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.
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