R
Remember heroin-chic? The disaffected gaze, the glamour on the skids... the waifish gamine. Goodbye Cindy, Hello Kate!!! It was a good time to be 20 and weigh nothing as I did here.
unflinchingly honest retrospectives
A consanguineous clique to clamor for
kindred spirit with each subsequent subject as she was brought to tears remembering the sheer levels of incredible talent surrounding her. Discovery 2 mesmerized me even more. Her brother Andrew Keenan-Bolger cut his teeth in the chorus of Newsie's as a kid and then grew up to take it upon himself to create his own opportunities for success instead of waiting around for his agent to call. His brain-child born from mercenary motives is a brilliant web-series airing its third season on Youtube.
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| Andrew Keenan-Bolger objectified? ABS-olutely! |
where he plays a chicken-tender-twinky-trick. I couldn't stop looking. Later in the day, I came across that Keenan-Bolger hyphenated moniker again in an article touting youngest sister Maggie's extraordinary fete that left me awestruck. She is launching this queerly sex positive trans--fagulous gender-ific venue called Birds and Bees: Unabridged that you can bet your bottom dollar is worth casting this brood in bronze for. This is a triumvirate of talent I'll tweet about on Twitter. For me to transcend and suspend my loathing of the hipster-techie monolith for a minute just to give a shout-out is tremendous.
Wigged out over Hedwig-- a flashback with feeling for the back row. (Exaggerated for emphasis)
Summer
Dallas, TX
2001
I'm dating a guy with
"That's what happens when you don't call me back., I sneered snidely sassing back to the banal bore with a barely concealed twinge of bitterness. The bloke was
It was a torturous cycle predicated by a barrage of
When the cinematic rock opera that was Hedwig and the Angry Inch debuted on screen that summer, John Cameron Mitchell's opus transcended the totality of my training in transcendental matters and spoke to my truth while confirming my suspicion about the transitive nature of binary gender polarities as total social constructions and about as tangible as meth smoked off tin foil for the weight it wielded in veracity. Hedwig blew the lid off everything I had been
And there were three sexes then
One that looked like two men
Glued up back to back
Called the children of the sun
And similar in shape and girth
Were the children of the earth
They looked like two girls
Rolled up in one
And the children of the moon
Were like a fork shoved on a spoon
They were part sun, part earth
Part daughter, part son
The origin of love
Glued up back to back
Called the children of the sun
And similar in shape and girth
Were the children of the earth
They looked like two girls
Rolled up in one
And the children of the moon
Were like a fork shoved on a spoon
They were part sun, part earth
Part daughter, part son
The origin of love
John Cameron Mitchell and Stephen Trask wrote Hedwig against a backdrop based on Plato's Symposium myth which explained our lost souls as some scabbed over after effect of a vindictive act of a vengeful set of gods.
Now the gods grew quite scared
Of our strength and defiance
And Thor said
'I'm
With my hammer
Like I killed the giants.'
But Zeus said, 'No
You better let me
Use my lightening, like scissors
Like I cut the legs off the whales
And dinosaurs into lizards.'
Then he grabbed up some bolts
And he let out a laugh
Said, 'I'll split them right down the middle
And then storm clouds gathered above
Into great balls of fire
And then fire shot down
From the sky in bolts
Like shining blades
Of a knife
And it ripped
Right through the flesh
Of the children of the sun
And the moon
And the earth
Of the children of the sun
And the moon
And the earth
And some Indian god
Sewed the wound up into a hole
Pulled it round to our belly
To remind us of the price we pay
And Osiris and the gods of the Nile
Gathered up a big storm
To blow a hurricane
To scatter us away
In a flood of wind and rain
And a sea of tidal waves
To wash us all away
And if we don't behave
They'll cut us down again
And we'll be hopping round on one foot
And looking through one eye
Sewed the wound up into a hole
Pulled it round to our belly
To remind us of the price we pay
And Osiris and the gods of the Nile
Gathered up a big storm
To blow a hurricane
To scatter us away
In a flood of wind and rain
And a sea of tidal waves
To wash us all away
And if we don't behave
They'll cut us down again
And we'll be hopping round on one foot
And looking through one eye
In essence I understood the moral of the story to say we were damaged from the get go. After the patriarchal gods grew pissy , they threw a hissy fit and cut us all down to a size they could control. We were doomed to wander in the desert as incomplete halves of a whole like tumbleweeds without a bed of soil to take root. We were fucked.
It fit in with the notion of the primal wound concept that I had adopted and adapted to my little lost cupcake connection to the orphaned adoptees of which I had once been one. Adopted as a baby, gender-queer and kooky were ways that set me apart from the mainstream but I used them as testaments to my innate alien nature and as evidence that the pain in my soul was so great it cut a straight line down through the heart.... and I was off and adrift in the gospel of Hedwig's lyrics by Stephen Trask
The last time I saw you
We had just split in two
You were looking at me
I was looking at you
You had a way so familiar
But I could not recognize
Cause you had blood on your face
I had blood in my eyes
But I could swear by your expression
That the pain down in your soul
Was the same as the one down in mine
That's the pain
Cuts a straight line
Down through the heart
We called it love
I was looking at you
You had a way so familiar
But I could not recognize
Cause you had blood on your face
I had blood in my eyes
But I could swear by your expression
That the pain down in your soul
Was the same as the one down in mine
That's the pain
Cuts a straight line
Down through the heart
We called it love
That pain cut such a straight line down through my heart but was it what I would call love? I didn't know what love really felt like but I recognized its power and propensity to produce pain. Love wasn't what couples called making love that was really just fucking, so what was it? It was all an egocentric existential crisis of faith in my highlighted head with a shampoo and set signature style.
I was hyper focused on the notion of finding that soul mate and wasn't aboveexecuting chicanery to seek out that zig to my zag.
The Dallitude dude was pretty in a subdued Dallas masculine overlay that I was growing impatient with for the lack of overtures he implemented to lay me. That issue coupled with the overarching ultimate act of passive-aggression I had yet to pull off with the purloined bracelet was still stinging when I opened the passenger door of my four door sedan to let the Dallitudinous douche in as was the custom for dating Dallas dudes who deigned to be gentlemen with an ounce of chivalry did. Settling into the driver's seat, I turned on the ignition and John Cameron's Mitchell's voice filled the interior the way I wanted the air conditioning to envelop us to no avail.
The anecdote of the angry inch was outcried in acute angst ridden accusatoryanarchial octaves.
Hedwig shrieked, "It's my first day as a woman and already it's that time of the month.
"
Those were the first words to cut the awkward silence existing between the douche with tude and me.
"What??? ARE YOU LISTENING TO? That's disgusting!!!!!", he vexed.
He seemed livid to the level that I had been living with since the weekend he left me alone fixated on the fact that we hadn't even fucked or fornicated for that matter which reminded me that I was only holding out to ride the bitch seat in his Mercedes and earn my place in the finer circles of Dallas faggotry . That would seal my fate and ferret out my soul mate but the gerbil fetish wasn't my thing. It was Richard Gere's fantasy lost in folklore. This is what I was thinking while he bitched me out like a shrill shrew..
"What the fuck??, I replied? Dude, It's a metaphor.! (I laughed it off but it was the moment I knew) that despite his picture perfect pecs and propensity for priapic perqs he was anathema to my amazing attributes and not the husband I had held him up to be in hyperbolic hysteria.
I kicked him to the curb but regretted for years after that I hadn't dropped the "I'm not that kind of a queen" routine and just groped his gonads for good measure. As if that's all it was ever about. (Well, that's the sum of the reality I've created for myself in the man department. Isn't that all they're good for?)
The heat in Dallas scrambled my scattered and frayed emotions even more so than normal and the weekend days were devoted to the cult of myself. I was younger than springtime and twice as exciting. I was all about the boy and determined to devote whatever time it took to find that missing part of me even if I had to go under cover at night which paved the way for a new pastime of prowling construction sites just to find variety in public sex venues
I knew I would have to leave this decadent island of self-devotion come Fall but I couldn't imagine what it would entail.
Of course we know that 9/11 changed everything and threw the world into a tail spin . Suddenly chasing boys and dicking around with dick dancers in dimly lit dives seemed incredibly . discordant with the real deal that really mattered.
I left Dallas in less than a month after the attacks and spent my first Xmas back in the Bay area in the Berkeley baths but this time I was working as a research interviewer for UCSF Center for AIDS Prevention.
Got my own AIDS in April
Fourth of July marked the end of a fling that was the ultimate culmination of all the guys i had ever overestimated as saviors when I had the power to save myself all along. I had my heart broken even though I was still unconvinced that I had really felt love having no idea what it felt like.
The rest is history.
This is why I cannot hear those Hedwig songs without crying.
In a bittersweet melancholia , I cry for my expired youth, for the pain I put myself through, for all the things I wish I had learned by just listening to what was in front of me without having to go through hell to finally get it--
Not that it's important to anyone but the story of myself
Today, at 41, I'm a bit more self-actualized. I am still devoted to the cult of myself but only in the way in which my soul is bolstered standing alone with my ego, id and Freudian slips. I will never, ever devalue myself as an individual nor look to a phantom missing link to complete my soul.
I am complete all by myself.
That being said...
I'd give all that up in an instant just to be Neil Patrick' Harris Broadway baby because he is the dreamiest as Hedwig.
John Cameron Mitchell was a like soul sister kindred
And now that Andrew Rannells is taking over as Hedwig, I would devote my undying devotion to him too despite my stalwart breathless partnership with NPH. Because those boys are so beautiful, I could spend the rest of my dull life desperately trying to measure up to what they represent as the personification of all that is perfect in love and life even though I will probably never experience it for real. Have I learned nothing in these 14 years?
Season of the Witch-- review
As a Bay area native and SF resident for the past 15 years, history of the city is one of my favorite topics. I read this book in one sitting, not being able to put it down for its rich descriptions of the personalities and events that shaped the SF culture of tolerance we have today. Until I read the book, I only had surface knowledge of some of the events such as Jonestown but had never heard of the Zebra killings or had any idea about the virtual genocide taking place in the Haight in the wake of the Summer of Love. I was aware of Margo St James contribution to championing liberties for sex workers having volunteered at the St. James Infirmary that bears her name. But I had no idea about the lengths some people in power went to in efforts to hold off the progressive changes. I had never heard of the Moby Grape tragedy and the larger ramifications its fate presented to the truth about Janis Joplin. I used to pass by the Jefferson Airplane house on my way home every day but had an idea of Janis Joplin as a run of the mill rock star casualty until reading Talbot's depiction of the waves of insecurities and drug abuse that foreshadowed Kurt Cobain's demise 30 years later. I was fascinated and horrified by Alioto's declaration of war against the hardscrabble youths adrift in the Haight. Similar prejudices are heaped upon modern gay youth in the Castro as bourgeois business owners scapegoat the homeless homo youths as a scourge of the city deserving of eradication. Interests of wealthy land developers are presently trying to rid the mid-Market area of its culture and redo the area as a giant strip mall for tourists. I shudder to imagine the fate of those gorgeous Greek revival and baroque structures as they are razed to make room for miles of retail. Just as Talbot described Justin Hermann's crime against the Fillmore and the thread of urban black family life that was decimated, I predict a similar fate for mid-Market if people don't learn from history. This book is a lovely record of what happened in our city's past but means nothing if people lose sight of the city's integrity to appease corporate construction interests. I struggled through the chapters about the 49ers contribution to saving SF's morale since I am continuously disgusted by the city's behavior in the event of sports celebrations. With the recent barbaric shenanigans that took place when the Giants won the World Series, I was thankful I didn't live here in 1981 after the 49ers beat the Cowboys after reading about the near riot that engulfed downtown. I was disappointed that something as juvenile and primitive as a football game was said to be responsible for saving the SF citizens from a suicidal trajectory. Surely, we are better than that. But based on the brouhaha and blind devotion enlisted by current crazed sports fanatics, it appears we are a Neanderthal city of meatheads, if one were to lend credence to Talbot's claim. That's the main point I take umbrage with.
Vexed, Perplexed and Wrecked with Drex
Last summer I had been asked to work crowd control at the Folsom Street Fair which provided me an excellent opportunity to stand around and ogle the freak show while getting paid. I had only been there a few minutes when I saw Drexel holding court from behind a booth. I searched my brain to recall the last time I had seen him out in public and was greatly relieved when he smiled and greeted me as if he didn’t remember how it had gone down. “How have you been?” he said as he knelt in to kiss me on both cheeks. “Just fine, but better now. You look great,” I said. What’s new?
He started reciting an
account of his most recent happenings, substituting the first person for
plural. “We live in Bernal Heights. We this, we that,” It was evident he
was attached. It didn’t surprise me as he had always struck me as the marrying
kind. After all, that’s the kind of life I had once imagined for us based on
his overtures. He still had the same eyes, those limpid, steely blue, gorgeous
eyes that won me over the first time I saw them from across the room at the
Castro Country Club.
Flashback---
Spring 2002--San
Francisco -
Easter was approaching
and I had been back in San Francisco since the week after Thanksgiving from
where I had been living in Dallas for two years. Prior to that, since graduating USC in 1996,
I had floundered in the city by the bay. It hadn’t been a healthy time for me
as I tried in vain to adjust to post collegiate life bouncing from temp job to
turning tricks to tweaking on meth. I was living out a self-destructive path I
modeled after Neely O’Hara from Valley of the Dolls. I viewed myself through a
fantastical lens of tortured tragedy. My mother had offered to rescue me from
that fate and after a 28 day inpatient stay at a Seattle area treatment center
and 4 months in a men’s halfway house I had flown with my mother to Dallas and
begun to reinvent myself. I had arrived with a mop of dyed blue black hair and a
flim-flaming foolishness. My ears were multiply pierced and my wardrobe
consisted of thrift store chic castoffs that my mother deplored were tacky and
too tight. “I don’t care that you're
gay, but at least have taste” she would say.
I was pushing 26 when I
moved to Dallas and no stranger to institutional living so I related to
Neely’s
incredulousness when Lyon Burke mandated she check into the sanitarium to dry
out in one of my favorite scenes from Valley of the Dolls.
“But Lyon, I’m 26,” she implored. It was one of the many lines from the film that I recited on a loop in my head to alter my given reality because I suddenly realized the lifestyle I had been burning through at both ends was no longer appropriate in this glitzy suburb of North Texas. That was never more apparent than realized while lunching with my mother at the Zodiac Room in Dallas’signature store, Neiman Marcus. “People are staring at you,” said my mother as we shared a soufflé. “I’m used to it,” said I and it was true. I had always appreciated the attention as my outlandish dress and swishing gait catapulted me into a pseudo-celebrity status if only in my narcissistic fog, but while walking around the tony North Park mall, I grew uneasy and insecure as gorgeous trophy boyfriend types looked at me askance.
“But Lyon, I’m 26,” she implored. It was one of the many lines from the film that I recited on a loop in my head to alter my given reality because I suddenly realized the lifestyle I had been burning through at both ends was no longer appropriate in this glitzy suburb of North Texas. That was never more apparent than realized while lunching with my mother at the Zodiac Room in Dallas’signature store, Neiman Marcus. “People are staring at you,” said my mother as we shared a soufflé. “I’m used to it,” said I and it was true. I had always appreciated the attention as my outlandish dress and swishing gait catapulted me into a pseudo-celebrity status if only in my narcissistic fog, but while walking around the tony North Park mall, I grew uneasy and insecure as gorgeous trophy boyfriend types looked at me askance.
As I agreed to have my hair cut from its
Gothic mess to something befitting a real boy, I was instructed to take off all
of my jewelry except for one ring. I reluctantly humored my hairstylist as I
was stripped of the jangly bracelets and foofaraw that had been my mainstay. “There’s
elegance in simplicity,” said Cary Henderstack, the owner of the Turtle Creek
shop with the same name. As the summer morphed into the holidays, I had gained
a receptionist job in a large corporate consulting firm after being permanently
hired from a temp. It was eons away from the last receptionist gig I
had in SF’s Embarcadero from which I had been unceremoniously
canned after showing up frantically late one too many times. I had been an
insolent entitled brat with no boundaries in the workplace as I repeatedly
shared details of my outfits in drag with my superiors that ultimately
undoubtedly led to my pink slip. I couldn't believe how immature and ungrateful
I had been less than two years prior. No one suspected that part of me had ever
existed at this new gig in Dallas. I had learned how to professionally blend
after being raised by corporate parents and could represent myself flawlessly
to an unsuspecting crop of executives. I used my steady paycheck to afford my
mission of self-improvement as I shelled out cash to a personal trainer,
esthetician and a tanning membership.
After turning past the point of no return on my 26th birthday in Dallas, I tried to adjust to growing out of that phase. While dating, I didn’t want to be labeled an “all the way Mae” like Madonna’s character in A League of Our Own and refused to go to second base until at least the second date, (well, that was the ideal anyway.) Sometimes I dated for weeks without ever graduating beyond hand holding as was the case with Kevin, a 35 year old ex-straight guy with a Mercedes and two pretween children. I found it endearing that he had once been married to a woman and cut him some slack for taking it slow as he failed to even kiss me goodnight after our dates. It was over between us when he heard a lyric from my favorite soundtrack from Hedwig and the Angry Inch playing on a loop in my car. “With a gash between my legs,” sings Hedwig as she describes the botched sex change that gave her an angry inch and cast her into life on the gender divide. “WTF, that’s disgusting!!” He cried. “What the hell are you listening to?” he demanded. How could I explain my innate devotion to the world of Hedwig? The movie had just premiered at the new Angelika theatre on Mockingbird and I had seen it three times since it opened. I related immensely to the themes of gender nonconformity and finding oneself as Hedwig searched in vain for his other half only to discover that it was within him all along. The soundtrack became anthems for my own life and I would cry to the Origin of Love while I made myself bleed with a razor blade. Cutting had become a secret coping mechanism that I had adopted to stem the rejection I felt from never being able to sit in the bitch seat of my relationships with other men. I was always the affair or man on the side, while whosever side of the bed I was sleeping on for a night was at work or out of town. I would become caught up in the thrill of dopamine that gushed through me from feeling desired but morning light brought reality as I skulked home on the walk of shame. I always found it interesting that I resembled the cuckold in build and frame as we were clearly both the same type; however that may have been interpreted by the boyfriend. A typical scenario would always begin with the heady optimism and incredible validation I felt upon being approached that morphed too quickly into a sickening realization that I was merely a younger body double for the husbands whom I felt a strange kinship with. “This is Jamie, meet my husband Robert, Casey, Jordan, Jimmy,” How long would I have to wait until they were history and I was finally free to fuck their husband and call him my own? It never happened and I tried to satisfy myself with the variety inherent in finding someone new every time. As I prowled the public cruising areas of Lee Park and random Oak Lawn construction sites, the thrill of being desired continued to give me a rush I craved. I became a regular at the premier bathhouse of Club Dallas near Elm where blinded by steam from the sauna, we related by touch. In this anonymous, faceless environment it was impossible for me to feel my heart skip a beat the way it did after I met a boy I liked face to face. In this murky underworld bacchanalia, it was enough just to be male. On the many occasions that I brought someone home from the bathhouse, I didn’t mind kicking them out the next morning. I lived in a guest house at the end of a back yard with a pool where the house’s owners, a married gay couple lounged languidly on sunny Saturday mornings...
They would always chide me about what became a ritual parade
on weekends as the trade tried unsuccessfully to sneak out undetected past the
coy pond. Then there were the guys of color on the DL:(down low) I met
secretly in the parking lot of the Love Field Inn, a scandalous no-tell motel
across from the famous airport where JFK had landed My friends and
I called black guys on the DL negresses, a term inspired from art that sounded
racist if uttered in the wrong context. At the time, I was abstinent from
drugs and didn’t feel at all tempted while commingling with crack heads. .I
compartmentalized these encounters as completely separate from what was
becoming a regular thing with a dandy in seersucker who worked in a 
Christopher
Radko Christmas ornament showroom in the design district. Steve was a seasoned
homosexual with extravagant taste who schooled me about Scalamandre silks while
he humored superstitions from the vantage point I viewed from his four poster
bed. He never went to sleep at night without placing a mirror in the window to
face the sun. “It wards off evil spirits,” he explained. He fit in with the
world I inhabited within myself as he was heavy with the compliments that fed
my inflating ego while it gave me the needed boost to my self-esteem that I
craved like a fix. The only thing I loved more than grooming and preening in
the mirror was attracting attention and inspiring confirmation from others who
appreciated the efforts I went to maintain
the facade. I was a slut but tried to convey a hard to get decorum with men I
dated like Steve. He told me he was HIV positive after we had sex and I kicked
myself for assuming otherwise and eschewing the condom. Condoms were tedious
but it was what we were trained to endure as queens growing up in the age of
AIDS. How could I have been so stupid? Of course, I didn’t think about the
countless other times I had neglected to use condoms with men I met under the
crepe myrtle trees at dawn or the ones I couldn’t see but knew intimately
through touch in the steamroom. Random, anonymous, one night stands
didn’t count as actually having happened and need not be worried about, I
justified. . They were compartmentalized and unacknowledged unlike the boys I
bombarded with boundaries that I actually dated I related the mistake to
my group of sister-queens who reassured me that since I had given him a blow
job first, I was at less risk of infection. “The germs in the mouth kills it,
(HIV) ya know,” said Rodney, a muscle bound wedding photographer and former
dick dancer from the Brick. “Oh thank god,” I rejoiced.
Christopher
Radko Christmas ornament showroom in the design district. Steve was a seasoned
homosexual with extravagant taste who schooled me about Scalamandre silks while
he humored superstitions from the vantage point I viewed from his four poster
bed. He never went to sleep at night without placing a mirror in the window to
face the sun. “It wards off evil spirits,” he explained. He fit in with the
world I inhabited within myself as he was heavy with the compliments that fed
my inflating ego while it gave me the needed boost to my self-esteem that I
craved like a fix. The only thing I loved more than grooming and preening in
the mirror was attracting attention and inspiring confirmation from others who
appreciated the efforts I went to maintain
the facade. I was a slut but tried to convey a hard to get decorum with men I
dated like Steve. He told me he was HIV positive after we had sex and I kicked
myself for assuming otherwise and eschewing the condom. Condoms were tedious
but it was what we were trained to endure as queens growing up in the age of
AIDS. How could I have been so stupid? Of course, I didn’t think about the
countless other times I had neglected to use condoms with men I met under the
crepe myrtle trees at dawn or the ones I couldn’t see but knew intimately
through touch in the steamroom. Random, anonymous, one night stands
didn’t count as actually having happened and need not be worried about, I
justified. . They were compartmentalized and unacknowledged unlike the boys I
bombarded with boundaries that I actually dated I related the mistake to
my group of sister-queens who reassured me that since I had given him a blow
job first, I was at less risk of infection. “The germs in the mouth kills it,
(HIV) ya know,” said Rodney, a muscle bound wedding photographer and former
dick dancer from the Brick. “Oh thank god,” I rejoiced.
I tried not to think
about it again until I saw the Neighborhood Health on Wheels van parked in
front of the Castro Starbucks one spring night after I had returned to San
Francisco. Back in 2002 it took two weeks to process results and I almost
forgot to go back and retrieve them. I was prepared to spend half a
second for them to tell me I was negative as they had been doing since my first
test at age 19.
I could tell from the counselor’s
eyes that my exploits in Dallas the previous summer had caught up with me.
That’s why I had decided to get tested, after all. Because I knew. Deep down in
my gut, as I lay in a sleeping bag on the floor of a back bedroom in my friend
Marc’s Richmond district apartment, the first place I stayed after moving back
last December, I knew that the weariness I felt was gestational sickness from
HIV. They said it felt like a cold when you seroconverted so I decided to get
tested again. By Easter, I had decided Not To Think About It.
I had adopted a former
priest as my BFF that Spring, having graduated to a new clique from the one I
frequented upon moving to SF over the winter. I was growing apart from the
friends who had hosted me in their back bedroom and appreciated getting to know
Owen a newly out formerly repressed, former man of the cloth whom I watched
witness gay life for the first time. He regaled me with evidence that the
priests he knew were all closet homosexuals. The rich jewel tones and worship
of relics on the altar coupled with those flowing, printed robes was telltale
queer. One need only take notice of the ecclesiastical effrontery taking place
in the Vatican to realize this. Thinking back to the haughty highbrow
affected accent that the priest in my Catholic school had adopted during mass
and it all made perfect sense.
As we met on our way to
go watch the Hunky Jesus contest in Dolores Park, Owen told me that the guy
with the blue eyes had asked about me. “Whaaaat?” I couldn't believe it.
Instantly, feelings of unworthiness wracked my self-esteem and I pried him for
details. “What did he say?” I had noticed a handsome, hot 40 year old guy with
salty silver hair and sea-blue eyes from across the main room at the Castro
Country Club, a sober space where all the gay AA queens hung out.
I had only been back in San Francisco from my hiatus in Dallas for a few months and was still very much the frivolous flighty fag with Florence syndrome that fainted in the face of exquisite natural male beauty. Also called Stendhal syndrome, the malady is a psychosomatic response that occurs among sensitive empathic individuals when they come into the proximity of great works of art. It happens to me in the presence of beautiful men. It was named for the famous 19th-century French author Stendhal (pseudonym of Henri-Marie Beyle), who described his experience with the phenomenon during his 1817 visit to Florence in his book Naples and Florence: A Journey from Milan to Reggio. When he visited the Basilica of Santa Croce, where Machiavelli, Michelangelo and Galileo Galilee are buried and saw the frescoes for the first time he was overcome with emotion. Absorbed in the contemplation of sublime beauty he described the experience as if he was encountering “celestial sensations. “Everything spoke so vividly to my soul. Ah, if I could only forget,” he said.” His heart palpitations sounded to me like a case of butterflies (or nerves, as they said in Berlin, according to him.) “Life was drained from me. I walked with the fear of falling," he wrote. The first time I had read Stendhal’s dramatic reenactment of walking with the fear of falling, I thought “Honey, you did fall,” I wondered if that was what they meant by “falling in love or falling head over heels for someone.
His name was Drexel Harrington.
I knew Drexel was in the
middle of a secondary drug treatment program at the Henry Ohlhoff house and
wouldn’t probably be seen until his next supervised group outing. Owen suggested
we go visit his friend Rick who was an inpatient in the same program.
The following Saturday,
I accompanied Owen to Ohlhoff where Drexel was sitting on the front lawn
surrounded by a group that consisted of Barbara Bush’s doppelganger and a couple gangly, awkward twinky queens
whom I resented for the seeming familiar way they related to him.. I made
the round of hellos until Drexel led me away to a shady corner of the patio and
my world changed. “Well, I heard you asked about me and was so happy, you
have beautiful eyes, by the way, I said as I tried my best not to gush.
As a patient of the
secondary program, he was allowed to leave with his group for outings around
the city and the CCC was one of their regular stops since it was sober and
therefore safe. I was a card carrying member of the 12 step culture which I was
beginning to suspect was more cult than culture. I had been abstinent from
drugs for three years when I moved to SF and had depended on the AA meetings
for social support. I was well versed in the language of recovery and
understood the politics of life in treatment. Having fostered a few forbidden
treatment boyfriends in various programs, I understood the importance of covert
operations in places like Ohlhoff. The stately Victorian mansion on Fell and
Steiner had a plaque describing the home’s origin as a sanitarium for
“inebriates”. Drexel and I even had our drug of choice in common as I had
been once diagnosed as 304.40 in the DSM-IV which represents amphetamine
addiction. We were also both newly positive and I went from Not Thinking About
It to learning how to incorporate it into my life by sharing fears with him.
Drexel gave me his cell
phone to use while he remained in treatment along with a card where he had
written, “Let’s create something special”. My head swam with the
possibilities of what he meant. Could it be the beginning of a real
boyfriend relationship?” I obsessed over and over. The next weekend when I
visited, we managed to escape briefly to the basement gym where we made out for
the first time. Owen and others warned me not to fall too hard but I was
already over the moon.
“And Miss Destiny wakes
up at night terrified by the knowledge of that strange impossibility and
the darkness screams Loneliness and impossibility--whirling around us and soon
you’ll have to face the morning and yourself--the same again” City of
Night p116
When Drexel was released I greeted him at the bottom of the stairs
as he cascaded down with his suitcase. We kissed in the lobby and then sped
away in his Audi convertible to where he would housesit in the Twin Peaks for a
guy he had met in treatment that was still doing his time. I loathed the queen
who owned the apartment, having realized he was good looking and entirely too
familiar with Drexel for me to be comfortable. I dogged him as much as I could
while trying to mask my insecurity with bitchy barbs. “What’s that hooker in for?”
I wanted to know. As we played house at the top of Corbett overlooking the vast
view of the entire city, I imagined that it was our honeycomb hideaway. Drexel
had lost his house on Cumberland before he went into treatment and I regretted
not having known him then. I decided to purchase an online background check and
was able to learn a lot of details about his past business dealings and
personal relationships. I would drop names or tidbits into conversation as he
wondered aloud how I knew things before deciding he must have already told me.
That was how I found out about his ex- Tony, a longtime partner who was
apparently dying of AIDS. I met Drexel at Davies Hospital one time after he
took Tony there in a nearly fatal fit of opportunistic infection. Tony was a
sweet guy who fought with Drex like only an ex can and I didn’t see him as competition.
“Who were those boys sitting next to your mother at Ohlhoff that time?” I
wanted to know. Drex knew a queen that I resented at the Country Club after
it became apparent that they had once partied and played together. “You were
with that rancid whore?” I cried. I felt sick to my stomach as I imagined them
together and vowed to scratch the queen’s eyes out. I was insanely insecure
about any guys that Drex knew and hated every one of them. There was the 22
year old little hooker named Jason that I stalked online after listening in to
a message he left on Drex’s voice mail. It was obvious they had been naked
together even though Drex insisted that was the extent of it. It quickly became
apparent why Drex seemed to know so many boys. I was not schooled in the gay
tweak n’freak, party n’play culture that Drex had occupied as grand marshal and
self-described “Dr Bombay” meaning he was the appointed administrator or resident phlebotomist of every party. In injection related party n’play circles, he
could “hit”. The cult of the needle was as ubiquitous among cock worshippers as
tweaking.
A journal I kept during my involvement with Drexel traces the
perfect storm of our union that ultimately resulted in a deluge.
“I feel so frazzled by my thoughts. I hate feeling “less than” and
insecure that whomever I’m dating is going to lose interest in me for somebody
else. Why do I have such self-loathing and neuroses…? Wow. I’m really spun for
Drex... I love kissing him. Love isn’t a strong enough word. I’m completely
enveloped in it. … I cut my wrists yesterday...nothing major, just some
scratches. I put a huge Band-Aid on them and no one will be the wiser. Why do I
feel so vulnerable? I’m having thoughts about using drugs…
May 3
I saw Drex at the Tuesday downtown meeting tonight and that new
bitch in the group was there. Matthew, that little bitch with the body who
introduced himself as an alcoholic and sex addict sashays around and comes on
to anyone with a dick and then screams victim. My only solace is that the queen
has oodles of issues, like major ones. There was something about a lover
throwing her out. More faggot drama. She also hates her mother because after
his high school gym teacher allegedly raped him, his mother made him apologize
or some such shit. Drex was dishing from stuff he learned in their group
therapy session and I was bagging on it. I’m such a bitch but I have enough
self-loathing and poor self-esteem so I really don’t feel sorry for the cunt
with the hard body and huge dick for playing victim. Lie down and take it up
the ass and just shut the fuck up queen.
May 8
Tonight at the Friendship group meeting, Drex whispered I love you
into my ear but he also said he doesn’t know me well enough because of the
limited time we’ve spent together. I have come to enjoy his company and
also depend on his support. I met him right before I found out I was positive.
I want to pursue something with Drex but his life is so up in the air and I’m a
mess with no self-esteem and a penchant for self-mutilation. I am terrified
that he will find out and reject me. I hate feeling threatened by every
half-cute bitch that Drex meets. Tonight I thought I heard him speak a Freudian
slip and say he thought Matthew was cute when he meant to say something else.
it hurt because even with all of his words and cards and touches, I feel less-than
and unworthy. I can’t deal with all of these feelings I have for Drex
because it’s all new and I’m 28 and HIV positive and he’s 42 and almost 60 days
sober without a pot to piss in. We’re both confident that our paths
crossed at this juncture in time for a specific universal reason.
My insecurities and fears have been almost crippling. Drex is a
very attractive, charismatic man with positive energy. In his addiction, he
fucked through the Castro. It’s tweaking my insecurities.
I was perplexed and puzzled the when I received two calls in the
same week from the public health department alerting me that I had been exposed
to gonorrhea and then chlamydia. Drex drove me to the STD clinic on both
occasions and sat next to me among the throngs of pregnant hoochy mamas and
Guidos with ants in their pants. I took the pill, drank the liquid and crossed
my fingers behind my back to nullify the promise I made to the clinician that I
wouldn’t have sex for at least 24 hours.
It was impossible to be abstinent around Drex, especially when he was
introducing me to a new, weird, wonderful world of adventurous sex.
Drexel
is a fantastic lover. We flip-flop-fucked and then he pulled out this electric butt
plug device that had wires that hooked up to a little box which adjusted the
frequency. It was followed by equally minute mini EKG looking pads that were affixed to the pubic area and then---- the
dial is flipped. Zing go the strings of my heart! He’s so intense. When I woke up this morning, he had breakfast
laid out for me. He is the sweetest guy on the planet. I’m in a world I’ve
never inhabited before. I have to believe that I deserve a man like this. There
i
s no reason why I shouldn’t deserve him. He even went with me to get my lab
results at the doctor.
My T cells are 540 and my viral load is virtually undetectable. I’m ditching Tom Waddell for the SF City Clinic. I don’t want to endure the element at Tom Waddell for another second.
My T cells are 540 and my viral load is virtually undetectable. I’m ditching Tom Waddell for the SF City Clinic. I don’t want to endure the element at Tom Waddell for another second.
I
went running to the top of Twin Peaks this morning and now I’m enjoying the
view. I’m on top of the world. I’m
becoming addicted to Drexel. This is another world that I’ve never been close
to experiencing. I’ve e watched my friends date and see people, Marc, Tyler,
Billy, Ty… Now it’s my turn. I just wish
I could get over my insecurities. With HIV on my plate, it’s upped the ante of
a whole new game. I guess it’s just part and parcel of a contemporary fag’s
life.
May 12
Mother’s
Day. What an interesting 24 hours I’ve just had. I went to St. Helene with
Drexel and met his younger sister Melanie. We had a gorgeous time visiting and
she was very easy to talk to and interested in my background. Strangely, she looked at me as if I were the
only one in the room and said, “You have you own strength” in a very direct
manner before turning her attention back to the room at large. The poignancy of the direct statement she
made was not lost on me and I spent the rest of the evening trying to figure
out what it was within me that she had seen to give her the sense that I was
capable of withstanding challenges. I’m nervous for what may lie
ahead in my
future with Drexel. How trippy. If I had met Drexel so much as a year ago when
I was shifty in Dallas, I would have been mesmerized and messed up over his
pretty package but since we met under different, deeper circumstances, we’re
both experiencing transitional growth.
Drexel did say to me that I was a little needy which I’ll cop to. When I
got home from work last night, he drew me a bath and made dinner. What have I done to deserve this God of Great
Boyfriends? Marnie told me to protect
myself but Drexel is a good man and this is my goddamn adventure. I sound like Holly Hunter in Once
Around. I just have to hold on and
proceed with caution. Stay in the moment. Be secure. Grow with him.
May 13
My
heart is very, very heavy. Through all the special treatment Drexel was
bestowing me; he was actually high on drugs.
He picked me up from work last night and told me he has been high on
crystal since Friday. That makes sense because he didn’t return my phone calls
until 11 PM. Then, on the drive back
from St. Helena yesterday his energy was very sexually aggressive. He was
making suggestive comments about boys and then he pulled his dick out and like
demanded that I suck him off in traffic. I should have seen that as a red flag
but how can I blame myself when he flashed d his dick in my face? Anybody would
have been distracted. After we got back
to the city, he said he wanted to spend Saturday night alone which is when he
apparently got on the phone lines and invited tweaker trade back to that
hooker’s house (which he is still occupying) and had a major sex party all damn
day. He spent Sunday running around the city to various little tweaky social
events which is why when I tried to call him for a ride home last night; his
voice mail was mysteriously forwarded to some rancid tweaker’s voicemail. That’s when I started to have a panic
attack. I just didn’t want to believe what was right in front of me and so
plainly obvious. Drexel is a sick man. I
was told to protect myself. Everyone has warned me that I must protect myself
because this was inevitable. It was my
fault for placing expectations on him that he wasn’t equipped to fulfill. I was
only bound to be disappointed. Drexel is
obviously a sex addict and he isn’t capable of fulfilling the fairy tale he
promised. He is high right now and I hate his energy but I’m afraid to leave
him. So you see, therein lies the rub. I’m just as sick as he is but I’ll hang
on because I want the Drexel I met a month ago to surface. He’s an addict, a sick sex and drug addict in
the throes of sickness. How much will I be able to put up with before I realize
I’m just not okay with any of it? I’m
looking to Steven Scarborough and Brent for inspiration because Steven has
relapsed more than once while in his relationship with Brent and they have come
through it and survived. Can I love Drexel through this? I haven’t cried and
won’t because I’m too angry and hell bent on protecting myself. I want more out
of my life than this desperate druggie spin.
I wanted to believe him when he said he loved me because I’m just as
much of a love addict as he is. But I have to accept him for where he’s at. I’m
just grieving right now.
May 15
Drex
is in trouble. Several people have warned me to watch my back with him because
he has a reputation of being a sketchy tweaker.
They all disclaim that he is a super nice guy but apparently a chronic
relapse.
PAUSE—I’m
sitting at Peet’s Coffee on Market right now and Tyler just came over so we
chatted for an hour... He told me that I’ve been around long enough to know how
to protect myself in situations like this. He said having Drexel for a
boyfriend is part of my cash and prizes package and what I get for staying
sober and on my path. He reminded me of
how far I’ve advanced since I arrived in SF and was sleeping on Marc’s floor.
I’ve got my own, place, have two jobs and I’m dating a steady dude. He said at
least now if nothing else, I should realize I’m desirable and capable of
contributing to a relationship. I guess that’ true because before I met Drexel
I doubted whether I would ever find someone.
I care for him so I hope he is able to recover and get his act together.
I just hope to hell I don’t get hurt.
Two
hours later
Drexel
went to his therapy and said he made significant headway. I am feeling good today. It helped to run
into Tyler yesterday and be reminded that no matter what happens, I can stay
sober through anything. Drexel has been very snippy and bitchy with me lately. I know better than to take It personally but I
want to continue to grow and thrive. I don’t want to get all mixed up In my head
and weird and sketchy. I’m not going to take on his bullshit. Yes, I care about
him even if he doesn’t. I asked him if
he has heard the phrase, “we will love you until you can love yourself. I don’t know what lies in store for Drexel
but I have to survive. Please God, help me emerge from this unscathed.May 17.
I
have one foot towards the door. I don’t know what I can do for Drexel and he
isn’t faring well at all. Yesterday he
found out he has to go on the HIV cocktail and it devastated him. He spent all
day in bed then slept all night, woke up this AM to go register for ADAP and
now he’s back in bed, resting as he says. Matthew, the hooker cunt bitch is
getting out of Ohlhoff soon and he told Drexel he has to be out of his place by
the end of the weekend. He’s done
nothing to look for another place. Of course, he is naturally overwhelmed,
depressed and not in the best fighting form after that three day binge-run last
weekend. I have to distance myself... I
know how it feels to be depressed but his issues cannot become my issues. I
can’t hold on and keep babysitting him especially since he’s been a real cunt
lately. His energy is so not fun to be around. Goddamn it. I know what it’s like to be depressed and
coming off drugs and hating your life. I
had to reinvent myself more than once. I’ll allow him to grieve but I’ve got to
set a firm boundary. I’m stronger than I was last week. Since he relapsed, I’ve
been putting up walls. If he does it again, I’ll have to really examine myself
and ask myself if I can stay. I may have to leave. Of course, I’ll always be
fond of him but the bottom line is I have to protect myself.
May
18
19
I was
frantic last night because I couldn’t reach Drexel for upwards of half an hour.
I hated myself during that time. I
realized I can’t be babysitting him and freaking out every time he leaves my
sight. He’s a big boy and if he wants to
go out and use, there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. Since he’ can’t stay at Matthew’s anymore he
went to hang out with his friend Joe Maren and talk about “career strategies”.
I told him he could stay with me but I really don’t need to be worrying about
what I am doing or what he’s doing. I’ haven’t
contacted any of my friends in a week because I’ve been obsessively caught up
in following Drexel. The day will come that he will fuck someone else…probably
as we speak since I have chlamydia and then I run the risk of being hurt.
Everyone tells me I deserve better but it’s a baby step in the right direction.
Even if Drexel isn’t sincere, he’s still the best I’ve had and he is trying...
At least I’m getting some. And what a something it is. His cock is the flagship.
FUCK
FUCK FUCK FUCK
It’s
been over two hours since Drexel called. He was supposed to stay at my place tonight
but he left at 7:15 to go discuss career strategies with his friend Joe. When
he called at 11 PM he said he couldn’t get his car into reverse. He called back
an hour later and asked me if I believed him so I thought back over his
behavior all day and started poking holes in the plausibility of his stories
but I don’t want to live like that. I
can point out how talkative he seemed while he was going through all those old
photographs in his storage unit today and attribute that to tweaking. The time
is 12:50 AM and I am going to take two 2mg Klonopin, It’s becoming a regular
habit for me. Everyone warns me about
his tweaky negative energy but when he was here earlier all I wanted was for him
to hold me. He isn’t picking up his
fucking phone and I can’t stop myself from calling him over and over until he
does. I’m jumping out of my skin. He is killing me. HEEELLLPPPP.
He
will destroy me. Right now he is probably fucking some little tweaking faggot
with a rig in his arm. HOMELESS. LIVING
OUT OF HIS CAR. HOW FUCKING GLAMOROUS. WHAT A CATCH. WHY? WHY? WHY?
20
Drexel
called me at 8:30 tonight but I was in the middle of my shift at Needle
Exchange and couldn’t talk. He told me he was going to lie down at Tony’s but
when I called Tony, he told me he hadn’t spoken n to Drexel in several
days. That means Drexel is a lying sack
of shit loser? Why am I hanging on to him? Last night he was up talking to me
about various things but mainly about how threatened I was by other guys he
brings up in conversation. He kept defending that little twink Jason, the one I
met who was driving the Jeep that day. Drexel kept going on about how impressed
he was that Jason kicked heroin at age 15, blah, blah, blah. It’s completely
obvious that there is something going on between them. See, there my mind goes, wandering back to
imagine them fucking and doing dope together. They’re probably together right
now. Wherever Drexel is, he’s not with me. He’s getting his big cock sucked at
some hooker’s house for a place to stay...
I’ve been a fool for letting him come in here and ingratiate himself
when he’s done nothing to look for a place to live. He continues to surround
himself with these skinny sketchy boys. I guess I was just a diversion
5
more pages of Drexel bashing ensues in between repeated self-affirmations that
I must protect myself.
21—Then
the truth emerges.
Drexel
was at Steamworks last night. Now he is
hanging out over at his friend Scotty and Phil’s place. They’re the dealers who
live in a fuck palace with a sling that Drex is riding while getting
rammed. He brought me flowers today to
soften the blow of his confession that he played around at Steamworks. I told him I cared more that he lied and said
he was going to Tony’s. I just talked to him a few minutes ago and although he
swears he’s not high, he sounds EXTREMELY out of it. The Drexel I met his gone. Everyone has been coming to me and telling me
that he is known for this type of behavior, that he is known for these chronic
relapses and merry-go-round treatment centers.
Still I can’t turn away. I told
him I wanted to see him tonight. If he shows up all tweaky, I won’t be
impressed. If he is constantly out using drugs and having sex with other
people, he’s not my boyfriend. So then what is he to me?
22
Drexel
applied for a fabulous apartment today off of Haight and Buena Vista near
Walden House. I love Drexel to death and
want him to succeed. We had a long conversation about HIV and the way the city
and culture at large responds to it via the gay circuit scene. We talked about
the way people deal with their HIV status by doing drugs. I’m still worried
about him fucking some random dick because I’m jealous and possessive and don’t
want to share him. Today when I was viewing the apartment he applied at, I
started to imagine him having sex with all of these random boys that he would
invite over and it drove me out of my mind.
We do have some kind of a relationship.
I’m caught up in it.
25.
Drexel
is gone. He is way gone. He shot dope
with me in the room. We’re in a motel room he rented at Beck’s Motor
Lodge. I could taste the speed in his
cum. I have to let him go. Everything I
thought we had together Is gone. I don’t really know what else to write because
it hurts so badly.
26
I
deserve better--- repeated 5 times…. I
am numb in a way. I’m trying to get used to the idea of giving him up but
giving him up Is worse than kicking the most powerful drugs. I can think of
little else. All I can think of is that he’s out there somewhere lost into
drugs and wrapped up in some anonymous, urgent sexual gratification. I have no choice but to separate his present
actions from the memories I have of him but do I ever really know him?> I
believe I saw underneath the hood and glimpsed the real Drexel that’s hiding
from all those layers and walls he’s
putting up. I don’t understand why I
don’t just walk away but I still get such a rush of adrenaline when I’m with
him. He electrifies me with his eyes and when we touch… I’m absolutely
pulverized. I’m wrecked. But lately,
he’s a shell of the man I knew. Everyone keeps telling me I have the power to
protect myself. I’ve always believed
that innately.
27
I
could taste the speed in Drexel’s cum. He
fucked me at some motel today and
then I flipped and did the same to him. We fucked for hours but he kept running
into the bathroom to do another hit of speed.
It would be a lot easier if I was participating so at least we’d be on
the same level but I could never go there with him.
28
Drex
is bankrupt of life. He had tears in his eyes when he said, “I can’t (get
clean) here.” He’s been through two programs already and clearly knows how.
He’ll either get it together or end up dead. He’s gone anyway.
29
I
woke up with Drex lying next to me in bed and became insecure in the suspicion
that he was pretending and really lying there in a suspended vampire state of
disco sleep. He is/was/has been high since he ended last week’s run. He spent
all day running around town accomplishing very little. He has this idea that
that he is going to move to the Russian River valley for the summer to get away
from the city and collect his thoughts. I asked him if he intended to continue
using drugs and he said no but quitting requires work and he’s not willing to
do it. He wants me to go away with him
for a weekend at the river.
The
STD clinic called today and left a vague message telling me that I have to go
back. If I have another goddamn outbreak I am going to kill. I am so fucking
angry and hurt and pissed off and trapped. I feel chained to Drex, chained to
the drama and lies that bind me. I know when he is not with me; he is out
tweaking and fucking. I’ve checked his email and can see that he’s been on the
sex hookup sites. Why does he get to have his cake and eat it too? I resent
that he continues to party frivolously but I packed it in and try like hell to
stay grounded every fucking day. He can’t respect any of that because he’s a
practicing junkie. People tell me I’m
good looking all of the time. Could I find someone who would be good to me when
I can’t be good to myself?
30
I’ve
been in SF six months today. Right now, I’m in Guerneville at the Russian River
with Drex. I guess this is the end of our relationship because after he moves
here, he will move on to some little tourist twink staying at a resort and soon
forget about me. He’s already over me anyway. He said I was spoiled and thinks
that my personalities are governed by my psych meds. Am I coming across that
schizo? I found out that my viral load
has exceeded 200K. Good. I hope I
fucking die. Drex Is having a mid-life
crisis at 42 and I’m only 28. I never noticed how much of an age difference
there is between us until now. I guess he needs to do what he needs to do. I had to get treated for gonorrhea again
because he’s out fucking around
June
1
All
of my friends are telling me to dump Drex. Fuck them and their opinions. I’m
very sad right now because he will be gone soon. I feel empty and panicked and
devoid of hope. I doesn’t even help to
cry. No one but Drex can make me feel better but when I’m with him, I’m a
Debbie Downer because of his entire BS. I look around at the people who live in
the Mission Hotel where I’m a desk clerk. They can all be described as a
combination of crazy, addict, or hooker.
They seem a lot worse off than me but still they go on and do what they
have to do. I get sick of everyone telling
me to dump Drex because it’s none of their business. When I hear Drex’s voice, it makes me
hard. I know I’ll be neurotic throughout
my shift at work tonight wondering if hell answer his phone when I call.
Everyone is convinced I’ll relapse which is soon to become a self-fulfilling
prophecy. I don’t want to use drugs but if Drex is leaving I don’t want to be
sitting around wringing my hands, wondering what the hell he’s doing. I’m very
anxious and on the verge of panic. I need to take another Klonopin.
I’m
negative and a bitch and driving Drex away. We spent the day together while I
sulked that he was moving to Guerneville to pnp. I’m in tears right now and constantly on edge
when I’m around him. I don’t feel worthy. My lack of self-confidence is driving
him away. He hates my negative energy but because I feel threatened and
insecure around him, I project a bad attitude. He is afraid we will become lost
in the other’s life and have nothing to offer one another. I don’t want to go back to that vapid life in
the Castro socializing with those benign queens.
5.
Drex
is hanging out at his friends Scotty and Phil who live in that makeshift fuck
palace so I know shit is happening. Drex came through my line at Needle
Exchange last night to get rigs for them.
When I stopped by there, an Australian hooker in chaps answered the door
and I noticed the sling was out. It became obvious that the Aussie had fucked
Drex in that sling moments before my arrival.
I took Drex back to my place after we left and he fucked me all
night. Apparently he and that Australian
whore exchanged numbers since Drex said he plans to be in Sydney for the Gay
Games in November and the Aussie is arranging to be in Guerneville in August.
9
I
didn’t sleep last night because I was fucking Drexel at the Travelodge on
Market all night. He said he’s only
slept the equivalent of half a day in the past 9. He’s off and running on a
full run. I found his works in his sunglass case in his car. He got high last
night and then begged me to fist him.
Marc called and told me I was degrading myself by being with Drex. I’ve
done everything but relapse and I hope I am finally at a place where I can
realize Drex is sick and just accept him for where he is at. He told me that he
needs to work on himself before he gets into another married type relationship. I was feeling so low yesterday afternoon
because I knew he was so high. He was falling out and it’s so difficult to deal
with that tweaky energy.
The
rest of the interlude wasn’t recorded as religiously in my journals but I don’t
need a written play by play to remember every detail of what went down.
After
another night spent worshipping his cock in the Market Street tweaker
Travelodge, I woke up panicked after realizing that I was alone in the
room. Drex and his Golden Retriever Bo
were gone. Telling myself that he was just out to walk the dog wasn’t working
so I brainstormed for ways to track down the truth. I had become quite adept at
playing detective since I met Drexel, first with the background check I had
purchased all the way to the daily checks and balances I accrued of his
reported activities. With sickening
dread of discovering what I knew I might find, I tore back the nightstand
drawer so fast, I ripped it off the track. It toppled to the floor spilling out
its contents which consisted of one requisite Gideon Bible, part and parcel of
roadside motel mise-en-scene since God only knew and …that was it. “Goddamn it, Holy Mother Fucker”, I screamed
through clenched teeth as I picked up the Bible and hurled it across the
room. “He didn’t. That motherfucker… He
fucking didn’t.” The last word was choked through a sob as tears sprang to my
eyes and began to stream. I could feel them passing over the tops of my
cheekbones. The little travel size tube
of Gun-Oil lube was missing from where it was stashed in the night stand
drawer. Drexel had obviously taken it
with him to run amok while he trolled for strange dick in Dolores Park. I picked up a ceramic urn size table lamp and
hurled it into the wall which detached the finial from the shade that careened
off in the opposite direction. I ran
into the bathroom where Bo the bitch’s 20 lb. bag of kibble was hunched over in
corner. I grabbed it from the bottom and spun like a merry-go-round a couple of
times until the velocity of inertia had sprinkled the dog food satisfactorily
in every crevice of the room. I was
Mildred in Of Human Bondage, the Cockney low-brow lass from the wrong side of
the tracks destroying the life of the man who dared smile at her. It was Bette Davis’ breakout role that changed
the course of her career. It was the one she was able to utilize to bring her
out of the shadows and into the spotlight…until she became of a certain
age…
Suddenly
a key turned in the lock and Drexel emerged in the doorway with Bo, the bitch
in tow. “You cad…you dirty swine….said
Mildred.
He
stood there crestfallen as he took in the destruction scattered around him.
What the hell….?”
He
tried to lie his way out of the obvious with a story that he had taken the lube
with him as a reference because he planned to replace it at Walgreens and
needed to know the size of the container.
We didn’t speak for a week after that incident.
I
can’t believe Marc’s judgmental attitude. So. He can’t be friends with me if I
don’t go to meetings? Fuck that!
I’m
holding the Hedwig CD right now. I’ve really been connecting with her message.
She is the ultimate misunderstood diva, the true star. She has survived
suffering and come out the other side as an inspiration to all the freaks.
She’s fucking fabulous. I love that she
spent the entire story searching for her other half only to realize that she
had it within her all along. Tommy Gnosis was a manifestation of everything she
already had. She just had to realize it. She created Tommy Gnosis, i.e she was
Tommy Gnosis. It’s incredibly beautiful
to realize that we have everything we need within ourselves. I wish I could
just numb out.
I’ve
got to find myself like Hedwig found herself. She transcends gender like me and isn’t governed
like the rest of society is steeped in binary gender boundaries.
Oh,
Gawd, that third guy who just joined Joe’s little ménage over there just lifted
his shirt and “accidentally” displayed his six pack abs. Was that for our
benefit? I’m so grateful I can remove
myself from all of it and just retreat into my head where it’s safe. In my
head, I am a movie star. I can identify with the misunderstood, the fabulous,
the freakish, the tragic and the strong. It’s all within me. I’ve just got to
find it.
Tomorrow,
the doctor is going to tell me I have to start taking HIV meds. I’m scared. I’m
so very scared.
In
other news I sat with Drexel at the apartment of this guy Gerald from the
Program at his flat on Guerrero the other night after I got off work from the
Mission. The power has been shut off and he is literally living in
squalor. The place looks like a tornado
hit it. Why does that always happen to tweaker’s apartments? He has carved out a little of one room to fix
where he keeps all of his supplies. I picked up a micro-syringe and studied it...uncapped
it, recapped it, twirled it… Drexel
said he possibly wasn’t safe for me because he was making drug use seem
attractive. What-the fuck ever!
June 12
It’s
amazing that I can go days without calling or worrying about Drexel. Since I
know I can’t count on him…I am finding myself slowly crawling out of that fog.
The innate, deep, deep pain is gone. I’m still bitter, especially when I see
cute gay couples be-bopping around the Castro. I am really wondering if it’s
true that girls like me don’t find husbands.
Drexel is the closest I ever came to feeling love for another person and
look what happened? Are there other sane men out there who think I’m beautiful?
Drexel helped my self-esteem because in this gay clone cliquey world of ideals
molded on the pecs of Abercrombie and Fitch, I found someone who appreciated
what I brought to the table. There was none of that internalized homophobia,
“you’re too pretty” bullshit to contend with. I see so much of that on M4M and
it doesn’t appear as if the pictures I posted are helping the issue. Guys my age are usually hung up on this
phantom idea of masculinity that doesn’t really exist. Like that little
rat-fuck Jeremy, the one that Drexel fucked around with for a while. I miss Drexel but I can’t go back. What we had never really happened. It’s over
and I have to move on. I am so tired of self-loathing.
18
I saw
Drexel at the clinic this morning. I also saw that Australian hooker that
fucked him in the sling a while back. I became instantly uncomfortable and on
edge. Drexel asked me if I wanted to come over to see where he was staying so I
waited for him in his car. I found a receipt for lube with an address and phone
number scribbled on the back. I became
incredibly hot and stated to hyperventilate. I had to get out of the car. I
just left his keys on the front seat and ran away. It hurts too much to spend any time with him
at all. It reminded me of how he made sex a full-time job when we were together
and how it’s obviously still a primary preoccupation. I know I’ve recently started to play around
on M4M and was even invited to a sex party tomorrow night. I may or may not go.
I don’t have that vengeance to go get laid the way I did last summer.
Drexel
said he’s not experiencing any side effects of the meds. I was angry to hear
that because his attitude is so cavalier, as if taking these pills isn’t that
big of a deal. I am fighting it every
step of the way.
Drexel
is going out of town and I’m thrilled because I won’t have the urge to call him
every day. I called that trick’s number
that I found on the floor of his car the other day. Just out of curiosity. It’s lame… I know. How
many potential tricks have I corresponded and chatted with since I started
playing around online? It just hurts with Drexel because I am reminded of those
incredibly strong feelings we had in the beginning and how I thought I was on a
road to the “cash and prizes” and how it all ended so horribly painful. Someone
said Drexel was like a drug for me and that’s so true. The more I see him, the
more I want…even though I know he’s bad for me.
When I studied his face today, I wanted to cover him with a lip-locking
embrace. Like the way we did when we first met…but that will never be because
the intensity Is gone. Whatever it Is I represented to him when our paths
crossed the first time is gone because he’s on a different path. And I’m over
here, still full of crippling depression and loathsome self-esteem. Marc says
the Program will get me through it. He can go to hell. Marco says he misses the
old me. The one who was carefree instead of crying.
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