Tennyson, anyone?

Pike is screaming, Terry is sneezing, Doug is typing. It's a typical morning in this pathetic household.

♦ ♦ ♦

It was Al Tennyson who said, "In the spring, a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love," but c'mon, it's not like I've gone all winter without having a boner.

My fancy turns toward just about any lady, young or old, white or black, skinny or plump, walking by in a tank-top or a t-shirt. Cleavage and legs get my attention, of course, and perhaps a soft breeze blowing through her hair. We've all seen the beer commercials.

It might have been 80° today, but I was 98.6°, and my red-blooded fancy turned every which way there was. Ladies in super-snug tops that showed every ripple and nipple… sheer blouses tied in a knot… bottoms of butts bulging from shorts of excellent shortness... and decorum says I'm not supposed to notice a crew-cut tattooed dyke in a sundress, but I noticed.

Other than all that sunshine and skin, it was a typical day on the sidewalk. Geraldine left me alone, thanks. Nobody wanted a flyer, but I pushed flyers at everyone anyway, except the regulars. And the tourists asked the same questions they often ask. 

The most common question is. "Can we take your picture?" Honey, if a guy in a green cape looks photo-worthy, you must be from out of town.

The second most common question is, "Where's the Castro?" I point to the traffic light, a few footsteps away. "That's Castro," I say. "You're there."

I know what it's like to be new in town. I've only been here a few years, so I'm still new in town myself. Always I'm patient with such inquiries, but none could match the middle-aged woman today, who asked me, "What's that?" as she pointed at a dark building, where the heavy beat of rock'n'roll was rolling out the door.

"That's the Detour," I said. "It's a gay bar, and from what I've heard it's a good one."

"A gay bar?" She said it like you'd say, "Dry raindrops?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I don't understand," she said, and either she didn't or she was fooling me well enough to win a Tony. Her accent was mildly midwestern, but is it possible anywhere in 1995 America that an adult human — even this wrinkled lady from the heartland — wouldn't know the word 'gay'?

"It's where men go, to meet other men," I said.

"You mean, like the Elks Club?"

I studied her for a moment — was she screwing with me? I don't think so. She seemed completely serious, but I wasn't up for explaining the facts of life on the sidewalk.

"No," said I, "it's not quite like the Elks Lodge, nor the Rotary either, but I can't really explain it. You should go into the bar, order a beer, and your questions will all be answered."

Instead she looked at me like I was not to be trusted, made a face, and walked off in the other direction.

♦ ♦ ♦

Came home to a treat never seen before — the apartment was empty. In the month and a half I've been living here, this is the first time I've been home alone — that's how much of a layabout Pike is.

He's almost always here, and Terry is usually with him, but tonight there is peace in the slums of San Francisco. There's nobody yelling, nobody sneezing. Even outside, the neighborhood seems quiet. It's just me, softly clicking at the typewriter, naked, eating tuna sandwiches, petting the cat, and almost ready to go to beddy-bye-bye.

From Pathetic Life #11
Saturday, April 22, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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