“Ah, tres chic!” Oh good, a group of middle-aged French tourists is making fun of me for being a queen. I love how liberal San Francisco is. I mean it’s not like anyplace else in the world. You know, people are so open-minded here. Even the tourists, they know how to respect a San Francisco queen. Like I’m at the Ferry Building by the water, and these upscale, oh-so sophisticated tourists are huddled around a map, but I guess I catch their eye and then they’re studying me as I walk by. It’s San Franfuckingcisco, but they’re like shocked, surprised, amused, or something, to see me. I turn around and tell them, in French, that I hope they die during their trip. I mean, I’m yelling, just cussing them the hell out in French. They’re stunned, mouths agape. I’m going to push them in the water by the shear force of my voice. They’ve never had a queen backtalk them in French like this. They thought they were going to walk around San Francisco all superior with their Ralph Lauren sweaters thrown over their shoulders, speaking disdain about everyone in their secret language. I really showed them how American queens to do it.
But of course the part where I tell them off didn’t really happen. That’s just what I was imagining in my mind. I was slightly amused actually that they would, well what would you call it, make fun of me? Yes, I think they were making fun of me. For being a queen in San Francisco. How outlandish, how dare I. But, I mean, it is the Ferry Building, kind of like Middle America but with more expensive bourgeois-ified food. It is amusing to be noticed in this way, especially because I’m not even particularly queeny with my clothes, or really, it doesn’t take much to push those boundaries. A purple velour jacket, a purple belt, but black jeans, and gym sneakers. I just came from the fucking gym, okay?! Don’t mess with me! But I have a queeny walk so it really doesn’t matter what I wear. And I do want to own my queeniness, I don’t want to pretend that I’m not a queen by wearing North Face or something. And I do want to be noticed but then I still go into a rage about it like why are you people so fucking boring that I’m your entertainment. Just stay the fuck at home! I mean never leave your fucking house. Please. But like I said San Francisco is so fucking liberal, queens just breeze right by without causing any kind of stir, or that’s what City Hall wants you to believe.
Scared of the wrong people
Cheebas, roxies, OPs, morphine, Vicodin, and sometimes, even weed. If only that’s what I was looking for, if only that’s all it would take, well, I’d be living in the perfect neighborhood. I don’t even do drugs, I’m in library school, okay? But I’m a skinny, somewhat-trendy queen walking around the Tenderloin at night, and even in the morning, afternoon, and evening, I get these offers. The dealers get excited when they see me, walking fast in my direction, calling out to me from across the street, HEY! Asking me what I’m looking for, listing everything they’ve got and when that doesn’t do it–you’re looking for some dick! Hello, finally someone gets it right! Sometimes I get compliments on my hair, a good sales tactic. Nice hair, I got roxies, cheebas…and MORPHINE! I’m already moving on, going to the corner store, the one with okay-ish produce, soy milk, even almond milk, tofu, peppers, bananas, chocolate soy milk–organic. I haven’t walked in this direction at night in a while. It doesn’t get more atmospheric than this, these neon hotel signs, Vietnamese cafes with blasting music. I usually don’t say much. No thank you doesn’t seem appropriate. Maybe a nod of the head, a little smile. I don’t mind these sales pitches, it’s kind of amusing. And really I don’t see too many other versions of myself out here buying drugs. But I guess queens have a reputation…for buying drugs, for being fucked-up and desperate, deranged, degraded, and dysfunctional. But like I said, I’m in library school, and somehow this is still the perfect neighborhood.
Making bitches jealous everyday, ohkaaay!
What is this fog over my eyes? I like the fog outside. The beauty of San Francisco summer hits me once again. It is gray, but the sun will come out later, probably. I’m done with library school for the semester, so I want to feel ecstasy, but I just feel like I want to lay in bed. But if I lay in bed my mind will race about all the things that I need to do that I couldn’t do when all I could do was do school work, and then I’ll try to relax by thinking about sex, so then I’ll jerk off and then probably beat myself up for wasting so much time. Should probably just try to stop thinking so much. Things are fine. And I am just getting started, or that’s what I like to tell myself.
Ringgold Street
Oh, writing where have you been? Well, I finished my ‘zine, so that included some writing, along with some amateur layout skills and very little patience with the photo copier. But still I finished it. I mailed that letter to my father finally, or did I already tell you that? No response yet. I don’t have hope because I don’t think he communicates like that, I mean at all, about anything real. I wrote a letter to the Red River School Board District holding them accountable for the homophobic abuse I experienced from both students and teachers. Let the record stand, bitch. I better get a response for that one. I want to send some more letters to Coushatta, but to whom? I guess I could send my ‘zine to the Red River Parish Public Library, just for fun. Wonder what their ‘zine collection is like? I guess I want acknowledgment that I suffered, and then, that I won. But do I really feel like I won? And because all these prestigious degrees are starting to pile up in my 150 sq. ft. apartment? I guess that is part of it, I can flaunt my college degrees (okay one degree and one in progress) to people like my father and the school superintendent even though I know it doesn’t mean that much. But really it’s probably just more about my journey to consciousness as a queer queen fag sissy librarian, and wanting to do some sort of activism in response to homophobia in schools. College was one part of getting me there, I mean here. Friends, experiences, art and reading are the other parts in the journey. Activism through writing, let’s do it! Letter writing campaigns, petitions and, oh yes, ‘zines!
Post and Leavenworth
I want to cultivate that non-nonchalant sensuality that Rihanna projects in her “What’s My Name?” video. Rihanna’s in lower Manhattan wearing short shorts with black and white stripped 80s-ish jacket. I’m walking up Nob Hill wearing my black jeans lavender belt, and purple velour jacket. The breeze is working in the afternoon sun. I get and give smiles to a couple of queeny boys. They’re feeling it too, that tropical via New York downtown Rihanna vibe. I’m dancing on the corner. Well, really I’m just shaking it a little and letting loose in my mind. It’s summer, okay, I’m allowed these fantasies. It’s my day off, and well, shy people tend to live in their fantasies. “Hey boy, I really wanna see if you can go downtown with a girl like me.”
I’m looking at the new gay books in the library. Most of the covers are so cheaply done which is understandable. I mean, we all know the publishing industry is suffering, but not only are the covers shitty, they just seem like shitty books. I’ve got to get into the publishing business and bring back the glamour. That’s what I’m thinking when I look up to cruising eyes. He’s cute too. I’ll take it. Glances ensue as he sits down and I move to the magazines. And then he’s leaving and of course I’m following. Onto Pond street where he seems nervous, but I assume he’s looking for a secluded corner where we can make out, because that’s what I’m doing. I find one, a wall jutting out a couple of feet from a garage, and pull him over. Look at you he says, as if he didn’t know. He pulls me close and we’re kissing. He may be thinking about where this going. You’re cute he says, but he’s hesitating. His over thinking frees me from over thinking. He hard, this is a problem he says. Doesn’t look like a problem to me, I’m grabbing. And then it’s just over. I could give you my number or something I say. But he doesn’t want to do that. See you around he says. I know you want to call me! How could he not? But I don’t really care either and that is the point.
Just another piece of erotica
He says he’s not sure if he can be sexual. I kiss him again. We’re sitting on the floral print love seat in his studio apartment. He doesn’t open his mouth, but he pecks back to let me know that he likes me. Just before he noted the space between the waist of my pants and the edge of my shirt. Pale skin and black hair peeking out. I knew my shirt was hiked up and I knew he was looking. I hiked it up a little more. He says this looks good. He tells me I’m pretty. I’m hard and it’s partly because he’s hesitating, conflicted, conflicted about what I’m not sure. He grabs my crotch and then I’m unzipping my lavender belt everyone raves about. I want him to look at my cock, I want to push him. Maybe I want to be irresistible. Irresistible like Andie MacDowell in a L’Oreal ad. He jerks me off while I kiss his neck. Oh, Kevin he’s saying while he’s jerking. And then, I can’t do this today. Okay, I’m amused. Horny, but still amused. He gets up to go to the bathroom, but I don’t button up. I sit there jerking off while he’s peeing. I’m looking at his TV, and the books shelved underneath. There’s a cute little coffee table from India with exactly two books on it. The walls are white, mostly empty, everything is very clean, everything is in it’s place. I keep jerking. I want him to come out of the bathroom and catch me. He comes out and laughs, he can’t believe me. Oh, put it away!
The next time I come over, well, he must have decided that he wants to have sex. He’s had all week to think about it. We’re on the love seat again, just talking. I notice that he looks at my crotch whenever I stand up to go to the bathroom or to look at this CDs. I mean who wouldn’t look? We start to watch a documentary about the history of the Castro neighborhood, but then we get hungry so he makes us scrambled eggs with veggie sausages and tortillas. It’s only about 1:30pm and he hasn’t eaten anything. I tell him he seems lightheaded. He loves this and feigns dizziness. Leaping at any chance to get into character as a Jewish woman from New York he says Oy, I need a bagel! After lunch it comes out that I have trouble relaxing. He says let’s try something. That seems exciting. Who ever says something like that. Who ever wants to try anything anymore. I think it means he feels comfortable with me, that we can try things together, things that might be weird or might even be complete failures. He puts on some Reiki relaxation music and tells me to lay on his yoga mat. I lay on my back and he starts massaging my chest and stomach, legs and pelvis. I feel relaxed, but also aroused. I want to reach out and touch him back. He says do you want me to do the other side, I say no I want you to lay on top me. He starts undoing my pants, so I guess this party is really on. He tells me to lay on my stomach, my cock is rubs against the yoga mat. He spreads my cheeks to look at my asshole and makes a sound of desire. I love that. Then he’s turning me over on my back and spreading my legs to look at my asshole some more. He goes for a condom and I never say anything like fuck me raw even though I might think it. I do grab his dick and rub it against my asshole, just playing I say. But then voila, condom on, he fucks gently. He holds my left leg back fucking me at an angle, never going all the way, just teasing and that’s enough. I’m looking at his face as he fucks me and I like that. I like this person who’s fucking me.
She reads
Well, I don’t know what to think about all this longing for the Castro, followed by all this hanging out in the Castro, but tonight I have a real reason to be in this historically tired neighborhood. And what better reason than a book group? People who read books getting together to talk about books, and in this case, a non-mainstream book written by a person of color. Strangely, I’ve never been a part of a book group before. I guess, the talking part always kept me away. I do feel a little nervous, I wonder if I’ll have anything to say. But then I do have things to say. I feel sort of confident even. I’m new to the group, while everyone else has been here before. I feel fresh and all fired up. The other members don’t really like the book–too weird, too non-linear, too shallow, the characters are not memorable. But of course, I can see all the reasons as to why it’s an important book, and point out a few of them.
We’re sitting in a circle, which I used to dread when I was in college. In those cases I never had anything to say and just wanted to die. What is the difference? Maybe part of it is just having been through those college experiences where I somehow gained confidence and some smidgen of intelligence, while at the same time loathing everyone and thinking that it’s all so pointless, and what am I doing here. I really hated college, I mean I hated the social aspect of it where I had way more life experience than the majority of my classmates, while they had way more academic experience. I felt stupid all the time, while at the same time thinking they were so stupid. Oh, the stupidity! And I was usually the only fag in my classes, or if there was a fag we were never friends, and probably more like enemies. But then this book group is just fags, talking about fag themed books, so I’m all over it. There’s eight of us including the guy who leads the book group. He seems smart, definitely an English major. I wonder if he’s a writer. So in college I was self-conscious about being stupid, but now I’m self conscious about being a pompous ass. The leader wants us to introduce ourselves and name our favorite book. I’m third in line and I can’t pin down a favorite in those few seconds until it’s my turn. So I say I can’t think of a favorite, but I’m in school to be a librarian so I have too many books in my head, I guess. I mean, I knew before hand that I wanted them to know I’m in library school probably because I was feeling insecure, but then after I say it I worry about it sounding braggy. But they probably don’t even think library school is a very exciting thing, so it wouldn’t matter. But I think it’s exciting, I think everyone should do it, and don’t really understand why more people don’t but okay enough about that. I only blushed once out of the three times I spoke up. Some of the other people didn’t talk much at all, and I was like What’s your fucking problem?! No, kidding! There was a former librarian there and his comments were all really annoying. Must not have been a very good librarian. I was attracted to one guy there, not that it’s about that at all. But he reads, okay?
The Pill of the Future
Have you accepted the bougie lifestyle as your Lord and Savior? Why, yes. I mean, um, hell no.
I forgot to tell you the libraries are not closing. Why don’t people realize that the library is the center of the universe? Information, hello, where would your tired ass be without it? Especially queer people, hello, do you hear me calling out your name? Stop playing those fucking video games and read some fucking revolutionary literature.
But what about this? So you know I wanna hook-up with somebody in my building, for convenience sake, and always for adventure. There have been one or two where I’ve been tempted to say Do you wanna see my view? But then it just seemed too risky, like they would say no and I would feel bad, or the would report me for harassing them, so I never did asked. But then today, as I’m walking towards my building there’s someone standing by the door looking in my direction, of course he’s wearing sunglasses at night so I’m not sure if he’s looking at me or just in my direction, but still I’m like who’s this looking at me or in my direction? And then a few moments later there we are waiting for the elevator and he’s discretely grabbing his crotch and I’m blatantly looking at where he’s discretely grabbing. I’ve never seen this person before and he’s still wearing his sunglasses. And now that we’re closer, I can tell that he’s drunk, or something. Is this a dream come true, or am I dreaming? He let’s me on the elevator first and we know what that means—he’s a top! Eww, girl! He does look totally straight. If he hadn’t been grabbing his crotch a few seconds ago I never would guessed. He start’s talking about the nice weather. He’s going to the 6th floor and of course I’m going to the twelfth floor. My brain can’t wrap itself around the weather when I’m trying to quickly decide if I want to have sex with this person. It doesn’t take long at all to get to 6. Trying to determine how drunk, how hot, how scary, how regrettable, and all I have to lose or not lose. I’m like yeah, it was sunny. And then he’s yeah, but now it’s cold again. And then we’re at 6 and he’s gone, and I’m like that was funny.
I’m being stared at by a former fuck buddy right now in Peet’s and can’t think of a good title
In Out magazine they wonder why gay bookstores are closing. In particular, A Different Light Bookstore in the Castro closed recently and this appears to be a bellwether. There are the usual suspects behind the failings of small bookstores like Amazon.com. Sure, that seems like a likely cause. Or it could be that people are buying less books, reading less books, and all this digital blah blah blah that people love to talk about. The end of books and all that. But what is unbelievable is the owner of A Different Light who says that the reason gay bookstores are closing is because people are tired of books with gay story lines. He says something like the gay story can only be told so many times. Are you kidding? So there’s no end in sight for straight stories, but somehow it’s different for gay books? The “gay story” told by a shitty writer can only be told so many times, that’s true. People lament the closing of A Different Light Bookstore, but in the last few years they only offered the most pointless books available, like another Tom of Finland coffee table book or maybe Kitty Kelley’s biography of Oprah. Presumably, the owner thought that this is what gay people wanted to read–all the horrible products of gay culture in printed form. People who would actually be interested in the content of these books probably don’t really read very much. So it’s really not that surprising that this bookstore would close. Gay people will read gay books and go to gay bookstores if they’re offering something interesting, it’s not that difficult. Stereotypes and cliches and bad writing can only be tolerated for so long, out of desperation for lack of anything else. Pulp fiction was popular because it filled a need due to the limitations of publishing at that time. We don’t need mass market drama anymore. There are plenty of good queer books being published or that could be published if, perhaps, stores like A Different Light carried them and marketed them. The closing of A Different Light doesn’t mean anything except that people don’t want literary garbage with a “gay” label on it, they want to read some really good queer books!
Fruit and Nut
How do I end up at Peet’s in the Castro on a Sunday morning? How do I have so few friends? Promise that’s the last time I’m going to write that line. I mean I’ve ended a few relationships recently. Some have just faded away. Some never really took off. Some friends have moved away. But did I tell you I kind of like Peet’s at this hour. Okay, the scene. The customers are overwhelmingly white men in their 30s or 40s, the usual Castro crowd with good jobs and health insurance, they are well-groomed and worked-out no doubt, but a lot of these cuties are reading books with matte covers that they probably bought at Books, Inc., next door. That seems exciting and unexpected, the reading part. And maybe they could all be lonely too. Even better. One person smiles at me when I grab a table next to an outlet. I give him a tentative smile back. I mean, I’m not sure if I want to pursue this or not. This person seems anti-everything I’m about. But I might be projecting a look that says young gay boy looking for love. That’s true in a way but probably not the way he thinks. I guess I should just ask him what he thinks. We smile again when he’s leaving, and then I’m wishing he would stay longer. I guess I’ll have to look on Craigslist later to see if he posts a missed connection ad.
It’s really warm today, already. I mean this would be the day to ride my bike to the beach but I can’t decide. It is 4th of July weekend, so the family theme in the park might be overwhelming. If only I had someone to go with. That’s the problem honey no one to go with. But I have to get out of this apartment. All this morning sun is overwhelming me. But I slept okay. I think I’m dreaming more now, summer dreams drifting away.
After my sister left I found myself missing the Hilton Hotel. I mean it’s a completely boring and bland, style-less hotel. But hanging out with her there we could have been anywhere and that’s what I liked, or what I later realized I liked because I missed it when it was gone. We kept complaining about the shittiness of the hotel, with only one shitty restaurant, windows that don’t open, rough-ass toilet paper. She was on the eighteenth floor with a view of the back of the Clift Hotel, part of Nob Hill and downtown. She didn’t care much about views though, or just wasn’t used to having views to look at coming from a subdivision outside of Boise. Although the mountains are pretty in Boise. Maybe she’s not used to city views. She thinks I’m obsessed with views. I am obsessed with tall buildings.
