Run Crissy Run

see my Saturday run at Crissy (no not that Chrissy) field:


Here

MSM seeks hot queer fornication or something like it

I am newly occupied with religious zeal as I determinedly seek a mate. Part of aging into my mid 30s brings with it a realization that I am old enough to appreciate and secure enough to attract a man worthy of spending intimate blocks of time with me. I have grown weary and bored with creating profile after profile on sites like manhunt and gayforsexnow. I have exhausted my archive stock of personal dick footage and haven't posted a more recent shot of my face than the one I snapped 6 years ago. Details, details. I don't look a day over 27. And I'm barely over 30 in spirit.

How many ways can I convey that my slim, slender, smooth build wants to feel itself against the sweaty, sexed up, touchy-feely man meat that lurks on the other side of cyberspace? I am versatile btm but can versatile top with the butchest. "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful" or a similar version begotten in bitterness usually fills the field of copy. When my latest manhunt profile hit cyberspace, I decided the time had come to seek alternative venues for hooking up. "Seeking guys with a huge cock who don't transfer their internalized homophobia on to me just because I'm pretty."--- read the latest attempt or something like it.

I'm all about the huge cock, but is that truly the most important feature I desire? And the internalized homophobia. Nothing gets me more hard than a dash of social discourse on gender relations right in the middle of stats. review... Length, girth and ... internalized homophobia. Now I'm wet.

Admittedly, I deserve to be bitch slapped by the first brute who reads it but I must explain the weary reasoning for my bitterness. It stems from eons of time spent in pursuit of the trickiest hookup that boiled over to homophobic slurs and assaults on my gayness. It started with a disdain that originated upon reading a request for "no fems" in profile upon profile. I appreciate just as much masculinity as the next queen but a stab to target the swishy set hits close to home. If those who claim to be butchest were to see me outside of a sexual setting, they would undoubtedly call me nelly, queer, fag and nancy boy. Also described as feminine, I am familiar with the slurs relegated to sissies on the playground.

"Are you a f***ng woman or what?" popped up on my IM -instant message. Since I was being singled out for my flamboyance any hope to achieve brotherhood vanished. The str8s attacked the sissies. Alarms went off in my head and on the site to warn of an attack of the fag-bashing cocksuckers.

I responded with a superior air equivalent to the charity I afforded the mere mortal children who taunted my sissified youth. Believing myself to be naturally superior and evermore evolved, I condescended.

Naturally, my defensive attempts to save face soon took precedence and my original purpose of finding compatible cock fell out of focus.

Bored and disgusted by the carnal beast of the cyber cock, I sought and found other criteria. eHarmony.com is under investigation for a possible class-action lawsuit that claims the website discriminates on the basis of sexual orientation. The popularity of matchmaking websites has paved the way and opened avenues for sites more attune to my gay reality as a sex positive singleton with HIV.

Enter poz.com. I burned the midnight oil writing and re-writing upon editing my limit of 700 characters. How was I to adequately and eloquently describe my Hollywood charisma and ultimate search for my postmodern mister right and his sidekick mister happy. And all within the 7 square miles that makes up San Francisco. Add the poz factor to that, minus the mediocrity of those men who can't possibly exist on the same level as myself and throw out the ethnicity of non-Aryan types save one or two Lotharios and maybe three Brazilian bombshells and you have my mystery date.

My resulting profile reads as follows:

France Fell but Edie Didn't Fall (A non sequitur headline paying homage to my patron saint. Edith Bouvier Beale of Grey Gardens) -- a perfectly random addition to the blended insanity of my sex poz life.

gayqueerfag (a handle spouting anthem of "gay shame" -- I'm reclaiming the epithets as powerful.

33 --San Francisco, California (my real age and exact location)

Describe who you are looking for:

I wish to meet someone like me. That's a non-typical, passionate, intelligent, attractive gay guy with intense star quality and major wow factor. Sex positive, queerly realized and campy enough to strike awe. Must be physically compatible and completely in sync.

THE BASICS
I am a:
male

seeking a:
male

for:
dating, friendship, relationship, sexual encounters

I identify as:
gay

I have been positive since:
2002

APPEARANCE
My build:
slim
My height:
5' 10''
My eyes:
green
My hair:
brown
My ethnicity:
white
My body art:
tattoos

WORK
My education:
college grad
My area of work or study:
non-profit/community based
My annual income:
none of your business

LIFESTYLE
Smoke?
No, but I would date a smoker
Drink?
socially
Drugs?
I will tell you later
My scene:
other
In a social setting, I'm:
I will tell you later
My favorite music:
Broadway showtunes, standards, American Idol, off-the-chart one-hit-wonders, Pussy Tourette
My favorite movies:
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? Valley of the Dolls, The Women, Stage Door, Grey Gardens, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Hustler White, Wizard of Oz, Talk to Her
My favorite books:
My Face For All the World to See, Day of the Locust, Oliver Button is a Sissy, Walking Through Clear Water in a Pool Painted Black, The Bouviers
My favorite TV:
Kathy Griffin- My Life on the D List, Project Runway, Ugly Betty, All My Children,
My favorite foods:
Oatmeal, Frosted Shredded Mini-Wheats, Fruit, Balance bars
PERSONAL DETAILS
My relationship status:
single
My kid status:
I do not want kids
My health status:
no major complaints
Any other sexual history, including STD's, that you want to share?
"In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice." - Marquis de Sade
My religion:
spiritual, but not religious
I speak:
French, English
My politics:
liberal
My astrological sign:
Virgo
I'm interested in:
community service, working out, movies, photography, reading, theater

More about you:
I think critically and consider myself an atypical fag. I spend time alone because I lack enough patience to deal with the banality of most people. I am an adopted, only child and was conditioned early on to believe that the whole world revolved around me. Or wish it did. I maintain an internal Rolodex of imaginary friends gleaned from pop culture. I'm always up on the headlines and view life with an activist spirit bent on social justice. I'm seeking someone who makes me say wow but I'll settle for starstruck. I love to run outdoors. Running makes me a better person. The number 5150 is tattooed on my right bicep. The word doll is on my left. I have yet to implement my ultimate purpose.

More about who you're looking for:
I'm in search of someone intelligent and random and kooky and irreverent with an enviable sense of style. Sex positive and campy a plus. I want to meet someone with enough varied interests to hold mine. Shared values regarding the body and its upkeep are pluses. No sexual hangups and enough wherewithal to awaken the potential for shared passion. Tactile/loves to kiss. I want to be impressed with your package, physical,spiritual, mental, but not so much that I deem myself unworthy of your attention. Must be evolved beyond my plateau and able to appreciate just how damn special I am. Film Enthusiasts welcome. A provocateur of pornographic esteem. Someone I could fall for.

That about sums me up as neatly as I can box into a limited field of under 1000 words. Do I sound smart? Cultured, Evolved? How about with-it? And in touch with the feminine side of my masculinity or vice versa? Did I convey how much I value physical fitness and the ascetic beauty of the male genitalia without coming across as gauche or a blowhard in search of a blowjob for that matter?

Never content to sit in idle anticipation for the flood of cyber winks that would fill my inbox to runeth over, I perused the matching postings in search of a geographically close-by suitor.

The following profiles prompted the witty, scathing responses that follow: Submitted as online "flirts" to individual inboxes:

Profile of Boytoy- age 35
I am a 35 year old good looking white guy. 5'9", 140 lbs., lean swimmers body, with a bubble butt, versatile to bottom. I am looking for versatile to top Latin or white guys/couples for friendship and maybe more. I enjoy the beach, traveling, and listening to music. --

My size-up critique?

I thought him a bit long in the tooth to still be called a boy-toy. That's an honor bestowed to the twink set. This toy is not privy to the SMS speak of modern text messaging.--- He should practice curt brevity with the edited VGL GWM, vers, bubble butt iso same or MSMM latin.

This is what I wrote to him.

Subject: still a boytoy??...Sent: Aug 8,
2007 9:01 AM

You're a cute one, aren't you? Totally cute. Consider it a compliment. Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (he listed as favorite) is a
Pedro Almodovar film. Have you seen the others? Let's hook up on manhunt.
xxxoo mta

# 2-- In response to sfca415. Headline= Breathe:

Subject: They always have to remind me to breathe --Sent: Aug 8, 2007 8:54 AM

I'm not cruising you because I know you're with partner but I just wanted to
convey my appreciation for the character you described in your profile. You are
very well-spoken. I relate to almost everything that you said and easily could
have plagiarized the copy for my own profile. I sense a serenity that is lacking
in my own frenetic laundry list of traits although I'm totally with you on the
level. nice to embark upon you. cheers mta

#3 caught my fancy with his reported confession to favor Broadway show tunes. A fag worth fucking in love with Broadway-- perish the thought.

Coinciding with a reported income topping out at 100K+ and professed fondness for Pedro Almodovar films--- but his devotion to religious rituals and identification as Catholic stirred the sin in my loins. Not to mention the ethnicity of any name ending in a vowel.

Subject: Saints, Broadway and Almovodar sent:
Aug 8, 2007 8:00 AM

Antonio, Are you Italian? I am. (too
cute--- stifle a gag)
I'm compelled to let you know that we share an interest in particular
movies and music. Pedro Almovodar is fantastic. (and don't I know
him personally, she said)
You know he discovered Penelope Cruz... (although he said
I was much funner, right Edie?)
You are the only person I have met outside of the Best of Broadway
who claims to appreciate Broadway musicals in capital letters. I thought my predilection for Broadway was confirmation that my interests were
stereotypically gay. (oh, surely you jest-- now
stop)
Congrats for breaking the mold. Thanks for representing. (Kudos to you babe)
Oh-- regarding your claim to appreciate religious rituals and the
like...(lest I forget...)
I assume you mean the most Holy Communion and Confirmation? FYI, (twitters :)
I received both. (straight from my the heart of my very
own Eucharistic minister)

(in case you were
thinking of Mary Catherine Gallagher...)

I'm also guilty of committing all (count- em-- all) 33 (one for each of my years) of the official mortal sins as defined by the Catholic church.

They are:

1. Abortion, 2. Anger, 3. Adultery 4. Amending the words of the Holy Bible, (paraphrasing or
   plagiarizing material for personal gain) 5. Blasphemy against
   the Holy Spirit (Damn that ghost) 6. Carousing,
   7.Cowardice (yellow-bellied lions lack courage)
   8. Defrauders, (especially
   check frauders and paper-hangers of the mail fraud variety)
   9. Dissensions (any disagreement or difference of opinion 10. Disrespect towards parents, (aka dishonoring the 12th commandment
   not to be confused with the 12th step of Alcoholics Anonymous) 11.
   Drunkenness, (especially public)
   12.Enmities, (like the one Tori Spelling harbors for
   Shannon Doherty) 13. Envy, (Green
   like Lindsay Lohan's complexion after a hurl)
   14. Factions (Rosie vs. Elizabeth) 15. Faithless or the lack of faith
   i.e. not of the faith" often used to describe one's preference for
   fisting or some other odd sexual practice. 16. Bearing
   false witness (liars) (tiny, white lies don't count as
   much as big, whopping ruses) 17. Fornicators aka committing of pornication, usually between a man and a woman devoid of the sacrament of
   marriage. See "thy shall covet thy neighbor's ass"
   18. Greed, (the
   lifeblood of 1980s capitalist consumerism) 19.
   Holy Communion received while in a state of mortal sin, -- (as
   opposed to a state of smut or kink) 20.
   Idolatry, (Ryan Idol
   notwithstanding-- or Tom Cruise's Magnolia mantra "respect the
   cock")
   21. Impurity, (Thoughts etc) 22.
   Jealousy, (Not to be confused wit
   23. Licentiousness, (moral depravity i.e. lewdness) 24. Lewdness
   (see licentiousness) 25. Love and practice falsehoods, (don't
   lie and say you love me when you really don't. or Don't profess
   to be str8 when you're really gay can be. 26. Male
   prostitution, aka hustling on the blvd 27. Murderers, (like the Sopranos) 28. Pollution (Al Gore is watching)
   29. Quarrelling, (damn you Stella. don't be cross) 30.
   Sodomites, aka the practice of anal sex with
   another queer
   31. Sorcery, (not to be confused with
   witchcraft) 32. Strife, see
   discord esp. urban 33. Thieves,
   (steal/robbers) i.e.
   gypsies, tramps &...

And I still receive communion on the most holy high holidays. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? I hope I haven't blabbed you to boredom but I must let you know that you managed to catch my interest. For what it's worth. Wow.mta

And on to ponder the philosophical pursuit of chaotic man-frenzy...

Subject: dancing star notwithstanding Sent: Aug 8, 2007 6:30 AM to Nietzche philosophical queen

You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star.

I have a journal with that Nietzsche quote on the cover. It accurately sums up the state of my karma. I'm in the process of becoming one with my dancing star. snaps! mta (and double kudos to my wonder twin star karma-- like Jem and the Hologram- ...for crissake...)

Alliterative astro-logic for an astro-boy

Subject: zen of zodiac Sent: Aug 8, 2007 6:28 AM
Your profile caught my attention and elicited a pleasant surprise when I discovered you were Pisces, the most compatible astrological sign matching my Virgo. They're opposite ends of the spectrum-- isn't that freaky that I was on the same wavelength? I'm not as frivolous as the above statement implies. (honest I'm not, giggled the vixen dixie- boop-boop-de-oop) mta

And on to far reaching latitudes... I still have no idea who the hell Gilbert and George are or what happened in their interview with Mark Francis circa 1981. (see below) But I googled the dickens out of this elitist attempt at acheiving hyper-culture. Alas, I simply cannot compete with the likes of the Donnas. Tiffany meets Kelly Ripa = mall rats+rat fuck= ratted hair

Subject: Donnas were from Jersey Sent: Aug 8, 2007 6:19 AM

Hey Hello I happened upon your profile and it intrigued me enough to google Gilbert and George, Interview with Mark Francis 1981. You know what's really funny? You represented and accurately summed up what you were looking for enough to tempt me to plagarize and cut and paste the field on to my profile. Instead, I opted for the overly wordy, less descriptive version currently featured.

(and hip to be square) I am so down with...

"A guy who pushes back"

Exactly. I should have thought of it. Brilliant. Also, I thought I was one of few people who appreciated the Donnas. (putrid mall rats) For what it's worth, I think you're groovy. (like totally, Greg) Back at'cha and Kudos (and one to grow on-- hot-stuff) --mta

To conclude with homage to my french bitch. Phuque my pussy, Pussy says.

Subject: Bonjour Sent: Aug 8, 2007 9:04 AM
Je m'appelle Michael. J'adore les gens francais.

Voulez-vous mon-toit si-vous plait? wink, wink...

And so it goes. The end of my mating call. If this new cat and mouse game is evidence of the fun to come, I must shift gears from yesterday's dick pic and focus on the wit and coy banter of my cyber sin confessions. Lying and utter dissension topthe list as most abused mortal sins. When HIV positive status just isn't enough to create a faction, a professed preference for foreign cinema and a predilection for all invasive sin is the penultimate next best thing. This most contemporary of urban rituals will have me surfing the sexual marketplace ISO LTR for NSA in no time. MSM, queer, BB, poz,(sex) harm redux, idu, pornicating sinner seeks anonymous fuck.

How's that grab you, Pussy, she said...

Aryan Love

I remember one childhood day when my mother pulled me aside and warned me that it was extremely important that I try to get along with other children. Since I was an only adopted child, I was made to believe that the entire universe revolved around me. Teachers described me as a flamboyant, sensitive child. But soon, I matured into an antisocial sissy that spent the majority of the tween years isolating in a walk-in closet with my Hollywood fanzines and dolls.

Thus, my formative years were grounded in a negative perception of self image and a depressive loathing that laid the path for years to come. In 1980 my divorced father and his child-bride belted me into the back of their station wagon and took me to the drive-in showing of Herbie Goes Bananas. I had no interest in the trite telling of a VW bug's life. Bored and bitter, I peered through the rear view window to discover an angel of an image. When I saw Christopher Atkins frolicking on the beach of the Blue Lagoon, I felt a dreamy warm chill flash through my gut. Doing a 180, I read his gorgeous, full lips word for word through the back window, since I could not hear the spoken dialogue.

"Turn around and watch our movie," my father scolded.

Forbidden and banished from my evening in the twilight of the Blue Lagoon, I wept in angry tears.

"That goddamn film is not for a 7 year old," said the macho asshole/father.

I went home that night and dreamed of a blond, Aryan god. Hollywood's image was forever in my head. The bleached, athletic prowess of a California beach boy stayed in my subconscious and served as the ultimate prototype of perfection.

As I shed the poundage of a suicidal childhood, puberty led to adulthood and a modicum of self-acceptance. No matter what I looked like in the mirror, an uncomely nerd stared back. This dreadful image followed me through high school, into college and a young adulthood spent in a microcosm of looksism aka Hollywood.

Slim and suddenly able to compete in a model's market, I maintained the destructive behavioral pattern fueled by an inaccurate self perception. Christopher Atkins moved on to yesterday's news but his masculine ideal remained the golden-haired standard.
I became bewitched by the American Model Guild beefcake icon imagery but his tantalizing unattainable bulge haunted me.

Upon a recent evening set in my current habitat of ennui, I met my childhood wet dream incarnate. A friend showed up at my door and introduced me to Bjorn. I dried the dish soap on my ragged jeans and considered it a welcome substitute for the laundry I was too broke to do. Luckily, the faded frumpy cornflower blue sweatshirt I wore was baggy enough to hide evidence of my neglected abdominals. Sticking my hand out to welcome the hazy figure I saw in the foyer, I licked my lips twice when my eyes focused. Bjorn stood before me and I blushed like Blanche Dubois.

"Why didn't you tell me he was so fine?" said Bjorn to my friend.

Since I had been wearing the same drab dress for over a depressive week, I cursed myself and hurried to the loo to implement damage control. I remembered reading that Bette Davis was dubbed the "little brown wren" upon her Hollywood arrival and I flashed to that image. Piper Laurie's cacophonous curse lectured in my ears. "They're all gonna laugh at you," she ragged. "He's never going to f**k you, " rang the mantra. Over and over, the sirens taunted me. The blond Venus in my living room must have mistaken me for someone else.

When I finally rejoined my company I flashed on Shirley Maclaine doing a fast-switch with her hairpiece in the ladies room before she lunched with Jack Nicholson in Terms of Endearment. If she could dance the entire Nutcracker ballet suite with a broken ankle (Washington Ballet circa 1950s), then I could fake my through social niceties with my childhood lover fantasy.

Bjorn took his shirt off and I channeled Paris Hilton with

"Wow, you're HOT".

"Puleeze," said my amused friend, rolling his eyes.

I accepted Bjorn's complimentary stares much less gracefully than Shirley did in her dance of the lost cupcake.

My friend busied himself perusing the craigslist m4m postings and I sat beholden by Bjorn. He layered the saccharine on tri-fold and lambasted me with butterfly kisses.

"I dreamed of you last week." he said. As we had just barely met, I questioned the validity of this statement. "Here, read my journal," he offered as he pulled out a tattered, steno pad labeled "treatment journal". The handwriting was psycho Palmer method but I was able to eke out a semblance of translation. Something to the effect of song lyrics or a dream sequence was on the page but I could not be sure. I interviewed him with the journalistic training I acquired at USC and practiced active listening. Bjorn seemed a bit off balance; a quality I could relate to as evidenced by the number 5150 tattooed on my arm. The cuckoo's scarlet letter scored me some points with an impressed Bjorn. He lapsed into a deep, throaty rendition of a Kurt Cobain tune. I brought up the parallel between the wispy Nirvana singer's suicide and Bjorn's most recent attempt to overdose.

I probed him for sketches of a biographical narrative. He made references to a broken home, a neglectful mother and tyrant father. I pictured the young, blond, curly-haired innocent Dickensian character. The tragedy of the marble faun.

He told me I looked like a rock star.

Then he leaned really close to my ear and confessed he only watched straight porn. He said it as if gay porn was totally inappropriate to watch during gay sex.

By the end of the interview, I was to learn Bjorn was born 14 days after my September birth date in 1973 and was the absent father of two children. A daughter named Destiny and

... 'wait,- stop, go back...

I could not believe the parallels. I was 2 weeks older than him. Amazing! And his daughter's name is the same as my niece just as his name is the same as my sister's ex-husband, himself a parolee, just like Bjorn. Of course, my sister's ex served time for attempted man-slaughter while Bjorn's only crime was stealing my heart.

I stared into his eyes and imagined being swallowed by...the California sea-scape. By this time, I was living an out-of-body experience or did I only want to because he said he did. No stranger to attempted suicide, he parroted other accounts I have heard about near-death. Ominous light coupled with a feeling of peace led to the spirit levitating above the body/ to end all that landed him in the latest sanitarium led to Bjorn's recollection of an ominous light, feeling of peace and a levitation above his body.

Suicide, pills, teen-age delinquency, children, sex, meds, porno and blond! I was beside myself; - in complete disbelief. I pictured a paperback novel with Fabio on the dog-eared cover. The hallowed story of this lusty squire.

Suddenly he was last summer) overcome with passion. We were two babes in the woods. with Determined dynamism. My sexual half-life up to the present had been primarily dominated by the hurried hushes and carnal urgings uttered by straight-as-identified men. I was totally disconnected from the 'wow' factor for years. Having humored the homophobic hostility of MSM for so long, I could barely remember the sparkle kiss of contentedness shared with another man.

Bjorn's tranquil caress brought me to Xanadu. I flashed on Olivia Newton-John and a memory of Let's Get Physical reverberated through my physique. The nirvana euphoria I experienced made me question the association Bjorn made between himself and the wispy wimp of Kurt C0bain.

I enjoyed myself sexually but how could I not? He's completely unreal and I'm still not so sure that he is one hundred percent cuckoo-loo. That explains why he claimed attraction for me. He has to be nuts. Or ulterior motives are in play. I'm out of the running. I can barely stomach myself. How can he?

I wanted to bask in the promising pillow talk and dream of my future ex-husband. I tried to picture myself as the second half of two dads to his children. Bjorn lapsed into baby-talk and for a while looked and sounded like an eight year-old. He sat on the floor and surrounded himself with a Mr. Wizard-like set of drug paraphernalia. He seemed to be playing paddy-cake with a witch doctor's unction. I knew Bjorn had a drug-induced past, another trait he shared with me. The unguent combination he prepared in the spoon looked unlike any injectable substance I had ever seen. "It's synthetic cocaine," he offered. "Want a hit?"

Good Lord. Being an advocate for junkie's rights had never exposed me to this sideshow. I soon learned that Bjorn's synthetic coke was actually a crushed-up and watered down smattering of Welbutrin mixed with another undetermined psych med, "dipped in Ecstasy" that was actually heated by flame and drawn up in clumps through a used syringe.

Another parallel screamed in my brain as I flashed on the imagined vision of my overly medicated birth mother morphing into drug addict vis-a-vis Liz Taylor's lobotomized fate a la the Three Faces of Eve.

Did Bjorn's dissociation match the disorder my biological birth mother effected in Agnew Insane Asylum? I knew better than to look this "hung like a (gift)-horse" in the mouth and my optimistic dreams of coupledom gave way to self chastisement.

The familiar lashings of self-doubt and hatred caustically attacked me from the eaves of my id.

Bjorn was gone. As he left upon Aurora's awakening, he blew me (and then a kiss) vowing to return for the dawn of our relationship. I have not seen him since.

I bid farewell to him and adieu to the hateful imps wreaking havoc on my self image. I realized I could never imagine that I would somehow be worthy of the attention he gave. And by the rate things are going, I'm not sure I ever will. God save me from myself.

Watch Tommy get AIDS.

These entries are unlike the ones posted in my traditional voice. Consider the following to be works of fiction.

Our protagonist is a 20-something, self-absorbed, fancy fag who spends far too much time ruminating on the idiosyncrasies of his school-boy crushes.

anonymous musings -- -

August 1, 2001- Dallas, TX

Confessions of a circuit queen. Scotty told me his adventures of last night's regalia at the Brick. He spoke of a "spiritual connection" with 5 guys on the sweaty, shirtless sewer of a dance floor. Apparently, he sucked some guy from West Palm Beach, FL off and had to turn down an offer for a menage because the trick was staying in Carrolton and Scotty had to get up early in the morning to drive to Austin to shoot a bridal portrait at Heep Homestead. He didn't want to endure the commute to such a remote, lackluster suburb. What growth.


Now he is telling me that he didn't have as much of a drug problem as I did. He is so full of shit. He says he is going to the Montreal Black and Blue Ball because this guy he has been cruising named Rick is going with his lover Ron. He said he has to find out what this connection means with Rick because Scotty has 16 years of HIV and Rick has 14. He had both hips replaced as a result of the protease inhibitor, Crixivan. "Yeah, I was on Crix," said Scotty.
He's like a pillar of survival in a battle of endless wars. I see these survivors around here wearing the scars of their drugs on their creased faces and overly bloated biceps. You can usually tell they're positive by the color of their skin. It's like a cross between brick and magenta.
Some are almost purple. The lines and creases spell old-skool. Years of hard living the fight, always at death's door. ...the protease paunch they are forever trying to stave off with Ripped Force amino acid drinks and Mexican grade veterinarian steroids. Their weight fluctuates and the zits on their back seem like a minor side effect compared to the emergency bathroom breaks they must take to handle the meds.
These are my uncles, my brothers, my forebears, my lovers. Scotty is one of these survivors. Age 37- almost 40. He is one of the first of his generation to reach 40. He remembers when it was Gay Cancer and he still likes to tell me about it to show my generation what it was like.

August 2, 2001- Dallas, TX

I am so relaxed after that massage and the Klonopin. I am listening to Sandra Bernhard's Excuses for Bad Behavior and I feel compelled to spew and write. Carrie Forcucci flaked on our plans tonight. She made a big to-do about introducing me to her hairdresser friend, Dominic Calderon. I'll admit he was HOT, especially next to that marble slab of coke that he had laid out. He was in head to toe Diesel with a curly mess of moppish hair and a day's growth of beard. I called him myself and even shaved, showered and used my vanilla oil. But he flaked. Said he had plans. People are so FUCKED. I'm throwing in the towel and listening to Sandra for a sec.
In a weird twist, Mikey B called twice today. I feel amazingly settled about him. Maybe it's because I see him more for what he is.

A sex and drug addict who is trying to make life work for him the best way he
can.

He spouted off about some spiritual massage,--

hocus-pocus therapy talk...that ethereal, outer-realm meditation crap he is
always espousing.

Tonight I actually thought he might be on to something. Maybe it's just because I came from getting a massage myself. I understand a little bit more how the art of touch can bring us in contact with out spiritual side. He said he is reevaluating his relationship with Brant. Exactly the same thing he said back in December. For once, I wasn't holding a candle for him on this side. I don't know why I'm so sane. It must be because Mercury is out of retrograde for the first time in two years.

August 3, 2001 -----Dallas, TX, 4:15 AM

I just got fucked in a clearing on Holland and Herschel. There is a parking
lot there under construction. It's a grassy lot with trees and bushes. A big,
yellow bulldozer sits in the middle of the grass.
I showed up there, parked
and walked into the forest. I saw an older man circling the field with really
freaky drug energy. I watched him from behind the wheel of the bulldozer until I
heard a twig snap behind me.
Then, I saw a boy standing between two little trees.
He said his name was Mark. He wore a backwards baseball cap and an Abercrombie
sweatshirt. He looked Latino with his gorgeous full lips.
When I kissed him
I could feel his dick get hard under his jeans so I knelt down to undo his
pants. His dick was hard but not as big as mine. What could I do? He asked me
what I liked and I told him I wanted to get fucked. All I had to do was turn
around and bend over. He fucked me for at least five minutes and then pulled out
and asked me if I wanted him to cum in my mouth.

I am so scared
of AIDS

I didn't take it in my mouth but I can't remember if he
came inside me at all. When it was over, I pulled up my pants, thanked him and
he said, "Be good, be careful,"
He wanted me to come but I told him I
already had. So I grabbed my t-shirt and do rag and left.

It's quite liberating to be fucked anonymously in a parking lot at the crack of dawn. I love that I can do that in Dallas.

September 9, 2001- Dallas, TX -- 3:00 AM

I went to the Gay and Lesbian Journalist's conference tonight and met this guy named Gary. He picked me up,

took me to his hotel and fucked me with amazing stamina. It was a fantastic
experience. He totally came three times I haven't been fucked like that in a long time.

Gary said I have a perfect balance of yin and yang. He said I am a complete boy with wonderful feminine energy. Most people write it off as nelly. I hate it when people do that. I suppose I shouldn't let it bother me. Gary's actually been syndicated.
I want that.

I don't know if I feel invigorated from being fucked or what but I feel so optimistic.

I don't want to spoil the rest for you but must issue a little sneak peak. You do know that our hero seroconverts to HIV the following April after he moved to San Francisco. The sex on Holland and Herschel just described is presumably the encounter that caused AIDS for our protagonist. It is impossible to pin down as he did not journal after every experience. He was active at Club Dallas and tricked with at least a dozen other men over the course of this summer.

(Note to self)...

Why did the H&H encounter stand out from the others? Why did he write about his fear of AIDS after that particular entry? -- consider all of this and trace it in your notes as you complete the story.

What's in the box?

There is something to be said for the easy and readily available sex that one finds on the Internet. Sites like www.manhunt.net and www.men4sexnow.com have taken the place of the kind of tricking one used to do on Polk street or Crissy Field. Still there is another kind of homosexual sex that takes place under the radar away from the Kinsey 6 queens.
Federal public health uses an all encompassing term to describe men who have sex with men. "MSM" includes gay, bisexual and those men who engage in homosexual sex who do not identify as such.
Looking back on the pattern of my personal sex life, it would seem that I have a tendency to sleep with men in the latter category. Attracting a man is relatively easy but a special kind of challenge occurs when the man is "on the downlow" or a "fence-sitter" i.e. unsure of his sexuality. I had a unique opportunity to attract such men for most of my 20s when my gender presentation remained ambiguous. Because of my facial features and anorexic frame, I was often mistaken for a girl. In college, I honed the art of illusion by dressing up as a girl and attending then-popular hetero night clubs like the Roxie. My conscience objected to the blatant misrepresentation that my gender-variance allowed. I did not feel comfortable being pursued for sex when dressed as a woman. Because I did not feel like a woman inside, the fact that I was mistaken for one was often lost on me. As far as I was concerned, the image I projected was by chance and I did nothing to perpetuate it. Of course, I didn't consider that the sparkly blue eye-shadow and glamazon hair extensions may have contributed to the attention. The trickle-down effect of my early drag identity morphed into androgyny.
As a result, the strict boundaries of sexual identity were severely blurred and cast aside. I soon realized that looking like a girl or appearing feminine could be used to an advantage that made the pursuit of sex ever so much more interesting. Although I seldom knowingly misrepresented myself as female, I seemed nonthreatening and non-male enough to make it easier for men who were on the fence about their sexuality to engage sexually with a man. It soon became a challenge and then a game to see how many of these borderline men I could lure to "the other side". I developed a set of do's and don'ts based on the trends I saw repeated in their behavior. For example, I took it as a given that no kissing would be appreciated. Straight men do not pursue cuddly affection with other men. Do, however focus on the cock. Don't expect to receive mutual gratification. Don't be too queeny. Don't touch them after they cum. Don't breathe a word of it and certainly don't expect a phone call or even an exchange of names afterward.
While working as a receptionist at a large consulting firm in Dallas, I landed the stud prize that could rival Paul Bunyan. "Darrel" was 6'5 and beefy. He confirmed the adage that everything is bigger in Texas and fit the bill entirely. I knew he had a girlfriend based on meeting the dippy blond who dropped off a big bouquet at my desk the previous Valentine's Day. "This is for Darrel," she cooed.
That's why it surprised me when Darrel invited me out for a "drink with the guys" one evening. I met him at a local watering hole and watched him down over a 6 pack of draft beers in less than a happy hour. No other guys showed up and I soon realized that he had orchestrated this setup to make it feasible for him to follow me home. One thing led to another and soon, he had joined the ranks of MSM, men who have sex with men (who don't identify as gay). In an eerily lucid moment, right before I hit the lights and sealed his fate, he said "remember, discretion is imperative...".
"Sure, of course, whatever," I agreed. Little did I know just how accurate this was to be when Darrel refused to acknowledge me the next day. He didn't so much as manage a nod in my direction while breezing through the lobby. He behaved as if our interlude had never happened. I soon learned that this was par for the course. Humoring the closet case along was a necessary part of the process when playing with this type of fire. In all cases when the trick grappled with his sexuality and questioned his desires, I beat the drum at an unassuming beat.
Assuring them that I was flattered and aware of the immense gravity of the step they had just taken was preceded by a promise to respect their boundaries. You wouldn't want them to think they just gave up the booty to a fag who was going to gossip about the event over the fence post they sat on. "Fence-sitter" is slang for "undecided" or "queerly questioning" or "bisexual". Frequent references to the guy's girlfriend was also essential. "I know you're not gay, dude", I implored. "That blowjob meant absolutely nothing. I was just testing the theory that gay guys can give better head than girls,".
The goal was to appear as non-threatening to the affected suitor as possible.
As I matured, the alternative gender I outwardly fostered gave way to facial hair, extra poundage and a celebration of homosexual sex that was also homo social. I am referring to the social aspects that take place in the dynamic of a shared sexuality. The locker-room scoreboard scale used to size up the chemistry afforded me a competitive edge in the marketplace. The penis pride realized in my sexual encounters reached out to favor the decidedly queer and less of the ones achieved with MSM on the DL. Now, when I come across a "not really gay" guy, I appeal to the fraternal sense of brotherhood.
By acknowledging that you are thankful for the time they are devoting to you, reiterate the need for discretion and assure that no strings are attached. "It's just a couple of guys hanging out," or something like that.
Sometimes, this "not really gay" guy will admit to being "gay for pay". On more than one occasion I have had to unduly encounter the panicked regrets of a deflowered MSM when he thought his sacred masculinity had been compromised. For free. I don't pay for sex as there is no need, a detail I have had to point out when the MSM treats me as purloin er.
I maintain it is essential to establish that fact from the beginning when one's pride and fiscal market value is taken into question. Is he being coy or is he working? Nothing is more of a buzz kill than the post-coital shock that a slug in the mug will bring you.
Each of the varied encounters has an underlying commonality in their singled-out occurrences as one-time-only. I can count on one hand the number of times I have laid a second visit with a partner.
I don't know if this tale will make sense or ring familiar to anyone gay who happens to read it. It is merely a look-back and Pondering of the sex that describes my identification as homosexual.
When asked to check a box on sexual orientation, I instinctively blurt, "male" before realizing my mistake. I have colored outside of the box for years in relation to my gender presentation. While challenging the parameters of gender by virtue of my crying game, I shied away from the constrictions brought on by the need to check a box. Reading down the list of pansexual possibilities, I am grateful to be innately Gay and check appropriately. But then I question and think again. I know "MSM" exists to take into account the gay sex that men who aren't gay have. As I have gained some kind of expertise by engaging in said behavior I wonder if the sex I had from my gay perspective is different from the type I engaged with men of the latter. For that matter, why am I forced to tie all of my gayness into a neat box fit for profiling? Top or bottom? Nelly or butch? Trannie or just look like one? While these either/or choices connote hetero sexist stereotypes, the definitive "gay" and all it's come to imply is dangerously mediocre. If I check the box as gay, am I relegated to vanilla boy-on-boy sex with pink collared clones? What about the crying game I play with the fence sitters? Does this count as gay sex? What if I wear mascara and act as the gateway gay?
While technological advances and online identities have broadened the sexual marketplace, html has replaced pheromones. A major part of me stems from the experience I gained as a result of other's perception being different from my reality. I came to touch and was then empowered by the fact that perceptions were not always what they seemed. If my tender years had been spent checking boxes in masturbatory isolation, would I be as gaily evolved as the MSM or less so? Living as a man who looked like a woman who had sex as a man with men who loved women and then as a man as only a man can....I say "try and put that in a box". Which reminds me of a time I waited on Chi Chi Larue and her latest cast of porn-gods while working at a local restaurant. When asked if she would like a to go box for her leftovers, she quipped, "A Box!!" and giggled with knowing glee.
How gay.

Tell Me That You Love Me, Junie Moon

Like attracts like and on the food chain of friends, my contemporaries are tantamount to a mirror. I've always alternated between being a loner and a freak. As a steadfast advocate for the underdog, I empathize with those made vulnerable by the effects of their choices.
In high school, I ate lunch alone and then by senior year, with a gaggly group of girls. In college, I alternated between hanging out with people from school, Hollywood bar trash and an extravagant flock of starfucker drag queens. The latter was a case study in double personalities. A person's given name was usually a secret while dropping a stage name with a club doorman could get you free admission or fifteen minutes of fame.
Now, in my 30++ years, I can look back and remember many different friends. It was not until I came to San Francisco that I noticed my regular group of cronies was made up of a dodgy set. A dodgy, communal set of my own Armistead Maupin variety. San Francisco is said to reflect human values of acceptance and less restrictions.
As I am presently temporarily unemployed and loath to drink I do not bar-hop with office boys or sit in stoic sober vigil. I have few vices but do allow myself the occasional shot. Rather than booze, I prefer to slam speed. This is something I have in common with most of the people I see around the city on a regular basis. An injection drug user or IDU exists on a continuum of shared social stigma. From my observation, speed injectors are more likely to partake on a recreational basis than those of heroin due to the substance's less addictive potential.
My friend Holly is testament to this theory. She is a 50 year old bleach blond bombshell with big tits bought from a benefactor. In another life, in a quiet Santa Rosa suburb, she is Rhonda. Rhonda is a divorcee with two grown children. The ex-husband was a verbally abusive man of French descent who openly chastised her in public at the restaurant they owned. Her daughter is a baby dyke of the Boys Don't Cry variety. I call her a girl named Jeff as inspired by the Brandon Teena bio-flick starring Hillary Swank. And her son is a strapping young heterosexual male. I think he's a chef. All are wont to pounce in judgement about Rhonda's new San Francisco life which includes participation in the oldest profession, a new look complete with piercings north and south and a full length tapestry of tattoos.
Holly nee Rhonda has a tendency to attract black men who wear bling-bling. Just the other day, having been forced to move from her South of Market single resident occupany hotel, she ended up on the sidewalk bereft of cab fare. As luck would have it, a kindly, black gentleman came to her rescue and lifted her to a neighboring hotel down the street where she is currently ensconsed. She said he was wearing bling (read: expensive) on every finger. Holly marveled at the kindness of strangers inherent in her supposed Streetcar Named Desire.
I am sensitive to her right to re-birth as a wanton woman. After the oppression she suffered as Santa Rosa Rhonda, the femme fatale persona born by Holly is like a youthful chirp in the bog. She does exude a hearty sense of executive sophistication and acts as a mother hen to Hollis, a girl that shares her choice of trade. The 25 year old working class Italian girl often often markets herself as second fiddle in a mother-daughter tag team on double dates. Her fantasy fullfilling postings on craigslist do not compete with the ones drafted by Kelly, an MTF transsexual former porn sensation. The easy money on the streets provides a stepping stone and security for a girl who never finished high school or learned to type. While Kelly is perpetuating a stereotype that transsexuals are prostitutes, she confirms the result of an existing cycle of poverty that limits opportunites available to openly gender-variant people. Holly, on the other hand is coming into her own as a strong woman who takes pride in her sexuality. She takes classes at the San Francisco Institute for Advanced Study of Human Sexuality and can cite Annie Sprinkle in her defense of sex work. Though prostituion, pilfering, philandering and street-walking are all considered vices worthy of arrest, a thriving subset of sex-positive workers has existed since days of Barbary Coast. The same goes for use of drugs, a behavior relegated to back alleys and secrecy. My purpose in pointing out these characteristics is not to exploit. I certainly do not look begrudgingly on the choice to engage in these under-the-radar types of behavior. As for drug use, Holly shares my firm belief in the principles of harm reduction. Eschewing the negative connotations of the word, "addict" which implies a loss of control over one's use of drugs, she identifies as a drug "user". A responsible drug user is entitled to the same human rights as those who do not engage. I accompany Holly to the various needle exchanges in the city where I sometimes work as an outreach worker and volunteer. Holly often assures me that everything in the unknown uncertainties of my future will work out. She says this with such a degree of authority that I am obliged to believe her. By stepping out of Rhonda's shackles, she bid adieu to the judgmental restrictions of her nuclear family and thrived as a result. She is one of the happiest people I know and if the glittery eye-shadow isn't an indicator, the va-va-voom is. She can stop traffic and incite a crowd to rubberneck as we gaily sashy around Union Square. I enjoy the attention because it's as if we are stars of the show.
Popping into Starbucks on a recent sunny afternoon, we individually took advantage of the locked privacy in the restroom to self-administer an injection, "shot" or "hit". When I emerged from the loo, I carefully dabbed at the trickling blood on my arm and joined Holly at an outside table to chat up and tete-a-tete with Frida, a fascinating, oblivious matron who regaled us a review of the matinee she had just seen at the Curran Theatre.
"Did you know that All About Eve was filmed at the Curran?", I offered in a desperate urgency matched by my rushing heart rate.
"Get slammed and talk to her-- fabulous"-- whispered Holly. I giggled and took a sip of my Tangerine Juice Frappocino, silently thanking God for providing me with friendship.
Reducing the potential harm is evidenced by our stellar representation of responible, safe users. Although it's subversive, I urge critics to question the reason. San Francisco is a historically tolerant city and I have traditionally pushed the envelope. It's a match of literary ilk.

Happening Already Will Happen

I should clarify in case someone besides me actually reads this. In the first blog post at the bottom of the page, I said that no sex actually took place in at the sexual encounter I had in common with my hairdresser friend. But I forgot about the blow job. I remember that I blew him. I must have blown him unless I was so totally tweaked out that I was distracted from sex. That's probably the more likely story. I used him as a connection for crystal for a couple of months after. That tells me that there is a strong possibility that I was most likely on crystal when I was over there. In that case, it would have been easy to get distracted because crystal meth is a stimulant of the central nervous system. I most likely would have wanted to talk incessantly which inevitaby would have led the trick to start blabbing about the Ali Baba rocks he had which led to the commitment ceremony.

I am so glad that I clarified that.

I had a little breakdown and cried last week because I am on the verge of being interviewed for four jobs and one of them is a job I've wanted since I applied for it two years ago.

Gotta love Victoria!

I've been out of touch the past few days. I've actually been hibernating in the dark, alone with my cat Tippi. I know it's not the healthiest display of behavior but what the hell do you care? No one is reading this blog but me. I can't log on to Myspace from my home computer-- something about the Javascript something-or-other or I don't know what. I'll have it figured out in no time but until then I am down here at the San Francisco Public Library.
I'm feeling a little celebratory for some reason--- what with the Beckhams having arrived in LA and all. What does this have to do with me? Well, in the confines of my self-absorbed fantasy world, I revel in the celebrity status affected by the likes of the Beckhams. He is so hot, y'know and I really wanted to hate Victoria Posh but after watching her little special on TV the other night, I can't help but love her. She is so eccentric.
Something is seriously about to change in the universe. I can feel it.

July of Yesteryear

I found a journal in my closet today that's dated from July 2002. Exactly five years ago this month. I serconverted to HIV in April of 2002 which explained why the contents of this notebook were dramatic, fear-laden cries of woe. I'll admit, based on my past personal writings, I have played the Armageddon card to its living end. Was I always such a whiny drama queen? Apparently so.
That's funny- because right before I found the said journal this evening, my mind began to wander to those dark spaces of angst. It's never a good idea for me to entertain such meanderings.
The entries speak for themselves. I can trace the up and down spiral spin that ultimately took place in my life during the past five years. In 2002, I was 28 years old, had just moved back to San Francisco after a sober stint in Dallas, TX and was of course, newly positive. Plus, I was bemoaning the demise of a fling that broke my heart and apparently, based on the hysterical writings, losing my mind.

Direct quote--- date: July 8, 2002

"Of course, those pictures we took made me look like hell and I'm depressed about that but it WAS a disposable camera!
I haven't written since I went crazy last week and slashed 3 of John's tires with a butcher knife that I took from my restaurant job. I have stopped checking his email and voice messages.... I'm struggling so much right now with the possibility that I may deteriorate because of the HIV. I'm 28 years old and I'm looking horrible in these pictures. All I have to keep me afloat is the fantasy that I'm still a movie star. Dr. J told me I could never have the capacity to love someone else as I should until I learn to love myself."

The pages trail on as I relate my sense of disappearing self to the off-Broadway musical Hedwig and the Angry Inch. I was trying to draw conclusions and parallels to my life from the plotlines of John Cameron Mitchell's rock-opera.

The pages repeat the same woebegone malaise

... July 9, 2002 "It's extremely hot here in San Francisco and I am very depressed..."

July 10, 2002 "I just can't see past the immediate future right now. With my HIV diagnosis, I don't dare dream of a future because it's so uncertain... I've got to find myself the way Hedwig finally found herself..."

Can you believe that drivel? Just yesterday, I was re-writing my little bio on my My Space page and I seem to recall saying something about a future or lack thereof in my neat little summation of my present state of mind-- Five years into HIV and all. I have hard evidence here that my personal emotional development and maturity has seemingly been rotating on a Ferris wheel without significant advancement. Or has it not? I did dip into a little depression and fear of the future this evening, but on the other hand, I don't feel as off-balance and fragile as the 2002 entries suggest. After all I am five years older and wiser and have certainly grown used to living with HIV. The deal is--- five years ago, I was on the cusp of discovering a part of myself that I've since adapted into. I am grateful for the lessons that time and age have shown me. I am quite shocked at the point-of-view portrayed in these 2002 jottings. Was I ever that shallow and clueless? Comparing the 2002 writings with the present, it is evident that all of the drama and histrionics boldly underlined with loud, goggle-eyed takes has given way to a sense of peace and lackadaisical outlook on the whole thing. It didn't come overnight- obviously. Here's a blurb dated the 27th of March 2003.

"I have the prescription for those AIDS meds in my bag. I've fought with that inevitability for a year and now it's here. I can't put it off anymore. I don't want to be sick... I feel a sense of doom..."

Oh dear, if I only knew what lay in store for me. Little did my melodramatic muse know at the time, I had barely begun to know real sickness. I read that and say to my old self, "You think you had something to worry about, you whiny bitch-- just wait..."

(I didn't start meds that time or the next time either. I reran the same talk in my head until this past January when I finally hooked up with UCSF's Modified Directly Observed Therapy (MDOT) study. Matt R. watched me take my medication nearly every morning for about 5 months.)

It is actually comforting to read my final thoughts from the 2003 entry. It seems I was beginning to put the whole epic into perspective.
As I continued... "I could really go for a drink right now-- something to get my mind off of this AIDS shit! Forget your troubles, come on, get happy"... by Judy Garland.... And then a drop quote from Bob Fosse's Chicago...

"Just when it seems we're out of dreams, we must move on. Yes, we just move on."

Deranged musings of the oppressed

I hung out with a really groovy girl today. As I have been prone to isolation this year, I took it as a pleasant bump-in-the-road that I should happen to spend time with such a cool chick. Her name is Morgan. She was born in 1982 which means she is the same age as my estranged father's daughter from his second marriage. The latter girl is someone I witnessed being born and only remember as a lilting tot who was always available to share her Barbie dolls. Morgan is the personification of those children born in the 1980s, named after social-climbing, yuppied parents who watched too many episodes of Dynasty. Until today, I had never come into contact with such a creature. I imagined such a creature to be challenged in the pursuit of living up to her affected name. Morgan seemed to live the dream as I studied her model-perfect, Madison Avenue, made-for-the-runway frame and flame colored mane of frosted weave. Her individual facial features were put together to resemble someone Angelina Jolie could favor sans the collagen. I was impressed by her overwhelmingly fabulous aesthetic at such a young age. I knew little about her-- only bits and pieces of gossip compiled from my personal network of other like-minded bitter queens who dreamed of being her. She has a boyfriend she calls her ex- Steve who she claims is mixed up in manipulation with my friend Charlie. That means Charlie inevitably wants to fuck him and has been playing both sides to the middle as he winds himself in between their lovelorn drama. I can personally relate because I harbored Morgan's previous boyfriend in my apartment for three months in hopes of helping him come to terms with the hidden homoexuality I was sure was hidden just beneath the surface of his Calvin Kleins. Being alone with Morgan in my own environment was the next best thing to trying to fuck her boyfriend and better than Charlie could do with his meddling. Morgan told me none of these details so my perception was purely based on the gossip at large. As she asked to use my computer--- "I need to sling some ass," she said, I obliged by running to the local taqueria to order her a cheese quesadilla. Her pink-pimped-out cell phone rang 6 times in three minutes and I busied myself by responding to her text messages and placing calls on hold or banishing them to voice mail. Then she wanted me to take her picture with the camera-phone-vibrator thing and I adjusted the lighting while she slipped into an azure blue bikini and affected a provocative, come-hither pose for the hungry eye of the camera-phone. As she stood on my bed and towered above the lens, I became the Mark Morrisroe of shutterbug aspirations. As she juggled what seemed to be four to six email accounts on various hook-up sites, including craigslist, I marveled at the ease with which this rumored debutante graced the keyboard without budging her eyes from the monitor. Knowing nothing about her background except that she was purported to be the only offspring of filthy rich cultured denizens of Russian Hill and old moneyed Bay area blue blood, I saw evidence of what must have been leftover from a finishing school for nice girls. She was the Pretty Baby Brooke Shields paved the way for-- a tantalizing and enticing child-like model with sea-blue eyes, vanilla complexion and provocative pout. It was rumored among the bitter queens of my peer set that she crashed and burned a promising supermodel career that garnered her even more riches than the ones she was raised with. The ex-boyfriend that I held hostage had let me in on a secret of Morgan's storied past. Apparently, she had barely escaped high court federal charges for drug trafficking only a short time ago. Her parents purportedly paid up the ass to save their prized only daughter from being the starlet subject of women-in-prison trade films. What would Morgan have done without her french vanilla, European cigarettes? (I was duly impressed with this added detail) The business savvy she exuded as evidenced by her brush and escape from the feds was played out in executive Devil Wears Prada style as she clicked between Heidi Fleiss-like profiles. Self-described as "Vixen Veronica" she apologized upon realizing she had accidentally forwarded her response to a client's request for her piss to my email account. I strangely felt unworthy of such an honor and affiliation. As weirdness of fate would have it, I soon asked Morgan point-blank about her age. Knowing as I did that she was a child of the (cough) 1980s, I found out she is also a sister Virgo like myself. Born September 14, she is one day and 9 years shy of my birthdate on September 15. She called it "Virgo-Chi" and I relished the sound of the words in my head. "Virgo-Chi", I repeated out loud. It's almost as if it's the super-power I was always sure was my birth-right in a childhood fantasy dream sequence.What's more, all of this took place on a day I had heard Morgan was to be evicted from her Mission Street flat. My friend Charlie had been sneaking off to "help" her ex- Steve pack for weeks. Morgan wasn't supposed to know as Charlie always managed to escape out the back door before Morgan returned from whatever distracted her from this impending homeless fate.She made no mention of such a turn of events and hardly seemed bothered by the fact that she would be sleeping in a hotel this evening. I learned about the hotel thing after reading her text messages urgently sent by her hunky "ex", Steve. I was trying to manage her correspondence so she had time to devote to the search for slinging ass at my computer. She threw me a sparkle kiss and we ran like wayward Catholic school girls into the ghetto making up my neck of woods in San Francisco urban "T-L" hell. I caught her a cab as she was too nervous to draw attention to the perceived paparazzi she was sure loitered nearby. "Give me a call sometime" I offered. "I hate people" was her reply. "Oh, me too," I shot back. Finally, someone could relate to the spoiled princess and the pea persona I held inside the superior netherworld of my fantasy land. She had the aloof charm of a Russian Faberge and the oozing sexuality that Cindy Crawford grew into. She didn't have to try as hard as Angelina Jolie while still demanding the respect one would bestow to (dare-I-say?) Princess Caroline of Monaco, the troubled, wild-child sired by Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly. An untouchable fire-starter wreaking havoc in a clueless wake.We went about our separate day until she called out of the blue at 3:00 AM. Swearing me to secrecy about her location, she invited me to "just call if you want to hang out". I agreed and now sit in fearful stoicism, awe and silent self-flagellation. Could this A-list girl from rock-star meets Hilton strata really be giving me the time of day? Well-- yeah, I guess. Cuz I'm a wonder twin with Virgo-Chi- Virgo-Vixen-Chi for that matter. And I'm older.

O- I know that one. Does he still ask about me?

I am constantly amazed and reminded of the hand-me-down, merry-go-round plethora of available sexual exploits in any "Fuck Web".
Case in point--- I was chatting up my ultra-glam rock-star friend as he tried to make sense of my highlights and haircut. Regaling him with stories from my backlog of experiences that were too weird to fade into memory, I mentioned a particularly odd encounter I had a couple-several years ago.
I described the guy's apartment and how I must have met him online. Then a bit more detail revealed that his place was over-run with elaborate crystal quartz rocks that seemed to imply a treasure trove of Ali Baba importance. The freaky thing about this sexual encounter was the point that no sex actually took place because the crystal rock fag wanted me to participate in a commitment ceremony based on the magical properties of whatever quartz he had identified as my destiny.

I stood with valor on his credenza, actually donned a frock of some sort to imply I was totally down for the mystics and proceeded to take vows which I repeated on cue.

And without missing a beat, my glam-rock- hair-stylist friend said "Oh yeah, Pasta Pomodoro!"

I had initially forgotten that crucial detail---- the twisted deranged crystal quartz queen lived right above Pasta Pomodoro in the Castro.

Imagine the bonding moment we experienced upon realizing our fucked-up freakish sexual exploits involved the same characters and props.

I laughed forever and understood a new frontier in "gay community" relations. Sharing tricks and stories of the freaks along the way is an under-utilised tool for creating community in our post-epidemic gay world as sex-positive beings.

more to come