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.

runaway

everything happens at whole foods. i try to avoid it, but then that enchilada casserole is calling me and i'm on way. there's my old friend, and i look away fast, back to my buffet. but there he is, in my face, don't i know you? what a nice surprise. of course, i remember you, but what was your name again? you never knew my name actually, you wanted it to come to you organically. telepathically, i guess. we met at baker beach, we ate at Golden Era because you're vegan. actually, you're black, bi-sexual, and vegan which wowed me at the time. we held hands on folsom street, i took you to the powerhouse and played with your dick by the bar. you still have my pink shirt. i don't even remember a pink shirt. how could i let a pink shirt slip a away without even thinking about it? i want to runaway, runaway, runaway. if i fly to paris, or maybe mardid, leave everything behind, just start over, can i become a completely new person? walking down streets i've never seen, getting lost, feeling free. speaking spanish, exaggerating the lisp to perfection. but then i have to pee, always, always, always, i have to pee.

gnawing the sidewalk

Sundays suck the life directly out of my anus. Suck it dry, honey. There's always more where that came from. We spend hours gnawing on the sidewalk trying to figure out what to do with ourselves. Everything is hideous and depressing. The used clothing, the taqueria, the coffee shop-all endlessly depressing. But then there's the bookstore and things are looking up. I find a book-Almodovar on Almodovar for $5.98. It's my tenth book which means I get one for free, so I pick Michelle Tea's Valcenia just for fun. Finally, an accomplishment. bart, bart, bart. I think I figured out where those carpet beetles are coming from. Welcome to spring break. Mama buzz café and everything is okay. Except someone erased my graffiti from the bathroom wall. Pussy bitches can never deal with the F word. Diving in the lake is the best part. I want to see what's on the bottom. It looks like a mosaic of shattered glass from up here. and forget what i said about louisiana-i did have to leave!

isn't all just shopping?

it's so difficult to decide who to have sex with. especially when none of the seven or so choices can ever, ever come close to what i really, really want. but i'm here and i can't walk out empty handed. the effort, honey, the effort. after i've been here so long that I work up a sweat from all the walking, kneeling, looking, and the deciding, it becomes exactly what i want and need. i settle on, or maybe he settles for me, a pale skinned, brown haired, possibly european man in his thirties. a strange choice? maybe. he fucks my face and gets a little rough, but nothing that lingers. an impulse buy, but i can't return it. unlike that grey hoodie i bought when i knew i didn't need it, couldn't afford it and would regret it later. and then the next day i bought another one, this time black with a somewhat native american inspired design on the sleeves. evening wear for the tragically indecisive and superficial.

faggoty ass bitch..

i feel good walking home from work. there's those kids hanging out at the Ruby Room and those other kids playing basketball at the Mosque. this my neighborhood and it's okay. but, then it turns out that i'm a faggoty ass bitch and this is not my neighborhood and it's not okay. it was just some friendly eye-contact. sure maybe i would have wanted to suck his dick but he didn't even give me a chance to assess the situation. just bam, what are you looking at faggoty ass bitch? the nerve. that's F.A.B. to you! and yes I am going to be printing up some new t-shirts with this profound acronym activism. place your orders now!

note to self

gray beauty

the guy at goodnews cafe likes the photo of lake merritt on my computer. he just moved here and really likes it. and he's from argentina, so there. the only straight guys i can ever talk to are from foreign countries. foreign countries, honey, that's where i want to be. thai food, again, the lower haight. victor wears his sweatpants which is funny. i get so queeny around him, it's fun. we try to out do each other with queeny voices and queeny poses. i always win. he says i'm old school gay. he's twenty-six, that slut. i was working library chic, but i won't accept the old-school gay label. we hug goodnight, and i'm back on bart. i wish i could always love gray skies they way i do now.