. i will be beautiful no matter what it takes. riding around in oakland in gil's car is fun. it's like a whole different world. from jack london square to temescal, it's gorgeous and alive. even the gas station is exciting. we eat ice cream and cake at whole foods. he comments on the sexual appeal of every white guy in the store. back in the car, he honks his horn at every white guy walking. i say, that's so miami. at the vibe lounge, i want to dance, but i don't. story of my life. i'm not sick, i'm not sick, i'm not sick. i'm just gay and thin. that doesn't make me tweaker!

grungy

i want to sit down to read nietzsche and love it. i want to feel like, yes, this is exactly what i'm supposed to be doing. i'm so into this. instead, i don't read that shit at all. i think about doing twenty other things and sort of poke around at a few them. i finger them, you could say, just at the rim, never going too deep. i did go deep with my dessert though. today: beignets, pot de creme, and strawberry shortcake. yesterday: dulce de leche ice cream and a brownie. the best part is that i didn't pay for any of it. why is my neighborhood so quiet? and do i like it that way? maybe i'm becoming suburban. when i get off of bart at 16th and mission, i feel like running right back to the east bay where i can hear wind chimes and train whistles.

my education

the problem is not the cruisy bathroom. the problem is me. what a surprise. how many ways can i degrade myself? honey, i might as well lick the floor. i mean obviously that guy didn't want to have sex with me. or maybe he does? there's always that chance. it's been over a year since he cruised me, got my phone number, never called me and proceeded to ignore me every time i saw him after that, but when i saw him walk into the fourth floor bathroom, i couldn't stop myself from following him. he's everything that i lust after: straight, asian, and mean. even after he rolled his eyes and grunted when i came and stood by him at the urinal, i wanted him. wanted him more. wanted him to fuck me like dog. thankfully someone walked in and stopped me from further degrading myself, from becoming a stalker, from harassing this poor closeted soul. just to be clear, he cruised me first. i was walking down the hall after class, and he was full-on looking at my dick and i understand why because those pants are scandalously tight. i mean, the lady wanted it badly. so when he went into the bathroom, of course, i followed. and of course we got interrupted, but then he got my phone number and he lives in san leandro which made it all the more exciting. but then he never called. and that's why i degrade myself. again and again. maybe the problem is school and how i'm trying to make that the center, my raison d'etre, but it's so not working, so not where i want to be, but then i don't know where i want to be...

brilliant, if only, not even

If only I could stop worrying about what these bitches think, maybe I could be brilliant. And I don't even like these bitches, because they're bitches, and that's the really sad part. But the large coffee was good. I'm trying to save money, but fuck it, I need my 16 oz. And my carrot muffin, too. I got an A, and an A, and another A, but I still feel like I can't think, like I can't breathe, like I don't want to be here or anywhere. I could cry at any moment. Everything is fake. Maybe if I wear all pink I'll feel better. Toni still hasn't called me after three weeks. Should I call her, maybe she's not well? But if she wanted to talk I guess she would have called. Maybe I'll wait till next week. The people that you want to call you never do, and those other people always call. Like last night. I was spending my daily $23.67 at Whole Foods, thinking about eating and reading, and then Papito calls and we end up at Giant Burger getting shakes, chocolate for me and strawberry for him. Drinking our shakes at the park he honks his horn at a couple emerging from the bushes and I say stop it, just go, go, go!

i don't know

Dr. Thomas said blogs are dumb. But it's been a month and he still hasn't returned our papers, so what does he know. I went to the cruisy bathroom right after his class on Tuesday at 4:50pm, just like last Thursday, to see if it was busy, but no, it was dead, dead, dead. I'm going to try again on Thursday to see if I can figure out this mystery. I need my community!

venti screwdivers

The Gangway is a revelation, but the swarms of hipsters outside don't have a clue. They're lining up in the cold for the art show next door, while we slip into the warmth of Tenderloin decay. The crowd is divided between the elderly sitting at the bar and the kids on the makeshift dance floor in the back. There's so much to look at. It's my first time! And look I'm wearing my hat which is like being in disguise. Maybe I've never been to San Francisco before. Maybe I'm not even me. But first I've got to get my Absolut screwdriver and then I'll decide. Can you make it a Venti, please? Henri's disappointed because the queer metal/punk/alternative night is no longer going on. That's if it ever was to begin with, you know what I'm saying? We meet Venice and Jesus, and their sugar daddy. Venice wants to know where we usually go? We usually just stay at home, which is hilarious! He can't believe we haven't seen him at the Powerhouse because he's "hard to miss." But easy to "dismiss," I'd say. Love the eyeliner, but the attitude has got to go. I'm strangely attracted to the sugar daddy. He looks really sweet and I'm guessing he's probably abused and unloved by Venice and Jesus. I could love him better, but thankfully, I already got a job. The music wavers, the kids are a bore, and the regulars are just much too much. Thankfully, there's always the soma sleaze bars to fulfill a girl's dreams. And off we go...

everything i've ever wanted

finally, i see one my classmates in the cruisy bathroom at school. and he sees my ass when he looks under the stall. i'm sucking the guy in the stall on the other side through the state sanctioned glory hole. dried cum everywhere and i've got my face all in it. in fact, it's all i've ever wanted. pants down, ass in the air,knees on the cold tile, mouth wide open. five minutes ago i was in class trying to pay attention to different interpretations of Kakfa's The Trial. three hours ago i was in class with the guy in the other stall, the one who's looking at my ass, pretending to watch a movie about Butoh, but really i'm reading Persepolis but what i was really doing more than anything is thinking about sex, but not about sex in the bathrooms because it's usually totally dead. but then here i am in the bathroom and it's packed and my classmate is with me and it's beautiful.

krazy

leaves are in for spring. only $4.99 at H&M! i want to do more, but I can barely do what i'm already doing so there's not much time left. suddenly i'm horny so i e-mail that "hung asian top daddy" from craigslist that i've been ignoring for months. gil calls this morning and asks me if i'm horny, but i say no because i don't want to have sex with him again, or not right now away. after we had sex last time, he said he needed to teach me about sex. actually, i think i could teach him a few things, like wash you're feet first! but i mean we did meet in a public restroom, so he didn't really have time to wash up. then we went to whole foods. i felt self-conscious about the dried cum on my chin, but it's just whole foods. hold on, i'm checking craigslist again.

mary, please

i try to support the video booths on telegraph avenue, but it's so dead and the guy behind the counter is a little too into my business. can't i degrade myself in private? he tries to give me tips on how to get someone into my booth as he eats his bagel with cream cheese. but there's no one there anyway! i'm out there, on my bike to whole foods where i really get off. 3 lb. bag of organic apples for $1.99 and i'm in ecstasy. i chat with the cashier who used to work at the whole foods where i used to work in san francisco. she goes to sf state, too. maybe we can be friends. i'm on my bike again. someone calls me faggoty ass (he forgets the 'bitch' part), but that's when i'm walking in berkeley. walking to meet that professor, who said he was into serious relationships only and thought we should just take it easy and trade massages. but get that girl in the bedroom and she goes crazy. no massages, no tender kisses, all he wants to do is fuck.

warning low voltage

say it again, but with more emphasis. at The Hole In The Wall the bartender is flirty, but it's only 10:30. what i'm going to do, keep drinking till he gets off work and go home with him? cannot do that with my infamous two drink limit. i'm as talkative as i can be in a loud bar filled with butch daddies and their friends. what doesn't happen in the bathroom is what really makes it a memorable evening. let's just say the lock didn't work and if that daddy had walked in five seconds earlier i would have screamed. but i wouldn't really have cared. that's my new thing, i don't care. don't give a fuck. at the Powerhouse, it's really dead, slightly disappointing, but i can't tolerate it any other way. i don't get carded. that's a first. since i'm devoid of expectations, it's kinda fun. drunk guy carrying around a big-dicked Ken doll wants to kiss me, but i keep walking. i play pinball instead.