I
I charmed her with my breakdown stories. As if these are things to be proud ofas if, as if, as if. She was certainly impressed. Impressed that I had in fact, drank kerosene and survived it. Tell me more, she said.
So I told her everything. Told her about every bad meal. Every fight in the day room. Every shock treatment. Every person I talked to with teeth rotted out from meth and too few brain cells left to talk coherently. Talked about the worst minds of Wallace Countyall piled together in one room, dazed and disoriented, crabby and touchy as all hell.
We were talking in one of those faux adobe-latticed motels. In the lobby, where the ceiling was thirty feet high, at least, the breakfast donuts came complimentary, and the sky stretched out before us into oblivion. Miranda had a peculiar way of pretending to be a little country girl on her way to the big city. She was, in fact, a foul-mouthed Yankee from the streets of Boston. The road rage capital of the world.
I hate driving in Boston. If youre crazy enough to consider being behind the wheel to begin with, youll go absolutely insane when some Masshole rides your ass for fifteen minutes before cutting you off in traffic, flipping you the bird, and then cranking up his stereo loud enough to be heard on Pluto. Its an angry place that could use a lot less negativity, and better weather, in my humble opinion.
M. and I had decided to take a road trip out west. She had a brand new Volkswagon and I had 15 ounces of primo weed. Between the two of us, I figured it all evened out. Not that I had ever sold drugs, of course. Purchased, of course, but never sold.
No one takes a gay stoner seriously. No one takes a gay man seriously anyway, except for fag hags like Miranda. This is not to say that Miss M. wasnt attractiveshe was stunningly gorgeous. People often mistook us for lovers, and that was the way she wanted it. She wanted the security of a man on her arm because it kept the other lechy guys away. I can easily pass for straight, so no one suspected a thing, and we could share a motel room without anyone getting suspicious.
So, at any rate, we had walked into a fairly cheap motel in Taos, New Mexico, after spending most of four days on the road. Wed taken turns driving all the way, but youd still be surprised how long it takes to get from the east coast to the west coast. M. speeds with reckless abandon, and I am a little more conservative.
Over our coffee, we were reminiscing about how we had met, some two years before. I was high as usual, and had walked into the gay bar that I frequented, avoiding the middle-aged men who make unsubtle invitations and try to snake a hand across your thigh. She was sitting across from me, taking in my crotch.
I found out later that she often admired gay boys, and lustily stared at their equipment, knowing our sort wouldnt get the wrong impression and try to hit on her. Women are such crotch-watchers, I swear. Get them a little intoxicated and their eyes start to drift downward. I pretend not to notice, but I always do.
She took me under her wing that night and we had a fantastic conversation. Her nickname was The Queen of the Fairies, after all, and she ruled the roost. She had any number of sycophantic queens picking lint off of her shirt, cowtowing before her majesty, and wishing they had the same long blonde hair. All of us wish we had been born with a vagina, secretly and not so secretly.
Why dont you go find yourself a man, she slurred, after one too many rum and cokes.
Im tired of them, I said. Theyre all the same.
A week before, a very attractive stud named Brad had danced over to me and slid his package up and down the side of my leg, enticing me. It was my own private lap dance, and although I appreciated it, I wasnt really in the mood for random sex. Oh, dont get me wrong, there were times in which I took more than one to bed with me at a time, but I cant find anyone willing to settle down.
This was Mirandas problem, too. She found an endless stream of men who lusted after her body, but didnt value her for her insides. This is why she stuck to gay bars these days. That and the tragic fact that she had more than a few issues. Oh, I admit she bossed me around royally and could throw a major hissy like nobodys business, but she was so entrancing that I always forgave her fits of temper.
And, she had a car. I did not. I do not. Im a poor boy from Alabama and I ran away to the northeast when I was 17. I got up there hitching a ride from closet fags to closet fag, rest station to rest station. Theyre fantastic places to pick up men and diseases. I teased, but never put out unless I had to.
I was passed along like dirty linen from man to man, drifting aimlessly for a time. Occasionally Id shack up with some older man willing to buy me clothes and expensive dinners, with the sole condition that I produce at night. I was happy to oblige, having never had much to myself. So I wore my designer jeans and my hick accent like a badge and walked the streets of the gay districts of many a city.
Mirandas story is a little bit different. She came from some dysfunctional, hard-drinking family in Dorchester, not far off the bay. Listening to her life story reminded me of Stephen Crane short stories, full of densely accented dialect and highly unnecessary theatrics. She was the only daughter in a family of four brothers, and her natural good looks granted her an adolescence of open-mouthed gapes and sexual innuendo, often times from her own siblings. She was naturally resentful of men, but often took them to bed with a callous, detached disdain that I saw mirrored in my own dealings with the gender.
She trusted me, only because I did not threaten her with fists or rude comments.
II
How did you survive it all? she asks now.
Same way you did. Put one foot in front of the other. I knew the place was nothing more than a holding pen, but I did try to help those poor saps out. Guess I felt guilty.
Sometimes I wish Miranda would shave under her arms. I know its the fashion these days to be all granola and hippie and make your own clothes, but at least men know how to conceal their armpit stink. Weve had practice.
They threw me into a psych ward when I lost it. I was 15 and had started sleeping with boys. My parents, convinced that homosexuality was a mental illness, a choice, a weakness, and nothing more, promptly called their friend Judge Dinkle, put me in handcuffs, and sent me off to the hospital. Now, I admit that Id been suicidal beforehand, but nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to face.
I got even more depressed just being around them. The women wore too much foundation and the men had weasely mustaches and ominous forehead scars. I was scared of them all.
When I stopped attending group, they decided I was ready to die. They were right.
Five electroshock sessions later, I was too disoriented to want to harm myself. I didnt know where I was or who I was, and the only thing I could murmur was
I feel confused.
I charmed her with my breakdown stories. As if these are things to be proud ofas if, as if, as if. She was certainly impressed. Impressed that I had in fact, drank kerosene and survived it. Tell me more, she said.
So I told her everything. Told her about every bad meal. Every fight in the day room. Every shock treatment. Every person I talked to with teeth rotted out from meth and too few brain cells left to talk coherently. Talked about the worst minds of Wallace Countyall piled together in one room, dazed and disoriented, crabby and touchy as all hell.
We were talking in one of those faux adobe-latticed motels. In the lobby, where the ceiling was thirty feet high, at least, the breakfast donuts came complimentary, and the sky stretched out before us into oblivion. Miranda had a peculiar way of pretending to be a little country girl on her way to the big city. She was, in fact, a foul-mouthed Yankee from the streets of Boston. The road rage capital of the world.
I hate driving in Boston. If youre crazy enough to consider being behind the wheel to begin with, youll go absolutely insane when some Masshole rides your ass for fifteen minutes before cutting you off in traffic, flipping you the bird, and then cranking up his stereo loud enough to be heard on Pluto. Its an angry place that could use a lot less negativity, and better weather, in my humble opinion.
M. and I had decided to take a road trip out west. She had a brand new Volkswagon and I had 15 ounces of primo weed. Between the two of us, I figured it all evened out. Not that I had ever sold drugs, of course. Purchased, of course, but never sold.
No one takes a gay stoner seriously. No one takes a gay man seriously anyway, except for fag hags like Miranda. This is not to say that Miss M. wasnt attractiveshe was stunningly gorgeous. People often mistook us for lovers, and that was the way she wanted it. She wanted the security of a man on her arm because it kept the other lechy guys away. I can easily pass for straight, so no one suspected a thing, and we could share a motel room without anyone getting suspicious.
So, at any rate, we had walked into a fairly cheap motel in Taos, New Mexico, after spending most of four days on the road. Wed taken turns driving all the way, but youd still be surprised how long it takes to get from the east coast to the west coast. M. speeds with reckless abandon, and I am a little more conservative.
Over our coffee, we were reminiscing about how we had met, some two years before. I was high as usual, and had walked into the gay bar that I frequented, avoiding the middle-aged men who make unsubtle invitations and try to snake a hand across your thigh. She was sitting across from me, taking in my crotch.
I found out later that she often admired gay boys, and lustily stared at their equipment, knowing our sort wouldnt get the wrong impression and try to hit on her. Women are such crotch-watchers, I swear. Get them a little intoxicated and their eyes start to drift downward. I pretend not to notice, but I always do.
She took me under her wing that night and we had a fantastic conversation. Her nickname was The Queen of the Fairies, after all, and she ruled the roost. She had any number of sycophantic queens picking lint off of her shirt, cowtowing before her majesty, and wishing they had the same long blonde hair. All of us wish we had been born with a vagina, secretly and not so secretly.
Why dont you go find yourself a man, she slurred, after one too many rum and cokes.
Im tired of them, I said. Theyre all the same.
A week before, a very attractive stud named Brad had danced over to me and slid his package up and down the side of my leg, enticing me. It was my own private lap dance, and although I appreciated it, I wasnt really in the mood for random sex. Oh, dont get me wrong, there were times in which I took more than one to bed with me at a time, but I cant find anyone willing to settle down.
This was Mirandas problem, too. She found an endless stream of men who lusted after her body, but didnt value her for her insides. This is why she stuck to gay bars these days. That and the tragic fact that she had more than a few issues. Oh, I admit she bossed me around royally and could throw a major hissy like nobodys business, but she was so entrancing that I always forgave her fits of temper.
And, she had a car. I did not. I do not. Im a poor boy from Alabama and I ran away to the northeast when I was 17. I got up there hitching a ride from closet fags to closet fag, rest station to rest station. Theyre fantastic places to pick up men and diseases. I teased, but never put out unless I had to.
I was passed along like dirty linen from man to man, drifting aimlessly for a time. Occasionally Id shack up with some older man willing to buy me clothes and expensive dinners, with the sole condition that I produce at night. I was happy to oblige, having never had much to myself. So I wore my designer jeans and my hick accent like a badge and walked the streets of the gay districts of many a city.
Mirandas story is a little bit different. She came from some dysfunctional, hard-drinking family in Dorchester, not far off the bay. Listening to her life story reminded me of Stephen Crane short stories, full of densely accented dialect and highly unnecessary theatrics. She was the only daughter in a family of four brothers, and her natural good looks granted her an adolescence of open-mouthed gapes and sexual innuendo, often times from her own siblings. She was naturally resentful of men, but often took them to bed with a callous, detached disdain that I saw mirrored in my own dealings with the gender.
She trusted me, only because I did not threaten her with fists or rude comments.
II
How did you survive it all? she asks now.
Same way you did. Put one foot in front of the other. I knew the place was nothing more than a holding pen, but I did try to help those poor saps out. Guess I felt guilty.
Sometimes I wish Miranda would shave under her arms. I know its the fashion these days to be all granola and hippie and make your own clothes, but at least men know how to conceal their armpit stink. Weve had practice.
They threw me into a psych ward when I lost it. I was 15 and had started sleeping with boys. My parents, convinced that homosexuality was a mental illness, a choice, a weakness, and nothing more, promptly called their friend Judge Dinkle, put me in handcuffs, and sent me off to the hospital. Now, I admit that Id been suicidal beforehand, but nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to face.
I got even more depressed just being around them. The women wore too much foundation and the men had weasely mustaches and ominous forehead scars. I was scared of them all.
When I stopped attending group, they decided I was ready to die. They were right.
Five electroshock sessions later, I was too disoriented to want to harm myself. I didnt know where I was or who I was, and the only thing I could murmur was
I feel confused.