In 1994, Jimmy went into the hospital again. He'd been in and out of Broward General a dozen or more times over the last couple of years, and it was getting harder for his friends, including me, to maintain the usual matching levels of panic and hope that most people experience when a friend is very sick.
It didn't help that Jimmy was a terrible patient. When he was able, he'd leave the hospital grounds and walk across to the convenience store to buy cigarettes, which he'd smoke in the hospital stairwell, striking a ghostly figure in his gown, under the emergency lighting. He cursed the nurses when they confiscated his smokes, and he cursed the housekeepers for cleaning his room while he was watching tv. He cursed his friends for not visiting enough, and he cursed us for waking him up when we were there.
And of course, we forgave him continuously.
"This isn't Jimmy," we'd say. 'Not OUR Jimmy." Then we'd blame the illness, or the medications.
But in fact, Jimmy hadn't been Jimmy since Barney died, in 92. Barney had been a core member of my inner circle, ever since college. And ever since college Barney had barreled through our lives with an everchanging series of 'husbands', all of which had their arrival heralded as Barney's 'One.True.Love.' It became a running joke.
"Who's that with Barney? This week's One.True.Love?" And then we'd snicker.
And one week, in 1990, it was Jimmy. That week stretched into a month, which lasted through the summer, which became a holiday season spent in a whirlwind of parties with Barney and Jimmy, the likes of which none of us had seen. Looking back, I think we were all subconsciously speeding up the timeline of our world.
Go more places. Throw bigger parties. Love each other harder.
The biological clock was real for us, man. And that fucker was counting down fast.
Barney and Jimmy had less than three years together. The first year, Barney bought a dilapidated bungalow in Wilton Manors, which they quickly turned the showplace of the neighborhood, largely thanks to Jimmy's home repair skills and Barney's amazing gift for ornamental landscaping. It wasn't very long before real estate agents were driving unconvinced home shoppers past their house.
Their second year together, Barney landed a huge promotion at his company, and with his Christmas bonus, he bought Jimmy a cherry-red Jeep, stunning us all. Jimmy had wanted a Jeep ever since he was a little boy, and Barney told us that Jimmy had sobbed uncontrollably when he saw it in the driveway on Christmas morning.
In '92, Christmas fell on a Friday, and most of us scattered to spend the weekend with our bio-families, planning to regroup for New Year's Eve. At their home, on Christmas Eve, Barney went to bed with a fever and a terrible cough. In the morning, Jimmy could hardly wake him. Barney was transported by ambulance to Broward General and was put on a respirator. The doctors said it was the fastest moving case of pneumocystis they'd seen since the 80's.
Jimmy made an uncomfortable call to Barney's parents in Pensacola, who made immediate plans to fly to Fort Lauderdale in the morning. The hospital refused Jimmy's request to be at Barney's bedside, forcing him to take a vigil in the vending machine room.
In the morning, Jimmy was buying his breakfast from the candy machine, when a hospital administrator tapped on his shoulder. Barney had died a few hours earlier. He'd choked to death. Barney died alone, with his One.True.Love. standing 100 feet away.
The next weekend Barney's parents arrived with a U-Haul and took away all of Barney's possessions, including all the household items that he and Jimmy had owned together, from appliances and linens right down to the artwork off of the walls. Jimmy watched helplessly as they hitched up the red Jeep, which for some reason was in Barney's name, and towed it away.
It was about two years after Barney died that Jimmy had started to have problems himself. It was PML...Progressive Multifocal Leukoencephalopathy. Dizziness, disorientation and memory loss quickly took over Jimmy's ordinarily effusive personality.
During Jimmy's final hospital stay, he shared his room with an older man, also with AIDS. I'd seen this man and his lover around the leather bars of Ft Lauderdale over the years, the two of them always in complete leather gear, no matter the occasion. Once, we saw them in the downtown supermarket, shopping in leather chaps. They seemed completely devoted to each other, and somehow we thought they were cute, and spared them our usual withering scorn we probably would have heaped on someone we'd seen shopping in assless chaps.
My roommate and I were headed down the hall to Jimmy's room one evening, and as we approached his door, we could hear singing. A single, low voice gently singing a familiar song. We stopped outside his room and could see that it was the lover of the man in the other bed. He was dressed in his finest leather, and he was standing just inside the curtain that was drawn around his husband's bed, singing him a song we'd heard many times in the clubs.
We'll always be together
However far it seems
Love never ends
We'll always be together
Together in electric dreams
After he finished the song, he walked past us without a glance, his shiny boots clicking loudly down the hall.
We tried not to look around the curtain as we walked over to Jimmy's bed. Jimmy was sitting up and looking out the window. He didn't acknowledge our presence for a minute, which we'd gotten used to. Finally he looked over at us and said, "Did you hear that guy singing? What a waste of time, his husband died hours ago."
"Oh...really," I said.
Jimmy laid back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling.
"I don't know, maybe it wasn't a waste of time, who knows? Do you think Barney can hear us?"
'I don't know, honey."
"I wonder what I would have sung to Barney if I had been....," Jimmy trailed off.
Jimmy reached into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes, an instinctual move really, because not only did he not have cigarettes, his dressing gown didn't have a pocket. He made a frustrated noise and looked back out the window, dismissing us with a wave of his hand.
He died the next day.
.
The Pocket Piece, Part 5
The Pocket Piece, Part 4
Time stood still for just a moment in that rented bedroom.
I can remember how the icy London air whistled in around French Fred's arm, how he looked like a frightened child, stripped in that moment of his carefully constructed brooding sexiness. I remember watching the cloud of alcohol and fatigue fade from the faces of my friends, replaced by fear and horror.
But mostly, I remember unexpectedly seeing my own face reflected back in the remains of that broken window, and how I caught an expression on my face that I'd never seen in any mirror. In that sliver of window I saw myself contorted and angry. I saw my father's face, cruelly drawn and leaning down in that much-too-close way he had learned to best intimidate his Marine recruits.
I was angry at Fred for his panicked reaction, for breaking the window, for being French. Hell, I was mad at him for having BLOOD, which was beginning to pool on the floor. I was mad at my dumb-ass drunk friends for acting like wasted frat boys on spring break. And I was mad at myself for being so damn horny for Fred that now I was in this ridiculous situation, and I was standing NAKED in front of my three oldest friends.
I tried to pull things together, saying in a surprisingly calm voice, 'Fred, please don't move.'
Somehow he understood that, so I reached behind the bedroom door and pulled down two towels, knotting one around my waist. I rolled the other towel into a fat tube, and moved to the window. With Ken's help, we kept Fred's arm still and lifted the glass shards out of him, rather than trying to pull his wound back through the jagged edges. To this day, I'm amazed that we were that lucid.
Fred pulled his arm back inside, and I quickly wound the towel around the gash, but not before it spurted enough blood to make Fred's knees buckle.
I looked at the guys, 'So should we call 911 or whatever they have here?'
Ken and Jim made faces. We'd already had some noise complaints from the apartment downstairs, and while the apartment was only rented for another two days, we didn't want any trouble for our friend who'd found the place for us. An ambulance would certainly be 'trouble', especially in the circumstances of 4 American tourists and a French illegal, all of whom likely had *some* sort of contraband in their pockets.
'Well, how is he feeling? It looks gross. Don't they have free med-...oh but he's not English.'
We decided that sending French Fred home was out of the question. Man, I went right back to loving those guys again when I saw what *good* men they were. But we had to figure something out quickly. Something that didn't let Fred bleed to death, or worse, get deported. The towel around his arm seemed to be stopping the blood pretty well, but Fred was pale and his hand shook when he tried to take a puff from a cigarette handed to him. So, what to do? Where to take him?
Ed remembered that his ex-boyfriend's new roommate was from Cameroon, and hey, don't they speak French in Cameroon? So we decided to call the Cameroon guy and let him translate for Fred. Oh, I should mention that Ed's ex-boyfriend lived in Argentina and spoke no English, just Spanish and German. But the Cameroon guy spoke German AND French. And Ed spoke Spanish.
Remember the episode of " I Love Lucy" in which they're all thrown into a Parisian jail for passing fake franc notes? And hilarity ensued when the hilariously improbable events were hilariously explained German -French, then French-Spanish, then Spanish-English? Yup. Just.Like.That. Only much, much gayer, and with bleeding.
Amazingly, we got through to Ed's ex on the first try, although it was around midnight in Buenos Aires.
Me: 'Ask him to get the roommate that speaks French.'
Ed: (in Spanish) 'Hey sweetie hunny bunny babykins....'
Okay, maybe I have no idea what Ed was saying but it *seemed* like kissy talk.
Me: 'Ask him to get the roommate that speaks French.'
Ed: (in Spanish) 'Hey, how bout them Cowboys?' (or something).
Me: 'ASK HIM TO GET THE ROOMMATE THAT SPEAKS FRENCH!'
Ed: (to me) 'Dammit Joe, WAIT! I just woke them up, I have to be NICE. It's fucking O-dead hundred in the middle of the night there.'
Ed liked to pepper his language with forceful military expressions, although the only military action he'd ever seen was in the dirty bookstore outside of Patrick Air Force Base in Cocoa Beach, Florida.
Without going through all of the who-said-what-to-who-in-what-language, and HEY, you've all seen that Lucy episode a gajillion times anyway.....we figured out that French Fred had no money to speak of, no health insurance, lived with other French illegals, but sounded very sexy when speaking French to a Camaroonian living in Argentina with a German roommate.
Through our gay Code Talkers, French Fred made it known that he wanted to simply go home to his roommates, and I told the others that I would go with him and not leave him until I was satisfied he would be looked after. Jim walked us down to the tube station.
'OK, well you know the number for the apartment,' Jim said.
'No, honey...I know the apartment NUMBER.'
'Oh. Wait a minute, ' he said and ran back to our flat. I blocked the wind for Fred and he shivered a bit inside my coat.
Jim rushed back within five minutes and put the number in my pocket, saying, 'Be careful where this guy takes you! Watch out you don't end up in Ploughsbury-On-Thames!'
'OK, well hopefully I'll be right back,' I said.
'Do you know the name of our tube station?' Jim asked, for the fucking infinity-squared time since we'd gotten to London.
'You mean the name that's hanging overhead right now in 30 feet high blinking letters? The name of the station that's also the name of this street, and the name of our apartment building? The station that we've been in 8 times a day for 8 days? No. What is it?'
'Don't get snippy with ME, missy! It wasn't ME who brought home Spasmo L'Wetback.'
'Yeah, yeah. I know. You can make fun of me later,' I said, pulling Fred towards the subway entrance.
Jim nodded solemnly. 'And you know I will.'
'I know.'
'And make him take a shower, he's kinda stinky.'
I didn't catch that, so I cupped my ear towards Jim.
Jim repeated, 'I said, he's kinda stinky!'
'What??'
'I SAID HE STINKS!'
Damn! One of our favorite bits from the SNL cheerleaders, and I walked right into it.
Jim was jumping and giving himself a high-five, as Fred and I sank out of sight on the tube station escalator.
-to be continued-
Time stood still for just a moment in that rented bedroom.
I can remember how the icy London air whistled in around French Fred's arm, how he looked like a frightened child, stripped in that moment of his carefully constructed brooding sexiness. I remember watching the cloud of alcohol and fatigue fade from the faces of my friends, replaced by fear and horror.
But mostly, I remember unexpectedly seeing my own face reflected back in the remains of that broken window, and how I caught an expression on my face that I'd never seen in any mirror. In that sliver of window I saw myself contorted and angry. I saw my father's face, cruelly drawn and leaning down in that much-too-close way he had learned to best intimidate his Marine recruits.
I was angry at Fred for his panicked reaction, for breaking the window, for being French. Hell, I was mad at him for having BLOOD, which was beginning to pool on the floor. I was mad at my dumb-ass drunk friends for acting like wasted frat boys on spring break. And I was mad at myself for being so damn horny for Fred that now I was in this ridiculous situation, and I was standing NAKED in front of my three oldest friends.
I tried to pull things together, saying in a surprisingly calm voice, 'Fred, please don't move.'
Somehow he understood that, so I reached behind the bedroom door and pulled down two towels, knotting one around my waist. I rolled the other towel into a fat tube, and moved to the window. With Ken's help, we kept Fred's arm still and lifted the glass shards out of him, rather than trying to pull his wound back through the jagged edges. To this day, I'm amazed that we were that lucid.
Fred pulled his arm back inside, and I quickly wound the towel around the gash, but not before it spurted enough blood to make Fred's knees buckle.
I looked at the guys, 'So should we call 911 or whatever they have here?'
Ken and Jim made faces. We'd already had some noise complaints from the apartment downstairs, and while the apartment was only rented for another two days, we didn't want any trouble for our friend who'd found the place for us. An ambulance would certainly be 'trouble', especially in the circumstances of 4 American tourists and a French illegal, all of whom likely had *some* sort of contraband in their pockets.
'Well, how is he feeling? It looks gross. Don't they have free med-...oh but he's not English.'
We decided that sending French Fred home was out of the question. Man, I went right back to loving those guys again when I saw what *good* men they were. But we had to figure something out quickly. Something that didn't let Fred bleed to death, or worse, get deported. The towel around his arm seemed to be stopping the blood pretty well, but Fred was pale and his hand shook when he tried to take a puff from a cigarette handed to him. So, what to do? Where to take him?
Ed remembered that his ex-boyfriend's new roommate was from Cameroon, and hey, don't they speak French in Cameroon? So we decided to call the Cameroon guy and let him translate for Fred. Oh, I should mention that Ed's ex-boyfriend lived in Argentina and spoke no English, just Spanish and German. But the Cameroon guy spoke German AND French. And Ed spoke Spanish.
Remember the episode of " I Love Lucy" in which they're all thrown into a Parisian jail for passing fake franc notes? And hilarity ensued when the hilariously improbable events were hilariously explained German -French, then French-Spanish, then Spanish-English? Yup. Just.Like.That. Only much, much gayer, and with bleeding.
Amazingly, we got through to Ed's ex on the first try, although it was around midnight in Buenos Aires.
Me: 'Ask him to get the roommate that speaks French.'
Ed: (in Spanish) 'Hey sweetie hunny bunny babykins....'
Okay, maybe I have no idea what Ed was saying but it *seemed* like kissy talk.
Me: 'Ask him to get the roommate that speaks French.'
Ed: (in Spanish) 'Hey, how bout them Cowboys?' (or something).
Me: 'ASK HIM TO GET THE ROOMMATE THAT SPEAKS FRENCH!'
Ed: (to me) 'Dammit Joe, WAIT! I just woke them up, I have to be NICE. It's fucking O-dead hundred in the middle of the night there.'
Ed liked to pepper his language with forceful military expressions, although the only military action he'd ever seen was in the dirty bookstore outside of Patrick Air Force Base in Cocoa Beach, Florida.
Without going through all of the who-said-what-to-who-in-what-language, and HEY, you've all seen that Lucy episode a gajillion times anyway.....we figured out that French Fred had no money to speak of, no health insurance, lived with other French illegals, but sounded very sexy when speaking French to a Camaroonian living in Argentina with a German roommate.
Through our gay Code Talkers, French Fred made it known that he wanted to simply go home to his roommates, and I told the others that I would go with him and not leave him until I was satisfied he would be looked after. Jim walked us down to the tube station.
'OK, well you know the number for the apartment,' Jim said.
'No, honey...I know the apartment NUMBER.'
'Oh. Wait a minute, ' he said and ran back to our flat. I blocked the wind for Fred and he shivered a bit inside my coat.
Jim rushed back within five minutes and put the number in my pocket, saying, 'Be careful where this guy takes you! Watch out you don't end up in Ploughsbury-On-Thames!'
'OK, well hopefully I'll be right back,' I said.
'Do you know the name of our tube station?' Jim asked, for the fucking infinity-squared time since we'd gotten to London.
'You mean the name that's hanging overhead right now in 30 feet high blinking letters? The name of the station that's also the name of this street, and the name of our apartment building? The station that we've been in 8 times a day for 8 days? No. What is it?'
'Don't get snippy with ME, missy! It wasn't ME who brought home Spasmo L'Wetback.'
'Yeah, yeah. I know. You can make fun of me later,' I said, pulling Fred towards the subway entrance.
Jim nodded solemnly. 'And you know I will.'
'I know.'
'And make him take a shower, he's kinda stinky.'
I didn't catch that, so I cupped my ear towards Jim.
Jim repeated, 'I said, he's kinda stinky!'
'What??'
'I SAID HE STINKS!'
Damn! One of our favorite bits from the SNL cheerleaders, and I walked right into it.
Jim was jumping and giving himself a high-five, as Fred and I sank out of sight on the tube station escalator.
-to be continued-
Hell's Kitchen
Three years ago, I lived in Hell's Kitchen, the only Manhattan neighborhood with a name more storied than its residents. I was on West 40th Street, off 9th Avenue. Right behind the Port Authority bus station. In fact, the in-bound Lincoln Tunnel bus-only ramp flew past my 4th floor bedroom window, a scant fifty feet away. On more than a few occasions, my houseguest-de-l'heure would open my blinds and be startled to find a traffic jam of packed buses blankly staring in at our festivities.
Across from my apartment building was a Baptist Church. On weekends, a long line of budding evangelists camped out front, waiting for that day's Two Minute Hate before they headed into Times Square with their pamphlets and suburban smiles. I'd usually see a handsome bearded man with a clipboard, organizing these kids as they poured off their bus, sleeping bags slung over their shoulder.
A few months after I moved into the neighborhood, he introduced himself to me at The Dugout, a bear bar, down in the Village. After I got to know him, and after I watched those kids hand out sandwiches and soup in both sweltering heat and swirling snow, I decided to spare them my typically snarky comments when I passed them on the sidewalk.
Just up the block from the Baptist Church was the Manhattan office for the State Department of Parole. The hand-lettered sign in the heavily fortified window said, 'No Guns! No Girlfriends! No Kidding!' This place operated to ensure a nonstop traffic flow of felons down my block, office hours only, please.
Sharing the western wall of my apartment building, was the New York County Center For Displaced Women. A catch-all agency that dealt with women with drug problems, legal problems, housing problems, man problems. It was run by nuns. Capital 'N', nuns. Sort of a quasi-governmental agency, the type of which NYC seems to have many. These nuns were HARD looking. As in, they ain't gettin' NUN. And it was strictly a daytime walk-in operation. You had to have your problems solved by 5pm, because that's when they pushed you out of the door with a sandwich in one hand, and a lotta nuttin' in the other.
One of the unhappier clients of the Ain't Gettin' Nunnery took to a bizarre daily ritual. Standing on a piece of cardboard in front of our adjoining doors, she'd loudly recite from her bible, shouting up at the nuns in the windows, in one of the most hilariously thick Queens accents ever heard this side of Edith Bunker.
"So I pray dat Gawd,
Who gives ya hope,
Will keep ya happy."
This would go on all day, on most weekdays. She was devout in her deliverance and I was always curious to know how the nuns had wronged her, but she was dirty and looked like she probably would cut me if I asked, so I never did.
Sharing the eastern wall of my apartment building was the New York County Public Housing administration office. Not the main office, no...this was the place where the destitute and nearly homeless could come view 'Model Apartments' that the city was building here and there. Complete representations of the floorplans were made, because many of these units under construction were to be sold to their tenants, either at the onset, or eventually. Looking at the posted income requirements for these Section 8 units, I finally understood what homeless activists say about being 'too poor for public housing.'
Now being ringed in on all four sides as I was by bus ramps, public housing offices, a drop-in shelter, and a Baptist soup kitchen, you *might* think that my apartment building was pretty crummy. In fact, it was one of the nicest places I've ever lived. Certainly the nicest in NYC. That's the bizarre charm of Hell's Kitchen. I lived in a very nice apartment, in a good building, on an 'OK' block, of a *very* scary neighborhood.
A mere hundred yards from my front door was a nonstop swirling Otherworld. A 24-hour one-stop supply shop for Crack and Crazy. I used to give friends directions to my place by telling them that I was right on the corner of Crack and Ho. Go straight down Crack, until you see the Ho's, and turn right.
I learned very quickly to keep my eyes cast down, when passing by anyone, especially with groceries, because you'd be followed by hungry addicts. Once, I put my bags down in front of my building, as I fished for my keys and became distracted by a phone call. I turned around and there were three men pawing through my groceries, which I abandoned and fled inside to safety.
The dealers tended to huddle under the Verizon phone booth shelter on the corner. Although, I guess since some madman had ripped the guts out of all the phones, it was actually a Verizon Drug Dealer shelter. I saw some crazy things go down over there, as I'd move further and further into Ninth Avenue, desperately waving for a taxi, trusting that the people in the cars would be less likely to hit me, than the people on the sidewalk.
File this under 'It Really Happened':
I'm waiting to cross Ninth Avenue, during a pelting rainstorm. Next to me, at the Verizon Drug Dealer shelter, I see one of the regular dealers making a sale. His customer is a Hassidic Jew, in full Hassidic drag, the long coat, prayer shawl, the curly sideburns, the whole schmear. It was unusual to see one by himself, usually they'd be waiting for their special Hassidic Only buses that stopped over on the far side of the bus station. So this guy is buying crack. AND he's HAGGLING the dealer. Come ON people! I couldn't believe I was witnessing such bizarre, wholesale enactment of stereotypes. It was as hilarious as it was sad. If I hadn't recognized the dealer, I might have thought it was some kind of street theatre. Just as I stepped off the curb, the dealer pushed the Hassidic guy backwards.
'Bitch! I done TOLE you how much!'
Man, if I tried to pitch that scene to a network, they'd cry 'Hate Crime!' That's what they'd all cry, 'Hate Crime!', while pointing at me and my script. And maybe it was.
I tended not to keep the windows open, up there on the 4th floor in Hell's Kitchen. Otherwise I'd hear the hookers all night long.
'Heeeeeey girl!'
and
'Bitch, don't try it!'
After exactly one year, I moved to another 4th floor walk-up apartment, this time in the West Village, on Christopher Street, where I'd hear the tranny hookers all night long.
'Heeeeeey girl!'
and
'Bitch, don't try it!'
Across from my apartment building was a Baptist Church. On weekends, a long line of budding evangelists camped out front, waiting for that day's Two Minute Hate before they headed into Times Square with their pamphlets and suburban smiles. I'd usually see a handsome bearded man with a clipboard, organizing these kids as they poured off their bus, sleeping bags slung over their shoulder.
A few months after I moved into the neighborhood, he introduced himself to me at The Dugout, a bear bar, down in the Village. After I got to know him, and after I watched those kids hand out sandwiches and soup in both sweltering heat and swirling snow, I decided to spare them my typically snarky comments when I passed them on the sidewalk.
Just up the block from the Baptist Church was the Manhattan office for the State Department of Parole. The hand-lettered sign in the heavily fortified window said, 'No Guns! No Girlfriends! No Kidding!' This place operated to ensure a nonstop traffic flow of felons down my block, office hours only, please.
Sharing the western wall of my apartment building, was the New York County Center For Displaced Women. A catch-all agency that dealt with women with drug problems, legal problems, housing problems, man problems. It was run by nuns. Capital 'N', nuns. Sort of a quasi-governmental agency, the type of which NYC seems to have many. These nuns were HARD looking. As in, they ain't gettin' NUN. And it was strictly a daytime walk-in operation. You had to have your problems solved by 5pm, because that's when they pushed you out of the door with a sandwich in one hand, and a lotta nuttin' in the other.
One of the unhappier clients of the Ain't Gettin' Nunnery took to a bizarre daily ritual. Standing on a piece of cardboard in front of our adjoining doors, she'd loudly recite from her bible, shouting up at the nuns in the windows, in one of the most hilariously thick Queens accents ever heard this side of Edith Bunker.
"So I pray dat Gawd,
Who gives ya hope,
Will keep ya happy."
This would go on all day, on most weekdays. She was devout in her deliverance and I was always curious to know how the nuns had wronged her, but she was dirty and looked like she probably would cut me if I asked, so I never did.
Sharing the eastern wall of my apartment building was the New York County Public Housing administration office. Not the main office, no...this was the place where the destitute and nearly homeless could come view 'Model Apartments' that the city was building here and there. Complete representations of the floorplans were made, because many of these units under construction were to be sold to their tenants, either at the onset, or eventually. Looking at the posted income requirements for these Section 8 units, I finally understood what homeless activists say about being 'too poor for public housing.'
Now being ringed in on all four sides as I was by bus ramps, public housing offices, a drop-in shelter, and a Baptist soup kitchen, you *might* think that my apartment building was pretty crummy. In fact, it was one of the nicest places I've ever lived. Certainly the nicest in NYC. That's the bizarre charm of Hell's Kitchen. I lived in a very nice apartment, in a good building, on an 'OK' block, of a *very* scary neighborhood.
A mere hundred yards from my front door was a nonstop swirling Otherworld. A 24-hour one-stop supply shop for Crack and Crazy. I used to give friends directions to my place by telling them that I was right on the corner of Crack and Ho. Go straight down Crack, until you see the Ho's, and turn right.
I learned very quickly to keep my eyes cast down, when passing by anyone, especially with groceries, because you'd be followed by hungry addicts. Once, I put my bags down in front of my building, as I fished for my keys and became distracted by a phone call. I turned around and there were three men pawing through my groceries, which I abandoned and fled inside to safety.
The dealers tended to huddle under the Verizon phone booth shelter on the corner. Although, I guess since some madman had ripped the guts out of all the phones, it was actually a Verizon Drug Dealer shelter. I saw some crazy things go down over there, as I'd move further and further into Ninth Avenue, desperately waving for a taxi, trusting that the people in the cars would be less likely to hit me, than the people on the sidewalk.
File this under 'It Really Happened':
I'm waiting to cross Ninth Avenue, during a pelting rainstorm. Next to me, at the Verizon Drug Dealer shelter, I see one of the regular dealers making a sale. His customer is a Hassidic Jew, in full Hassidic drag, the long coat, prayer shawl, the curly sideburns, the whole schmear. It was unusual to see one by himself, usually they'd be waiting for their special Hassidic Only buses that stopped over on the far side of the bus station. So this guy is buying crack. AND he's HAGGLING the dealer. Come ON people! I couldn't believe I was witnessing such bizarre, wholesale enactment of stereotypes. It was as hilarious as it was sad. If I hadn't recognized the dealer, I might have thought it was some kind of street theatre. Just as I stepped off the curb, the dealer pushed the Hassidic guy backwards.
'Bitch! I done TOLE you how much!'
Man, if I tried to pitch that scene to a network, they'd cry 'Hate Crime!' That's what they'd all cry, 'Hate Crime!', while pointing at me and my script. And maybe it was.
I tended not to keep the windows open, up there on the 4th floor in Hell's Kitchen. Otherwise I'd hear the hookers all night long.
'Heeeeeey girl!'
and
'Bitch, don't try it!'
After exactly one year, I moved to another 4th floor walk-up apartment, this time in the West Village, on Christopher Street, where I'd hear the tranny hookers all night long.
'Heeeeeey girl!'
and
'Bitch, don't try it!'
7th and 12th
Last night, in front of St. Vincent's Hospital, I was standing in a large group waiting to cross the street. Next to me were two women, one holding a little girl. The woman holding the baby had puffy eyes, red and swollen from crying.
The older woman said, 'Well, it's good what the doctor said about the machine doing the work. Maybe that way he is resting.'
The young woman nodded distantly. 'I can't think about it any more. I just want to go home and take a hot bath and forget my life.'
I guess she instantly realized how self-pitying that sounded, because she shook her head in disgust, flashing me an embarrassed look as she impatiently stepped on and off the curb.
The older woman, heavyset, wearing a custodial smock, said, 'No, you are right. You need to get home and try to relax and not be all stressed. You need to be strong right now, strong for your son.'
The younger woman shifted the little girl in her arms to her other hip, and tilted her head back.
'Ay, Mami! Don't get me started again! I can't cry anymore. I'm done with that. I don't even think I have any more tears left.'
The older woman regarded her sadly.
'I gots some news for you, mija. When it comes to your babies, you don't never run out of tears.'
The light changed, and they stepped into the crosswalk, instantly engulfed by the crowd.
The older woman said, 'Well, it's good what the doctor said about the machine doing the work. Maybe that way he is resting.'
The young woman nodded distantly. 'I can't think about it any more. I just want to go home and take a hot bath and forget my life.'
I guess she instantly realized how self-pitying that sounded, because she shook her head in disgust, flashing me an embarrassed look as she impatiently stepped on and off the curb.
The older woman, heavyset, wearing a custodial smock, said, 'No, you are right. You need to get home and try to relax and not be all stressed. You need to be strong right now, strong for your son.'
The younger woman shifted the little girl in her arms to her other hip, and tilted her head back.
'Ay, Mami! Don't get me started again! I can't cry anymore. I'm done with that. I don't even think I have any more tears left.'
The older woman regarded her sadly.
'I gots some news for you, mija. When it comes to your babies, you don't never run out of tears.'
The light changed, and they stepped into the crosswalk, instantly engulfed by the crowd.
Fantasy #9
You arrive to find my door unlocked.
You enter my apartment and see that I have transformed it into a performance art space.
In one corner, Yoko Ono is blowing smoke rings at the blossom of a wilted orchid. Between puffs, she throws her head back and yells: 'Wessonality!'
On my bed, Karen Finley is writhing naked in a pool of melted chocolate, pressing a photograph of Dr. Robert Atkins to her vagina, while groaning, 'Compliant...compliant...compliant.'
The Blue Man Group are standing in my toilet, chanting, 'Our act is down the drain! Our act is down the drain!' Privately, we snicker at their transparent literalness.
Having come prepared, you pull a string of Xmas lights out of your bag, loop them around your neck, plug them in and leap out of my window shouting, 'IT'S ALL FOR YOU, SANTA!'
*HOT*
You enter my apartment and see that I have transformed it into a performance art space.
In one corner, Yoko Ono is blowing smoke rings at the blossom of a wilted orchid. Between puffs, she throws her head back and yells: 'Wessonality!'
On my bed, Karen Finley is writhing naked in a pool of melted chocolate, pressing a photograph of Dr. Robert Atkins to her vagina, while groaning, 'Compliant...compliant...compliant.'
The Blue Man Group are standing in my toilet, chanting, 'Our act is down the drain! Our act is down the drain!' Privately, we snicker at their transparent literalness.
Having come prepared, you pull a string of Xmas lights out of your bag, loop them around your neck, plug them in and leap out of my window shouting, 'IT'S ALL FOR YOU, SANTA!'
*HOT*
The Pocket Piece, Part 4
The Pocket Piece, Part 3
French Fred and I followed Jim out of Bromptons, Fred's hand in my back pocket. Outside, there were a few minutes of confusion as I tried to figure out exactly where French Fred and I were going to fuck. Jim stood a polite ten feet away, smoking.
'So, um....where do you live?' I asked.
'Lyon.'
'No, I mean where in London are you staying?'
'Ah! Glphem blrr roos klxzbu.'
'Um, is that near Soho?'
French Fred shook his head vigorously, and tugged my sleeve, indicating a waiting taxi.
Jim called over, 'I hope you know where you are going!'
'Nope. Not a fucking clue.'
'Watch out, he probably lives in Ploughsbury-On-Thames!'
Ploughsbury-On-Thames was a fictitious place name that Jim used whenever we seemed to be lost in London. Where does this train go? Oh, Ploughsbury-On-Thames. Where in the world are we now? Must be Ploughsbury-On-Thames.
'Do you think I can bring Fred back to our place?'
Our place was a rented apartment above the 24-hour Burger King in Leicester Square. My roommate back in San Francisco (who was English) had found it for us, through a friend of his. It had two bedrooms, a bath, a living room and a full kitchen. It was fairly priced, and despite the fact that its location was the London equivalent of living above the Ramen Cup-O-Noodles sign in Times Square, we had quickly grown to appreciate its convenience to the clubs, shops and tube station.
Jim shook his head, 'Honey, that's up to you. You know I don't care, but what about Ken?'
Ken was my ex. We'd been together for seven non-consecutive years in the 80's, and continued to live together right up until I moved to San Francisco. Ken visited me there often, and we both had very, ahem, active social lives, we just never flaunted tricks in each other's faces.
Somehow, I communicated to French Fred to come with us, and we all walked back over to the Coleherne to pick up Ken and Ed for the ride home. However, the Coleherne was closed, only a few stragglers remained outside, desperate remnants of the sidewalk sale that every gay bar in the world has after it closes for the night.
We took a cab back to Leicester Square. I steeled myself for a possible confrontation with Ken over French Fred, but Ken and Ed, those cheap tramps, were still out somewhere. Jim sweetly pulled the covers off of his bed, and sacked out on the couch in the living room, leaving our bedroom to French Fred and myself.
Fred sat on my bed, smoking and smoking looking. We undressed facing each other and I felt uncharacterically nervous, and spent a few minutes wasting time by pawing through my cds and selecting something to set the mood. Finally, I clicked off the lights and laid down beside Fred. The windowshade scarcely blocked the riot of flashing lights out in Leicester Square.
Outside in the hall, I heard Ken and Ed roll in. They were clearly smashed.
Fred saw me listening intently to the discussion between Ken and Jim, and jerked his head towards the door with a questioning look.
'Oh, that's my ex-boyfriend.'
'BOYFRIEND!' Fred exclaimed, bolting upright. That was one English word he DID know.
At that moment a loud crash, followed by cursing, came from outside the door. I found out later that Ed had drunkenly tried to pull his suitcase off of the closet shelf and it had sprung open and its contents rained down on his head.
Fred leapt off the couch and dove for his pants, jumping up and down as he wriggled in the leather.
I tried to calm him, 'No! No! It's OK! He's just my EX boyfriend! My EX!'
Fred started shouting at me. 'Gbmel brros rmmrow! No! NO!'
The guys must have gotten worried from all of Fred's shouting, because one of them knocked on the bedroom door.
'Joe! Is everything OK? Joe?'
'Everything is FINE. Go away! You are SCARING my friend!'
Wrong answer. Because that just made them think it would be REALLY hilarious for ALL of them to start knocking on the bedroom door.
'Joooooooe! Joooooooe! Are we scaring your friend? Viva la France! Frog legs! FROOOOOG LEGS!'
That really sent French Fred over the edge. He pulled on his boots and his jacket, and rushed over to the window and started tugging on it. Jim and I had been unable to open the window all week, deciding that it was probably painted shut. Fred strained at the sash, the veins in his neck going purple .
I tried to calm him, 'Please! Fred! Really! It's OK! It's FINE!'
Fred ignored me and put his shoulder to window and tugged.
'Merde! MERDE!'
The knocking on the door stopped at the precise moment that Fred's shoulder went through the window, sending chards of glass sailing down to the to the cobbled alley.
A moment of terrible silence. Fred looked at me helplessly. Someone opened the door cautiously, and Ed stuck his head in.
'Hi honey, what's going on?'
I looked at Fred, then at Ed. Peering over Ed's shoulders were Jim and Ken, with anxious expressions.
I turned on the light. Fred was frozen where he'd broken through the window.
'I guess we better find some bandages.'
-to be continued-
French Fred and I followed Jim out of Bromptons, Fred's hand in my back pocket. Outside, there were a few minutes of confusion as I tried to figure out exactly where French Fred and I were going to fuck. Jim stood a polite ten feet away, smoking.
'So, um....where do you live?' I asked.
'Lyon.'
'No, I mean where in London are you staying?'
'Ah! Glphem blrr roos klxzbu.'
'Um, is that near Soho?'
French Fred shook his head vigorously, and tugged my sleeve, indicating a waiting taxi.
Jim called over, 'I hope you know where you are going!'
'Nope. Not a fucking clue.'
'Watch out, he probably lives in Ploughsbury-On-Thames!'
Ploughsbury-On-Thames was a fictitious place name that Jim used whenever we seemed to be lost in London. Where does this train go? Oh, Ploughsbury-On-Thames. Where in the world are we now? Must be Ploughsbury-On-Thames.
'Do you think I can bring Fred back to our place?'
Our place was a rented apartment above the 24-hour Burger King in Leicester Square. My roommate back in San Francisco (who was English) had found it for us, through a friend of his. It had two bedrooms, a bath, a living room and a full kitchen. It was fairly priced, and despite the fact that its location was the London equivalent of living above the Ramen Cup-O-Noodles sign in Times Square, we had quickly grown to appreciate its convenience to the clubs, shops and tube station.
Jim shook his head, 'Honey, that's up to you. You know I don't care, but what about Ken?'
Ken was my ex. We'd been together for seven non-consecutive years in the 80's, and continued to live together right up until I moved to San Francisco. Ken visited me there often, and we both had very, ahem, active social lives, we just never flaunted tricks in each other's faces.
Somehow, I communicated to French Fred to come with us, and we all walked back over to the Coleherne to pick up Ken and Ed for the ride home. However, the Coleherne was closed, only a few stragglers remained outside, desperate remnants of the sidewalk sale that every gay bar in the world has after it closes for the night.
We took a cab back to Leicester Square. I steeled myself for a possible confrontation with Ken over French Fred, but Ken and Ed, those cheap tramps, were still out somewhere. Jim sweetly pulled the covers off of his bed, and sacked out on the couch in the living room, leaving our bedroom to French Fred and myself.
Fred sat on my bed, smoking and smoking looking. We undressed facing each other and I felt uncharacterically nervous, and spent a few minutes wasting time by pawing through my cds and selecting something to set the mood. Finally, I clicked off the lights and laid down beside Fred. The windowshade scarcely blocked the riot of flashing lights out in Leicester Square.
Outside in the hall, I heard Ken and Ed roll in. They were clearly smashed.
Fred saw me listening intently to the discussion between Ken and Jim, and jerked his head towards the door with a questioning look.
'Oh, that's my ex-boyfriend.'
'BOYFRIEND!' Fred exclaimed, bolting upright. That was one English word he DID know.
At that moment a loud crash, followed by cursing, came from outside the door. I found out later that Ed had drunkenly tried to pull his suitcase off of the closet shelf and it had sprung open and its contents rained down on his head.
Fred leapt off the couch and dove for his pants, jumping up and down as he wriggled in the leather.
I tried to calm him, 'No! No! It's OK! He's just my EX boyfriend! My EX!'
Fred started shouting at me. 'Gbmel brros rmmrow! No! NO!'
The guys must have gotten worried from all of Fred's shouting, because one of them knocked on the bedroom door.
'Joe! Is everything OK? Joe?'
'Everything is FINE. Go away! You are SCARING my friend!'
Wrong answer. Because that just made them think it would be REALLY hilarious for ALL of them to start knocking on the bedroom door.
'Joooooooe! Joooooooe! Are we scaring your friend? Viva la France! Frog legs! FROOOOOG LEGS!'
That really sent French Fred over the edge. He pulled on his boots and his jacket, and rushed over to the window and started tugging on it. Jim and I had been unable to open the window all week, deciding that it was probably painted shut. Fred strained at the sash, the veins in his neck going purple .
I tried to calm him, 'Please! Fred! Really! It's OK! It's FINE!'
Fred ignored me and put his shoulder to window and tugged.
'Merde! MERDE!'
The knocking on the door stopped at the precise moment that Fred's shoulder went through the window, sending chards of glass sailing down to the to the cobbled alley.
A moment of terrible silence. Fred looked at me helplessly. Someone opened the door cautiously, and Ed stuck his head in.
'Hi honey, what's going on?'
I looked at Fred, then at Ed. Peering over Ed's shoulders were Jim and Ken, with anxious expressions.
I turned on the light. Fred was frozen where he'd broken through the window.
'I guess we better find some bandages.'
-to be continued-
Fantasy #10
You arrive to find my door unlocked.
You enter my apartment and see the furniture piled up in the corner, the carpet rolled back.
'The Littlest Rebel' is being projected onto the wall, opposite a floor-to-ceiling mirror.
I am tap-dancing in the middle of the room. I am nude.
Luckily, your own tap shoes are in your bag. You strip down and join me.
We hold hands as we dance, facing the mirror and watching the movie behind us, copying every move.
I am Shirley Temple, you are Bojangles.
Our cocks flop comically.
You impress with a sexy Paddle & Roll. I counter with an electric Shim Sham Shimmy.
There is a pounding at the door. It's the building superintendent with two cops.
They have tap shoes.
They are nude.
*HOT*
You enter my apartment and see the furniture piled up in the corner, the carpet rolled back.
'The Littlest Rebel' is being projected onto the wall, opposite a floor-to-ceiling mirror.
I am tap-dancing in the middle of the room. I am nude.
Luckily, your own tap shoes are in your bag. You strip down and join me.
We hold hands as we dance, facing the mirror and watching the movie behind us, copying every move.
I am Shirley Temple, you are Bojangles.
Our cocks flop comically.
You impress with a sexy Paddle & Roll. I counter with an electric Shim Sham Shimmy.
There is a pounding at the door. It's the building superintendent with two cops.
They have tap shoes.
They are nude.
*HOT*
Fantasy #11
You arrive to find my door unlocked.
You enter my apartment and see me standing before the mirror, dressed as TC Bear, the team mascot for the Minnesota Twins.
I offer you a selection of several other team mascot costumes. You choose Fred Bird, of the St.Louis Cardinals, not commenting on the huge hole ripped out just below the tail feathers.
We move to the couch and watch the playoffs, during which I gaze at you lovingly, with my huge, unblinking plastic eyes.
You leave.
*HOT*
You enter my apartment and see me standing before the mirror, dressed as TC Bear, the team mascot for the Minnesota Twins.
I offer you a selection of several other team mascot costumes. You choose Fred Bird, of the St.Louis Cardinals, not commenting on the huge hole ripped out just below the tail feathers.
We move to the couch and watch the playoffs, during which I gaze at you lovingly, with my huge, unblinking plastic eyes.
You leave.
*HOT*
Fantasy #12
You arrive to find my door unlocked.
You enter my apartment to find me sitting on the couch, surrounded by Donna Summer albums.
Before we get naked, I insist that you recite the entire Donna Summer discography in chronological order, including label affiliations and greatest hits packages.
You comply, without errors.
We proceed.
*HOT*
Fantasy #13
You arrive to find my door unlocked.
You enter my apartment to find me sitting on the couch, surrounded by photo albums. We spend hours curled up, while I flip though hundreds of photographs from my childhood, as you pay rapt attention.
Occasionally, you interrupt my narration to say things like:
"Now, WHICH aunt is this one again?"
and
"Don't you look cute in your Little League uniform!"
and
"Now, WHICH aunt is this one again?"
You leave.
*HOT*
You enter my apartment to find me sitting on the couch, surrounded by photo albums. We spend hours curled up, while I flip though hundreds of photographs from my childhood, as you pay rapt attention.
Occasionally, you interrupt my narration to say things like:
"Now, WHICH aunt is this one again?"
and
"Don't you look cute in your Little League uniform!"
and
"Now, WHICH aunt is this one again?"
You leave.
*HOT*
Fantasy #14
You arrive to find my door unlocked.
You enter my apartment to find me standing at the kitchen sink, curlers in my hair, wearing a tattered housecoat. A Virginia Slim 120 is hanging from my lips, its long ash threatening to fall into the soapy dishwater.
I wash. You dry.
You leave.
*HOT*
You enter my apartment to find me standing at the kitchen sink, curlers in my hair, wearing a tattered housecoat. A Virginia Slim 120 is hanging from my lips, its long ash threatening to fall into the soapy dishwater.
I wash. You dry.
You leave.
*HOT*
The Pocket Piece, Part 3
The Pocket Piece, Part 2
Only a few steps inside the club, Jim and I had to spend a moment blinking and swallowing as we were assaulted by a thick melange of fumes. Cigarette smoke (did EVERY Brit smoke?), disco fog, stale beer, and the unmistakable sting of amyl nitrate hung close to our faces under the low ceiling.
To our left, on a slightly sunken dancefloor, tightly packed shadowy figures moved to the beat of the EXTREMELY LOUD sound system. We traced the edges of the dance floor with our fingers in our ears and headed for a long bar, where several bartenders were feverishly at work ignoring the patrons.
At the bar, we flailed our arms comically to attract the bartender's attention. Jim looked around, 'So much for finding a place to sit down.'
'Well, the last place was too bright, and this place is TOO LOUD!', I said to Jim.
'WHAT?', Jim shouted back.
'I said if we expected to find a place to sit and talk, we're gonna be out of luck!'
Jim look horrified.
'Madonna was HIT BY A TRUCK???'
'What? Who told you that?,' I asked, looking at the bartender.
'Didn't you just say something about Madonna getting hit by a truck?'
'Oh brother, honey. I said that we're GONNA BE OUT OF LUCK, if we expected to sit down. You've got your disco ears on already, and we've only been here ten minutes!', I snickered.
The sexy but unsmiling barman brought over two lukewarm Red Stripes. Jim counted out several pound coins and dropped them into the hand of the barman, brightly saying, 'Well, thank you VERY MUCH!'
'You tipped him, didn't you?' I asked for the tenth time this trip.
'Well, just a pound. Shut up. You know I just can't NOT tip a bartender.'
We'd been teasing Jim about that all week, although we'd all been quietly tipping them ourselves.
We drifted around the inside of club, getting our bearings and checking out the crowd. The dancefloor was jammed, mostly with younger club kids. Lurking around the bar and in the darker parts of the club were an odd mix of punks, skinheads, art fags and a few drag queens.
A handful of leathermen, probably refugees from The Coleherne, were posed in a corner, trying to maintain an aloof masculinity, but still occasionally succumbing to the insistent beat, carelessly allowing themselves a fleeting disco flourish, which they would immediately quell, then compensate for with an even more exaggerated swagger.
Jim left me standing near the leathermen and went in search of the restroom. A minute later he was back, breathless.
'Guess who I saw in the bathroom?'
I said, 'Were you looking though a gloryhole again?'
'Not THIS time, very funny. No, I walked up to the urinal, which by the way is JUST this huge tiled wall with a drain running along the bottom, that goes the entire length of the room, no privacy WHAT-so-ever. What is UP with this country and the public restrooms? If I was slightest bit pee-shy, I'd prob-'
I cut him off, 'Jim, who was in the bathroom?'
'Oh, it was London Losira.'
'Oh, no way!'
Now, the 'Losira' moniker requires a bit of explanation. Jim and I were both huge Star Trek geeks. In one episode, Kirk, McCoy and Sulu are stranded on a deserted planet. The planet is defended by a computer program that sends a beautiful but deadly female alien, named Losira (played by the lovely former Miss America, Lee Meriwether), to attack the crew. Each time she appeared, Losira's touch was fatal, but only for whomever the computer sent her on that occasion. Kirk and crew would form a circle around her, shouting, 'Who are you for? Who are you for?'
So, whenever Jim and I couldn't figure out which of us was being cruised, (and we were most definitely NOT a package deal) we'd name the cruiser in question 'Losira', until we knew who he WAS for, or no longer cared.
'London Losira' had been cruising one or the both of us all week long, in several bars and discos from Soho to Earl's Court. He was strikingly handsome, with a jet-black crewcut, pale skin, and a bit of a superior smirk. We never spoke to him, never figured out who he 'was for.' We had danced near him at Love Muscle, the previous Saturday, and purred approvingly when he removed his shirt on the dancefloor, but still never got past the 'Losira' stage.
Jim and I waited near the restroom, and about a minute later London Losira walked out, doing a comical double-take upon seeing us. Giving us several backwards glances, he pushed through the crowd and took up position edge of the dance floor.
Jim said, 'Ok, let's settle this.'
He pulled me behind him, following Losira. Jim took up a position a few feet to the right of Losira, and I took one a few feet to the left. Losira cast glances in both our directions and jumped down to the dancefloor, alone. Jim looked at me and rolled his eyes. I shrugged and we both joined Losira. After a few minutes of, at first, 'accidental', then not-so-accidental bumping into Losira, it became clear.
Losira was for me.
Jim abandoned us and went to do his own thing. I introduced myself to Losira, trying to be heard over the clanging music.
'Hi! I'm Joe!,' I shouted, extending my hand.
Losira grabbed my hand and yanked my body against his.
'Snrufl glelm flwro mrrumr!', he growled, as he shoved his palm against my crotch.
'OK.' I smiled idiotically. 'What's your name?'
More incomprehensible grunting, delivered in that sexy Losira way. I pulled him off the dancefloor and down a hallway, as far away from the speakers as we could get. That's where I learned that Losira was, in fact, named Fred. Fred was from France, working illegally in London as a waiter at a French restaurant. I wasn't entirely confident with any of this information, as it was largely gleaned through pantomime.
French Fred and I hung out at the bar for an hour or so, slamming more Red Stripes, and making out a little bit. I had to restrain him a few times, or he'd have had my cock out right there. Not that that's a bad thing, mind you, I just didn't know about local custom. Right.
Finally, Jim walked up and I gave him a ten-second recap. Jim tried to be bored with it all.
'So, are you going home with him?'
'I don't know, we haven't talked about it. Or maybe we HAVE, who knows, I can't understand a thing he says.'
Jim made a big show of getting out the claim tickets for our coats, and headed down the hall to the coat check. French Fred gave me a sly look, fumbled in his pockets for his claim ticket, murmured in my ear, then followed Jim.
Jim came back with our coats and asked, 'Well, what's the story?'
'Don't get mad, but I still don't know.'
'How can you NOT know?,' Jim snapped.
'Well, after you went to get our coats, I think he said 'I want you to fuck my hole.'
Jim rolled his eyes, 'Well, that sounds pretty definite!'
'Or, he MIGHT have said, 'I want to get my mink stole.'
Jim snorted. 'So, I guess if he DOESN'T come back with wearing fur, you're fucking him.'
French Fred reappeared a moment later. He was wearing a black leather jacket.
- to be continued-
Only a few steps inside the club, Jim and I had to spend a moment blinking and swallowing as we were assaulted by a thick melange of fumes. Cigarette smoke (did EVERY Brit smoke?), disco fog, stale beer, and the unmistakable sting of amyl nitrate hung close to our faces under the low ceiling.
To our left, on a slightly sunken dancefloor, tightly packed shadowy figures moved to the beat of the EXTREMELY LOUD sound system. We traced the edges of the dance floor with our fingers in our ears and headed for a long bar, where several bartenders were feverishly at work ignoring the patrons.
At the bar, we flailed our arms comically to attract the bartender's attention. Jim looked around, 'So much for finding a place to sit down.'
'Well, the last place was too bright, and this place is TOO LOUD!', I said to Jim.
'WHAT?', Jim shouted back.
'I said if we expected to find a place to sit and talk, we're gonna be out of luck!'
Jim look horrified.
'Madonna was HIT BY A TRUCK???'
'What? Who told you that?,' I asked, looking at the bartender.
'Didn't you just say something about Madonna getting hit by a truck?'
'Oh brother, honey. I said that we're GONNA BE OUT OF LUCK, if we expected to sit down. You've got your disco ears on already, and we've only been here ten minutes!', I snickered.
The sexy but unsmiling barman brought over two lukewarm Red Stripes. Jim counted out several pound coins and dropped them into the hand of the barman, brightly saying, 'Well, thank you VERY MUCH!'
'You tipped him, didn't you?' I asked for the tenth time this trip.
'Well, just a pound. Shut up. You know I just can't NOT tip a bartender.'
We'd been teasing Jim about that all week, although we'd all been quietly tipping them ourselves.
We drifted around the inside of club, getting our bearings and checking out the crowd. The dancefloor was jammed, mostly with younger club kids. Lurking around the bar and in the darker parts of the club were an odd mix of punks, skinheads, art fags and a few drag queens.
A handful of leathermen, probably refugees from The Coleherne, were posed in a corner, trying to maintain an aloof masculinity, but still occasionally succumbing to the insistent beat, carelessly allowing themselves a fleeting disco flourish, which they would immediately quell, then compensate for with an even more exaggerated swagger.
Jim left me standing near the leathermen and went in search of the restroom. A minute later he was back, breathless.
'Guess who I saw in the bathroom?'
I said, 'Were you looking though a gloryhole again?'
'Not THIS time, very funny. No, I walked up to the urinal, which by the way is JUST this huge tiled wall with a drain running along the bottom, that goes the entire length of the room, no privacy WHAT-so-ever. What is UP with this country and the public restrooms? If I was slightest bit pee-shy, I'd prob-'
I cut him off, 'Jim, who was in the bathroom?'
'Oh, it was London Losira.'
'Oh, no way!'
Now, the 'Losira' moniker requires a bit of explanation. Jim and I were both huge Star Trek geeks. In one episode, Kirk, McCoy and Sulu are stranded on a deserted planet. The planet is defended by a computer program that sends a beautiful but deadly female alien, named Losira (played by the lovely former Miss America, Lee Meriwether), to attack the crew. Each time she appeared, Losira's touch was fatal, but only for whomever the computer sent her on that occasion. Kirk and crew would form a circle around her, shouting, 'Who are you for? Who are you for?'
So, whenever Jim and I couldn't figure out which of us was being cruised, (and we were most definitely NOT a package deal) we'd name the cruiser in question 'Losira', until we knew who he WAS for, or no longer cared.
'London Losira' had been cruising one or the both of us all week long, in several bars and discos from Soho to Earl's Court. He was strikingly handsome, with a jet-black crewcut, pale skin, and a bit of a superior smirk. We never spoke to him, never figured out who he 'was for.' We had danced near him at Love Muscle, the previous Saturday, and purred approvingly when he removed his shirt on the dancefloor, but still never got past the 'Losira' stage.
Jim and I waited near the restroom, and about a minute later London Losira walked out, doing a comical double-take upon seeing us. Giving us several backwards glances, he pushed through the crowd and took up position edge of the dance floor.
Jim said, 'Ok, let's settle this.'
He pulled me behind him, following Losira. Jim took up a position a few feet to the right of Losira, and I took one a few feet to the left. Losira cast glances in both our directions and jumped down to the dancefloor, alone. Jim looked at me and rolled his eyes. I shrugged and we both joined Losira. After a few minutes of, at first, 'accidental', then not-so-accidental bumping into Losira, it became clear.
Losira was for me.
Jim abandoned us and went to do his own thing. I introduced myself to Losira, trying to be heard over the clanging music.
'Hi! I'm Joe!,' I shouted, extending my hand.
Losira grabbed my hand and yanked my body against his.
'Snrufl glelm flwro mrrumr!', he growled, as he shoved his palm against my crotch.
'OK.' I smiled idiotically. 'What's your name?'
More incomprehensible grunting, delivered in that sexy Losira way. I pulled him off the dancefloor and down a hallway, as far away from the speakers as we could get. That's where I learned that Losira was, in fact, named Fred. Fred was from France, working illegally in London as a waiter at a French restaurant. I wasn't entirely confident with any of this information, as it was largely gleaned through pantomime.
French Fred and I hung out at the bar for an hour or so, slamming more Red Stripes, and making out a little bit. I had to restrain him a few times, or he'd have had my cock out right there. Not that that's a bad thing, mind you, I just didn't know about local custom. Right.
Finally, Jim walked up and I gave him a ten-second recap. Jim tried to be bored with it all.
'So, are you going home with him?'
'I don't know, we haven't talked about it. Or maybe we HAVE, who knows, I can't understand a thing he says.'
Jim made a big show of getting out the claim tickets for our coats, and headed down the hall to the coat check. French Fred gave me a sly look, fumbled in his pockets for his claim ticket, murmured in my ear, then followed Jim.
Jim came back with our coats and asked, 'Well, what's the story?'
'Don't get mad, but I still don't know.'
'How can you NOT know?,' Jim snapped.
'Well, after you went to get our coats, I think he said 'I want you to fuck my hole.'
Jim rolled his eyes, 'Well, that sounds pretty definite!'
'Or, he MIGHT have said, 'I want to get my mink stole.'
Jim snorted. 'So, I guess if he DOESN'T come back with wearing fur, you're fucking him.'
French Fred reappeared a moment later. He was wearing a black leather jacket.
- to be continued-
Fantasy #15
You arrive to find my door unlocked.
You enter my apartment to find that I am not home.
The place is trashed, clearly you've just missed a large sex party.
You begin cleaning, bagging up beer cans and empty lube containers. You wipe down my sling, unhook it, and store it under my bed. You pick up towels and changes the sheets. You rewind and reshelve my porn tapes.
You leave.
*HOT*
You enter my apartment to find that I am not home.
The place is trashed, clearly you've just missed a large sex party.
You begin cleaning, bagging up beer cans and empty lube containers. You wipe down my sling, unhook it, and store it under my bed. You pick up towels and changes the sheets. You rewind and reshelve my porn tapes.
You leave.
*HOT*
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