Tuesday, September 25, 2007
If there really is a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow....
I know that bullshit, but it sure paints a pretty picture. I've been seeing alot of rainbows lately and trying my hardest not to read anything into it. My life is so NOT paved with gold lately- but things seem to be changing- I sold 4 prints from my last show yesterday- interesting and fierce because the show closed in June and it was a bust. But this cool lawyer lady just contacted me and asked if I could sell her X-tra large prints of her favorite 3 choices even the show was over. BUT of course, honey- made my day. Nothing like validation for a struggling, starving, super-imposed artist on the make. I'm still stuck in Fl. chilling with my ma as recuperates from surgery and trying my best not to let my family drama get the best of me. The boyfriend is still in the picture, but I have a feeling he's getting over it- as am I- I'm so conditioned to everything being fucked up that my trust levels are at an all time low. I wish that I could find some sort of stability, but I've come to realize that my most normal, natural state is that od a tornado doing a tango with a hurricaine high on special k while gliding across a ballroom floor of disco balls covered in Crisco and lube. Yes, I'm a mess, but slowly, definitely not surely I'm trying to find a way to balance it all without killing myself in the process. Sounds like fun...NOT.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
The Daze Of My Life
September 20, 2007 - Thursday
Stop Your Sobbing....Start Doing Something... Current mood: cheerful Category: Life
This funk has lasted for weeks now- why let it? I'm over feeling sad and deprived and like the last one to get picked for the team. Everything sucks, but it doesn't have to stay that way. I'm tired of the plague running my life and dictating who, what and where I can go. I'm tired of negative people influencing my mood and trolls who claim to be my friends getting in my way. So what if I can't drink anymore. Who gives a shit if I'm not the fashion somebody I used to be. And whatever to everyone trying to dictate what your 40's are suppossed to be about. I'm going to try and take my life back, even if it's a rocky, rough and tumble road at least i'm the one walking it. Been listening to Pink and her song I'm Not Dead- my new theme song- especially when she sings "you're my crack of sunlight"- I guess that would have to be Will. No one has ever put me through more in 3 months than he has, but I still love him and when I finally see him when I get back to NYC I'll know for sure if he is family, friend or foe. He's been pretty steady in terms of love and support the past week, so hopefully it's all good- and thatr's how i'm going to look at things- hopefully it will all be good.
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So heres the dealio- Current mood: crazy Category: Life
My brother is dying of Hep C and Pulmonary Fibrosis and refuses medical attention. my mom is addicted to morphine and Dr. Phil. My boyfriend beat the shit out of me but i still love him. I just found out that if i ever drink again i will die before i'm 45. I'm living the life of a welfare rat and food stamps only get you so far. I'm thinking of stopping all my plague meds and putting it all in gods (if there is one) hands. I just took a bunch of my mothers pills and guess what- it only made me feel like more shit. what am i thankful for? my friendfs. they rule. they are my family. what else? $5 t-shirts size small at tar-jay and h&m underwear. yeah, i'm a mess. read my ass. go ahead. i deserve it. i'll be home soon. to more doctors- to more being broke. to more trying to get my fucking art out there. i'm seriously fucked. i can barely write. i can't draw for shit lately and haven't taken a new picture in two weeks- will someone knock some sense in me. PLEASE.
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September 19, 2007 - Wednesday
i don’t know what to do. follow my heart, listen to my head, take all my friends advice... Current mood: crushed
or just go my own way. i love will. i don't love will fucked up. the doctor said i can't drink anymore- the mix of booze and my hiv meds is slowly killing me- i'm in fla. trying to regroup, but i'm stuck in a pattern of insomnia and depressed as hell. i fucking cried during the devil wears prada cause it made me miss my fashion career. coulda, shoulda, woulda. what will i do when i get back to nyc? go back on the head meds and be a zombie again? succomb to the fear of being alone and love someone whom might hurt me? i'm so tired- physically, mentally and spiritually. if there is a god, will you pls show me the way? Please?
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September 11, 2007 - Tuesday
Back in the city, ignoring fashion week (although Marc Jacobs and Anna Sui RULED!) and... Current mood: restless Category: Travel and Places
...pulling things together b4 i leave on Saturday to spend 3 weeks in Fla. Will is coming to the City today and I am hoping that the healing process we began upstate continues down here. I took a leave of absence from my job. My stomach has been fucked up for two weeks and my doctor has me doing a bunch of tests, but i still feel like shit and work just isn't happening when your constantly running to the bathroom to puke. I need this break to restart myself and figure out the future. I want to make things work with Will, but I also realize that we are two addictive people that tend to act out in explosive ways. We're planning on spending Nov. & December in California. I'm trying to find a gallery to rep me and Will wants to spend time with his family and friends. My friends Emily & Isaac just had a gorgeous baby so I need to be out there anywayz- Lets see how things go this week and then while we are seperated for a few weeks. If this really is meant to be and as strong as it seems then a little break might be a good thing and bring us closer together. If not, then it's time to move on and take things to the next logical step, although I really don't have any idea what that is. Oy!
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September 7, 2007 - Friday
trapped in a prison of my own making or free to flee with no one on my tail? Current mood: crazy
Escape from NYC- hopped a train to upstate NY and sequestered myself in the almost fool proof cocoon of vacation brideled vacancy. I'm trying not to think, but my mind reels anyway. All i can do is try and let all my sences unspool at once. The shiner is fading, but not the memory. The pain is fleeting, but easily replaced. My brain says one thing, my heart says another. I know that I am in deep water. Off my head meds for almost a month now without doctor supervision, I am a walking, talking, almost living being trying to take it all in at once but the sheer imposibility of it all makes me tired and sleep these days has become my worst enemy- i think of things that mean nothing really. my dreams are scattered visuals of tortured deception, while their meanings grip me in surreal ways that i can't explain. I'm reeling, lost in the tranquility of the vacation and found in the realization that come sunday i slip back into my life and still have no idea where he and i stand. my friends all think it should end. but they don't love him. they don't share our addictions love or drug or booze wise. I want to share everything, but i know that would be a slow suicide. do i kill myself to start again or just go on and act like my own best friend? who knows. who knew. who cares. my drama is hard for anyone to deal with. friends drop like fly's and aquaintences multiply like bunnies. Everyone wants whats best for me, but what of my own desire and how i need to be?
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September 5, 2007 - Wednesday
I’ve spent the past six days walking around like a marked man and wearing my shiner of courage Current mood: high Category: Writing and Poetry
as proudly as possible. The first two days were a lesson in sheer humility as i placed my hat as low as it would go without looking too shady as i walk to the 2 in the bronx. My black eye pokes through my try a disguise and i'm greeted with looks of disgust, disbelief and indifferance. I bury myself in the Post and try to aviod the stares of a 7 year old Dominican girl and her mother who shoot me looks that i misinterpret as pity then realize are actually commaraderie since momma is sporting quite the shiner herself. I walk through the West Village in pants hung low stance with faggot thug proportion- skulking and weaving as if the weight of the world is crashing on my shoulders and each time i make eye contact with some marc jacobs trendy wannabe fashionista i glare like an animal through my black & Blue bruizes. I get to work and the crew is aghast- what happened? you get jacked? into that kinky shit, huh? and the old stand by- Oh My God Let Me Know If Theres Anything I Can Do For You- OK? I wanna puke in my shoes and i'm already squirming in my underwear- wishing i was anywhere else but here but ready to deal with it anyway. The night drips by like syrup, slow but sweet and full of sly smiles, shifty stares and sullen smidgens of personality drained banter. I hit the road at 11 and stumblr though the EV drawing stares from hot daddys who like their boys mohawked and busted up. Then there are the curious types that almost act as if they might stop and touch you, to connect to your pain- to share your drama- to bleed with you. I shake them all off, visual distractions that might even bed hallucinations, but then catch sight of myself in a windows reflection and realize that beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder- cause right now i kinda look gorgeous. scary. but gorgeous. Ok? Who gives a flying fuck what some troll on the street thinks anyway. I have my own agenda to deal with and drama to dispense with.
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September 4, 2007 - Tuesday
Smashed almost to smithereens, left to sift through the agony or choose the ecstacy... Current mood: apathetic Category: Writing and Poetry
...but i weigh the bad against the good and the good wins. I'm not perfect. neither is he. two wrongs do not make a right. but i now wear the scar of our love for all to see and judge, but only i can make the final decision. and for now, i need to be with him and see if there can be a future without the fuck ups. i'm willing to take the chance. for once i have nothing to lose.
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August 25, 2007 - Saturday
This week has been the most fucked up, twisted, never ending excursion into the darkest and.. Current mood: anxious Category: Parties and Nightlife
most depraved depths of my soul. Long story short. W & I were both broke and decided to resurrect our semi retired hooker asses. After placing an ad, fielding a few calls and getting rip roarin drunk we ended up in a public display of degragation courtesy of the Boiler Room and a dude we thought we might roll. Things got out of control and I was particularly messy, giving W & I both pause about ever returning to the scene of our crime. But of course we do, albeit seperately. W first, goes on a booze and coke binge and wanders NYC till dawn until he falls into some erant strangers bed and booty. I'm in NJ at Missys chilling, so he can't get in our pad and comes to meet me the next day, where i forgive and try to forget everything. Fast forward a week later and W is upstate and I am on a drunken prowl- sucking up the booze and coke like jaded nightlife veteran until i black out and end up in the sack with 2 of W's best friends, sucking and rolling their asses simultaeneously. The next day is bedlam as the shit hits the fan- i'm awoken to a rude conclusion of the previous nights dastardly deeds, W hating me, breaking up with me, my rep sullied, my memory a big fat blank. The next few days pass as if in slow mo- i try to make ammends, i try to make peace, i fail miserably and resign myself to a quart of vodka and bag of blow and the sinking feeling that i've fucked up everything forever. Or have I. Slowly the days go by and i do my thing, hoping and praying for a chance to make things right. Yesterday W said he wants us to stay together and it takes me by surprise. But I run with it and agree to meet him on tuesday and try to work things out. He did, we did, they said, i did no such thing. Whatever. I am ready to settle down a bit and chill with someone i love rather than just crack out with them. if it is meant to be it will be. I am a better, stronger, braver and fiercer person since meeting W. If and when we take things further remains to be seen, but i am hoping for an outlook of promise, peace and pleasure. Amen.
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August 16, 2007 - Thursday
Things change and sometimes it’s actually for the better... Current mood: cheerful Category: Friends
Ok- quick update- my life has been almost normal lately. Living in the Bronx is a schlep, but worth it- the hood is chill, the pad corekt and the possibilities endless. Working at this resturant in the EV & WV called Westville taking phone orders. Everyone is super nice and no attitude, so it rocks. I'm officially involved with someone again, Will and he has moved in with me. Didn't plan on any of this, but I'm taking it day by day and not expecting too much. He's been really good to me, also an artist and fiercely independent, beyond beautiful and shares alot of similiar stuff with me. I've put my move to Portland on hold until I see how far this is going, but in my heart I know it's going to go someplace surprising, so it looks like NYC will be my home for abit more time. My friends have all rallied around and shown their approval and support which rocks. Just spend a few days at casa de la Missy's in NJ, rolling, laughing and loving...good times. Lauren & Keith were there and Chrissy & Eddie too- everyone in a great mood and full of HOPE, LOVE & JOY! Missy is a very healing person and I'm so glad to have her in my life. Mouse was there, getting ready to move to Philly and start the next chapter of her life- she seems determined to make it work this time and I am confident she can make it work. I hate that she's moving so far away, but if it makes things easier for her thats all that matters. I'm doing a few shoots this week for a new web site, one a fetish shoot, the other a break-dancing story. I've been doing portraits too- just posted them so check em out in my photo section under portraits. Anywayz- be fierce, keep it corekt and love everything, OK?
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August 13, 2007 - Monday
my life is once again spinning in & out of control as i embark on an entirely new life with the Current mood: giddy
most random dude ever. New apartment, new job, new neihborhood, new friends mixed with old ones and then Will zooms in and shakes everthing up- inspiring me and co conspiring with me and the adventures are deep and crazy and super fun- i'm laughing, off anti depresents- inspired by things again- soaking in the city and rocking a new mohawk and just whistling at the wind and smiling for no reason in particular. life CAN be good :)
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Stop Your Sobbing....Start Doing Something... Current mood: cheerful Category: Life
This funk has lasted for weeks now- why let it? I'm over feeling sad and deprived and like the last one to get picked for the team. Everything sucks, but it doesn't have to stay that way. I'm tired of the plague running my life and dictating who, what and where I can go. I'm tired of negative people influencing my mood and trolls who claim to be my friends getting in my way. So what if I can't drink anymore. Who gives a shit if I'm not the fashion somebody I used to be. And whatever to everyone trying to dictate what your 40's are suppossed to be about. I'm going to try and take my life back, even if it's a rocky, rough and tumble road at least i'm the one walking it. Been listening to Pink and her song I'm Not Dead- my new theme song- especially when she sings "you're my crack of sunlight"- I guess that would have to be Will. No one has ever put me through more in 3 months than he has, but I still love him and when I finally see him when I get back to NYC I'll know for sure if he is family, friend or foe. He's been pretty steady in terms of love and support the past week, so hopefully it's all good- and thatr's how i'm going to look at things- hopefully it will all be good.
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So heres the dealio- Current mood: crazy Category: Life
My brother is dying of Hep C and Pulmonary Fibrosis and refuses medical attention. my mom is addicted to morphine and Dr. Phil. My boyfriend beat the shit out of me but i still love him. I just found out that if i ever drink again i will die before i'm 45. I'm living the life of a welfare rat and food stamps only get you so far. I'm thinking of stopping all my plague meds and putting it all in gods (if there is one) hands. I just took a bunch of my mothers pills and guess what- it only made me feel like more shit. what am i thankful for? my friendfs. they rule. they are my family. what else? $5 t-shirts size small at tar-jay and h&m underwear. yeah, i'm a mess. read my ass. go ahead. i deserve it. i'll be home soon. to more doctors- to more being broke. to more trying to get my fucking art out there. i'm seriously fucked. i can barely write. i can't draw for shit lately and haven't taken a new picture in two weeks- will someone knock some sense in me. PLEASE.
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September 19, 2007 - Wednesday
i don’t know what to do. follow my heart, listen to my head, take all my friends advice... Current mood: crushed
or just go my own way. i love will. i don't love will fucked up. the doctor said i can't drink anymore- the mix of booze and my hiv meds is slowly killing me- i'm in fla. trying to regroup, but i'm stuck in a pattern of insomnia and depressed as hell. i fucking cried during the devil wears prada cause it made me miss my fashion career. coulda, shoulda, woulda. what will i do when i get back to nyc? go back on the head meds and be a zombie again? succomb to the fear of being alone and love someone whom might hurt me? i'm so tired- physically, mentally and spiritually. if there is a god, will you pls show me the way? Please?
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September 11, 2007 - Tuesday
Back in the city, ignoring fashion week (although Marc Jacobs and Anna Sui RULED!) and... Current mood: restless Category: Travel and Places
...pulling things together b4 i leave on Saturday to spend 3 weeks in Fla. Will is coming to the City today and I am hoping that the healing process we began upstate continues down here. I took a leave of absence from my job. My stomach has been fucked up for two weeks and my doctor has me doing a bunch of tests, but i still feel like shit and work just isn't happening when your constantly running to the bathroom to puke. I need this break to restart myself and figure out the future. I want to make things work with Will, but I also realize that we are two addictive people that tend to act out in explosive ways. We're planning on spending Nov. & December in California. I'm trying to find a gallery to rep me and Will wants to spend time with his family and friends. My friends Emily & Isaac just had a gorgeous baby so I need to be out there anywayz- Lets see how things go this week and then while we are seperated for a few weeks. If this really is meant to be and as strong as it seems then a little break might be a good thing and bring us closer together. If not, then it's time to move on and take things to the next logical step, although I really don't have any idea what that is. Oy!
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September 7, 2007 - Friday
trapped in a prison of my own making or free to flee with no one on my tail? Current mood: crazy
Escape from NYC- hopped a train to upstate NY and sequestered myself in the almost fool proof cocoon of vacation brideled vacancy. I'm trying not to think, but my mind reels anyway. All i can do is try and let all my sences unspool at once. The shiner is fading, but not the memory. The pain is fleeting, but easily replaced. My brain says one thing, my heart says another. I know that I am in deep water. Off my head meds for almost a month now without doctor supervision, I am a walking, talking, almost living being trying to take it all in at once but the sheer imposibility of it all makes me tired and sleep these days has become my worst enemy- i think of things that mean nothing really. my dreams are scattered visuals of tortured deception, while their meanings grip me in surreal ways that i can't explain. I'm reeling, lost in the tranquility of the vacation and found in the realization that come sunday i slip back into my life and still have no idea where he and i stand. my friends all think it should end. but they don't love him. they don't share our addictions love or drug or booze wise. I want to share everything, but i know that would be a slow suicide. do i kill myself to start again or just go on and act like my own best friend? who knows. who knew. who cares. my drama is hard for anyone to deal with. friends drop like fly's and aquaintences multiply like bunnies. Everyone wants whats best for me, but what of my own desire and how i need to be?
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September 5, 2007 - Wednesday
I’ve spent the past six days walking around like a marked man and wearing my shiner of courage Current mood: high Category: Writing and Poetry
as proudly as possible. The first two days were a lesson in sheer humility as i placed my hat as low as it would go without looking too shady as i walk to the 2 in the bronx. My black eye pokes through my try a disguise and i'm greeted with looks of disgust, disbelief and indifferance. I bury myself in the Post and try to aviod the stares of a 7 year old Dominican girl and her mother who shoot me looks that i misinterpret as pity then realize are actually commaraderie since momma is sporting quite the shiner herself. I walk through the West Village in pants hung low stance with faggot thug proportion- skulking and weaving as if the weight of the world is crashing on my shoulders and each time i make eye contact with some marc jacobs trendy wannabe fashionista i glare like an animal through my black & Blue bruizes. I get to work and the crew is aghast- what happened? you get jacked? into that kinky shit, huh? and the old stand by- Oh My God Let Me Know If Theres Anything I Can Do For You- OK? I wanna puke in my shoes and i'm already squirming in my underwear- wishing i was anywhere else but here but ready to deal with it anyway. The night drips by like syrup, slow but sweet and full of sly smiles, shifty stares and sullen smidgens of personality drained banter. I hit the road at 11 and stumblr though the EV drawing stares from hot daddys who like their boys mohawked and busted up. Then there are the curious types that almost act as if they might stop and touch you, to connect to your pain- to share your drama- to bleed with you. I shake them all off, visual distractions that might even bed hallucinations, but then catch sight of myself in a windows reflection and realize that beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder- cause right now i kinda look gorgeous. scary. but gorgeous. Ok? Who gives a flying fuck what some troll on the street thinks anyway. I have my own agenda to deal with and drama to dispense with.
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September 4, 2007 - Tuesday
Smashed almost to smithereens, left to sift through the agony or choose the ecstacy... Current mood: apathetic Category: Writing and Poetry
...but i weigh the bad against the good and the good wins. I'm not perfect. neither is he. two wrongs do not make a right. but i now wear the scar of our love for all to see and judge, but only i can make the final decision. and for now, i need to be with him and see if there can be a future without the fuck ups. i'm willing to take the chance. for once i have nothing to lose.
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August 25, 2007 - Saturday
This week has been the most fucked up, twisted, never ending excursion into the darkest and.. Current mood: anxious Category: Parties and Nightlife
most depraved depths of my soul. Long story short. W & I were both broke and decided to resurrect our semi retired hooker asses. After placing an ad, fielding a few calls and getting rip roarin drunk we ended up in a public display of degragation courtesy of the Boiler Room and a dude we thought we might roll. Things got out of control and I was particularly messy, giving W & I both pause about ever returning to the scene of our crime. But of course we do, albeit seperately. W first, goes on a booze and coke binge and wanders NYC till dawn until he falls into some erant strangers bed and booty. I'm in NJ at Missys chilling, so he can't get in our pad and comes to meet me the next day, where i forgive and try to forget everything. Fast forward a week later and W is upstate and I am on a drunken prowl- sucking up the booze and coke like jaded nightlife veteran until i black out and end up in the sack with 2 of W's best friends, sucking and rolling their asses simultaeneously. The next day is bedlam as the shit hits the fan- i'm awoken to a rude conclusion of the previous nights dastardly deeds, W hating me, breaking up with me, my rep sullied, my memory a big fat blank. The next few days pass as if in slow mo- i try to make ammends, i try to make peace, i fail miserably and resign myself to a quart of vodka and bag of blow and the sinking feeling that i've fucked up everything forever. Or have I. Slowly the days go by and i do my thing, hoping and praying for a chance to make things right. Yesterday W said he wants us to stay together and it takes me by surprise. But I run with it and agree to meet him on tuesday and try to work things out. He did, we did, they said, i did no such thing. Whatever. I am ready to settle down a bit and chill with someone i love rather than just crack out with them. if it is meant to be it will be. I am a better, stronger, braver and fiercer person since meeting W. If and when we take things further remains to be seen, but i am hoping for an outlook of promise, peace and pleasure. Amen.
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August 16, 2007 - Thursday
Things change and sometimes it’s actually for the better... Current mood: cheerful Category: Friends
Ok- quick update- my life has been almost normal lately. Living in the Bronx is a schlep, but worth it- the hood is chill, the pad corekt and the possibilities endless. Working at this resturant in the EV & WV called Westville taking phone orders. Everyone is super nice and no attitude, so it rocks. I'm officially involved with someone again, Will and he has moved in with me. Didn't plan on any of this, but I'm taking it day by day and not expecting too much. He's been really good to me, also an artist and fiercely independent, beyond beautiful and shares alot of similiar stuff with me. I've put my move to Portland on hold until I see how far this is going, but in my heart I know it's going to go someplace surprising, so it looks like NYC will be my home for abit more time. My friends have all rallied around and shown their approval and support which rocks. Just spend a few days at casa de la Missy's in NJ, rolling, laughing and loving...good times. Lauren & Keith were there and Chrissy & Eddie too- everyone in a great mood and full of HOPE, LOVE & JOY! Missy is a very healing person and I'm so glad to have her in my life. Mouse was there, getting ready to move to Philly and start the next chapter of her life- she seems determined to make it work this time and I am confident she can make it work. I hate that she's moving so far away, but if it makes things easier for her thats all that matters. I'm doing a few shoots this week for a new web site, one a fetish shoot, the other a break-dancing story. I've been doing portraits too- just posted them so check em out in my photo section under portraits. Anywayz- be fierce, keep it corekt and love everything, OK?
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August 13, 2007 - Monday
my life is once again spinning in & out of control as i embark on an entirely new life with the Current mood: giddy
most random dude ever. New apartment, new job, new neihborhood, new friends mixed with old ones and then Will zooms in and shakes everthing up- inspiring me and co conspiring with me and the adventures are deep and crazy and super fun- i'm laughing, off anti depresents- inspired by things again- soaking in the city and rocking a new mohawk and just whistling at the wind and smiling for no reason in particular. life CAN be good :)
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strange days in fucking deed...
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
strange days in fucking deed...
spent the past week coming to terms with the wreakage of my past and the supposed rebuild of my future. pretty much lost it all- the five year perfect boyfriend whom i bit in a blackout- my brooklyn styly apartment of which i got kicked out of- a years worth of art work shredded to bits or held hostage by the ex and a lost cell phone full of contacts, gone along with my dignity after being mugged and thrown head first into the hudson river where i almost ended up fish food. 7 days in a psyche/detox where i was kept captive in a haldol daze, then 21 days lost in a state run rehab where i was the only out faggot admidst a sea of crack whores and spanish speaking crazies. now i'm in fla. dealing with my dying from hep c brother, nutjob invalid mother who still talks to my dead fathers ashes and an unhealthy lust for prescribed marinol which the doctors give me for my hiv to keep me stoned and hungry legally. what a great country and what a wierd place i've found myself in. single at 40 with a 17 year old disposition yet a lifetime of experience that really hasn't gotten me anywhere but more lost than i was to begin with. and how was YOUR day?
strange days in fucking deed...
spent the past week coming to terms with the wreakage of my past and the supposed rebuild of my future. pretty much lost it all- the five year perfect boyfriend whom i bit in a blackout- my brooklyn styly apartment of which i got kicked out of- a years worth of art work shredded to bits or held hostage by the ex and a lost cell phone full of contacts, gone along with my dignity after being mugged and thrown head first into the hudson river where i almost ended up fish food. 7 days in a psyche/detox where i was kept captive in a haldol daze, then 21 days lost in a state run rehab where i was the only out faggot admidst a sea of crack whores and spanish speaking crazies. now i'm in fla. dealing with my dying from hep c brother, nutjob invalid mother who still talks to my dead fathers ashes and an unhealthy lust for prescribed marinol which the doctors give me for my hiv to keep me stoned and hungry legally. what a great country and what a wierd place i've found myself in. single at 40 with a 17 year old disposition yet a lifetime of experience that really hasn't gotten me anywhere but more lost than i was to begin with. and how was YOUR day?
Diary Of A Retail Slave
Diary Of A Retail Slave
Have you ever found yourself at a point in your life where it’s either time to start completely over or just fucking kill yourself? When I arrived back in San Francisco a few days after all the new millennium hype had finally waned, that’s exactly where I found myself. My twenty year career as an underground freelance journalist and fashion troll had finally caught up with me and I had woken up to the fact that the chance of my getting a decent paying mainstream industry job was about as likely as a herd of monkeys suddenly flying out of my ass.
I had just escaped the modern vacation tragedy known as the Pocono’s and was living in the Chase hotel at 9th and Market. I had been unemployed for almost a year, my cushy editing job at an alternative magazine based in L.A. mercilessly ripped from me out of the blue (but saving me karma points since it was a thinly disguised marketing tool to get cigarettes into the hands of underage ravers. Anyone remember Sweater?).
Anyway, I had spent the past year wandering aimlessly, doing everything from harvesting kind bud up in Willets to waiting tables off the books at a mountaintop restaurant for summer tourists in Pennsylvania, all the while cashing my unemployment checks and sweating bullets over when my totally taxable $6,000 stipend would come to a grinding halt. I made the decision that if I was going to have an unsecured future, it might as well be spent someplace that I could actually tolerate and get maximum visual stimulation. So I moved back to San Francisco for the fourth time in five years. Face it, San Francisco is like a drug habit you’ve had for so long it’s become more familiar than your family. It’s impossible to escape.
After about a week of getting nowhere with dropping off my resume or cold calling prospective employers, I had a nagging hunch that it was time to shift my game plan. That is how I found myself at the age of thirty-five doing something I swore would never happen to me. I was about to become a sales clerk. Another cookie cutter attired, yes sir/yes ma’amer with a name badge and a permanently frozen smile etched onto my face like some left over Ibiza loser on his two thousandth hit of e……Welcome to the diary of an eight-day retail slave.
I just happened to be walking through the Levi’s store on Union Square, checking out clothes that I couldn’t afford (and wouldn’t be caught dead in anyway) and basically killing time, a habit I was becoming rather adept at. A cute little blonde salesgirl, who looked as if she’d be more comfortable in an Old Navy commercial, started chatting me up about my tattoo’s (something that happens on a daily basis, since I have fifteen neon colored bug eyed characters going down each sleeve). Before I knew what I was saying, I had mentioned that I was unemployed and the girl had a job application in my hands quicker than a friendly appendage at Blow Buddies.
After filling out the application, I left it on the counter and headed towards the exit. A voice called out my name and I turned around to see yet another shiny, happy Levi’s employee running after me. Would I mind being interviewed now, she asked? Why not, I thought. After a quick tour through the "super store", we settled on the top floor, which serves as a kind of high tech gallery/chill room. If you’ve been to the Levi’s store then you already know that it as an ambitious ode to the future of retailing, although instead of attracting a steady stream of hip young trend setters, it mostly fills up with tourists in search of ever elusive sizes and jean styles that seem to have come out of their imagination.
After about forty-five minutes of being asked to describe everything from my personal style aesthetic to preferred work habits and environment, she thanked me and told me they’d let me know in a few days. It took two weeks, during which time I considered every other career path that had previously alluded, even my warped imagination. I still couldn’t get a single writing job and was starting to feel as if I had developed freelancer’s Leprosy and would never be published again. Waiter? Gardner? Latte boy? Rolo sales troll (Market store, not Castro)? Bud runner? The possibilities were endlessly stifling to my inner need not to work nine to five (except the latter) and I was about to answer an ad for a crisis help line center operator when the phone rang. Levi’s wanted me!
The initial excitement dimmed a bit when I heard I would be making $8 an hour, no commission and was required to work one day each weekend and close one or two times a week. For anyone who has ever worked in a store, the thought of working on the weekend and having to close the store can fill you with a sense of dread only compare-able to suffering a bout of Ebola virus. But $8 an hour, without commission when you’re expected to "sell those jeans and sparkle Neely!" is a bit insulting not to mention nervy. Then again, I was coming from an industry where they pay you $1 a word to write about crazy fashion shite that nobody fucking cares about anyway. I couldn’t figure out which reality was worse.
However, it was better than having to tell the manager at my hotel that I didn’t have my weekly rent, so I said sure, why not and was told to report at 6:00 AM the following Monday. As I hung up the phone I actually started to get excited, the thrill of finally getting a job over-taking my mood about what kind it actually was. Yeah, sure. I was about to step into the surreal reality of retail hell and I knew it. I didn’t even like to shop. In fact, the last time I had bought something in a clothing boutique was a camo belt at the army navy store on the upper Haight for $8. Now I could afford a belt an hour!
On my way to work that first morning, I rode the F across market and tried to wake my ass up by pumping a deafening mixed tape on my Walkman and took stock of the early commuters on the way to their day. Sometimes I feel like the only person who doesn’t own something regurgitating from Banana Republic. Stonily silent black clad career types on their way to some short-lived Internet job surrounded me. At least I got to work around clothes all day, I thought to myself, but as I entered the store I took a look behind me at the rising sun and promised myself that this was only temporary and I was going to make it as positive an experience as possible. Problem is, I’ve always been full of shit and deep down I knew I was getting myself into something that was going to annoy and bug the hell out of me. On those two counts, Levi’s never failed to disappoint.
Very first thing I get outfitted with this Madonna/Janet in concert looking headset and mike situation that allowed me to contact and talk to any other employee in the store. They are also so the sales clerks can call the endless stream of "runners", the guys who find your jean sizes in the back and then literally run them out to you. Brilliant idea you’re thinking. Great way to speed things up. Trouble is, it’s also a great way for everyone to hear every word, breath, burp and sigh that comes out of your mouth. With the loose cannon I have attached to my face, this proved to be a problem since I started bitching from the minute I got there. Luckily, there were plenty of disgruntled fellow employees to shoot the shit with.
They clued me in on how to lower the volume on my mike so the managers in the secret control room wouldn’t hear me. Secret control room, you’re thinking? Well for lack of a better word, that’s what it was. Here the managers convened in private, listening to every word we said and watching our every move on a Sliver like video monitor deck. To be honest, it felt creepy. I always thought someone was watching me pick my nose or scratch my ass. I wondered if there were cameras in the crapper to? Just to make sure our toilet technique was up to snuff.
This created a paranoid edge amongst most of the employees, many of whom were Mexican and Spanish. Those kids were lucky, though. If they wanted to talk shit about some uptight manager, they could just speak in their own language. That stopped once a memo was circulated stating that employees are only to speak English with each other while working on the floor. I was also constantly reprimanded about having the volume on my headset set down. After a few monotonous hours hawking 501’s, 505’, 0005’s, whatever, I got to take my first break, which was when I was introduced to the break room.
Whereas on the selling floor, my fellow employees were expected to behave maturely, the break room was an all access excuse to let loose and become equals. The managers tended to avoid hanging out there, preferring to miss out on the day’s gossip about who showed up to work cracked out from last night, or didn’t show up at all. The employees were mostly bright, very young and pretty things more interested in they’re plans for the weekend, how much studying they actually had to do and did anyone actually think they might be cute. Kid stuff. This is the kind of job you get when you’re on your way to the next step in life. Hopefully a step up. For some though, retail becomes a trap they will never escape. It creates bitterness in those who assume they have a better place to go in life and since that’s the majority of the human race, this is why jaded, bitchy and hating the whole word retail slaves abound.
I would encounter Damien, a vampirish looking young man who seemed to have written the book on evil retail queens. An ex Diesel, Rolo, Aveda and Macy’s Mac counter diva in repose, I ran into his bony ass as I was getting off my break and returning to the floor. He was hardly a new specimen since I’d seen his pasty, more make up than Lil’ Kim, Mac highlighted face out at Fag Fridays forever. Word in the break room had it that he made almost double what everybody else was because of his long retail history, but what nobody knew was he kept moving from job to job simply because he was afraid they might catch on to how much he was stealing. Stealing is a big concern in stores, bottom line and all that crap.
He was also a super tweaker, which didn’t seem to register with anyone else but me. I guess talking a million words a second, twitching uncontrollably, neon booger dripping inflamed nostrils and generally resembling something akin to a zombie extra in a horror flick appears normal these days.
After a few forced pleasantries ("What are you doing here?" "I’m working." "No, I mean, why are you working here?") Damien cued me in on the bag search everyone was subjected to before leaving work each day. I shook my head incredulously, but Damien snapped his fingers and told me to not do anything shady. I wondered how he had managed to get around the shady part himself and why he assumed I was big on shoplifting? Before I could escape, he winked at me and made a gross little horse snort with his nose, then tapped his shirt pocket.
"If you need a bump later, let me know. I’m closing with you tonight and I’m sure you wouldn’t mind something to distract you from the thrill of refolding five hundred pairs of jeans."
Luckily, the manager that hired me interrupted us, telling me she needed to have a word with me. What the fuck had I done? I had only been there for a few hours. Turns out I was guilty of a dress code violation. A dress code violation at Levi’s, the original be yourself and fuck the rest of the world rebel? Unbelievable, I thought, as she chided me on my vintage Harley Davidson t-shirt that I thought looked pretty damn good when I put it on with the one pair of Levi’s I actually owned (you always had to wear a Levi’s bottom, to which I often wondered, just what constitutes a Levi’s bottom and where can I find one that likes Russ Meyer flicks?).
In the future she said through an obviously forced smile, I must wear shirts with no other logos or words on them except of course for good old Levi’s. I nodded yes and in my head began assessing the true reason she was so uptight and willing to enforce something as silly as a t-shirt. Hemorrhoids, I reasoned and returned to the floor, ignoring her as she reminded me for the tenth time to keep my volume up. Girl, if she knew how up my volume was getting, she would stay clear.
The rest of the day dragged, although a temporary respite was provided when a very large German woman got stuck in the shrink to fit hot tub that allows customers to sit in a tub of water as people mill about them in the store. After several thwarted attempts by two tiny sales girls who couldn’t stop giggling if their life depended on it, the woman’s husband finally came to her rescue, simultaneously dropping an armload full of clothes into the water. After that, refolding jeans for the next two hours was about as exciting as Damien said it would be. No wonder so many retail slaves get high at work. After a while, I guess there’s no other way to deal with the boredom. I mean, you can only say "Hi, welcome to Levi’s" a few hundred times before the thought of slitting someone’s throat begins to settle in.
The bag check was a bit more than I bargained for. This one particularly anal manager had the task of looking through everyone’s things and I had already clashed with her several times that afternoon for "running" my own jeans and not waiting for the runner. As I watched her search each person, I noticed an alarming trend. Whereas most of the boys and white girls only had to open up their bags to be peered into, most of the black and Mexican girls had to endure every single pocket and flap, even the most miniscule ones, being explored as well as opening up their jackets.
I mentioned aloud that I didn’t recall Levi’s producing a Barbie doll sized line, since that was the only logical thing that could fit into a pocket so small. Without even stopping, she told me to mind my business. When my turn came up, she just gave me one of those; your days are numbered looks to which I simply smiled and said, "Have a good evening" and then under my breath, "ass-wipe". I knew she heard it because I heard her calling for another manager the second I walked away. It was the end of my first day and I had already left a good impression. Well, maybe not good, but an impression at least.
That night I came down with a hella bad flu and had to call in sick to work. I managed to make it back for a few more days, but was still so sick I could hardly make it to the bathroom before puking on the merchandise. After a few projectile vomit incidents, it was decided that I should go home. I didn’t make it back for three weeks, during which time I got so dehydrated, I had to check into a hospital for three days. Nobody could figure out what was wrong with me until my blood test revealed I was HIV positive. It wasn’t two minutes after getting that news that my pager went off and the number of the Levi’s store popped up. They had been endlessly nagging me about when I was coming back, threatening termination and all that crap.
I ended up getting better and went back to work once I had started my cocktail. I didn’t let on why I was gone for so long, but from what I could gather, most of the store just thought I was off getting high somewhere, especially the managers who noticed my ten-pound weight loss. One even went so far as to tell me that employees with crystal habits would not be tolerated. I just smiled at her and wondered if she even knew that at least three of her star employees were keying bumps in the toilet every break they got.
After a few more days of never ending tourists, snotty twenty-three year old managers telling me that my jeans folding needed polish and even bitchier trolls from corporate who loved to stroll around the store "working" while sucking down Starbucks and clutching their Fendi bags (which, I’m sorry, do not work with Levi’s no matter how bourgeois you are), I finally reached my breaking point. It was about an hour into closing when the evil, bag searching manager sauntered up to me and dourly informed me that my jeans wall was crooked and looked sloppy. I’d have to take down every pair and refold them.
It only took me a few seconds to figure out if my jean folding expertise or my pride mattered more. Pride won out. I asked her what her problem was and what the point was of taking them all down instead of just straitening the stacks. She got really red and silently screamed, "the point is that you need to stop asking questions and do what your told." I just laughed at her and replied, "The point is of no return…and I’ve just reached it!"
Then with a dramatic flourish that even the jaded retail queen managed to note with glee, I ripped the entire wall of jeans down in one fell swoop, getting bug eyed as I stared at the mess I had made. The manager freaked and told me I’d have to stay until every single one of the jeans was picked up and refolded. I just walked away, retrieved my bag from the break room and slowly tried to walk past her as she attempted to block my way. If this nut job thought she was searching my bag, she must be losing it.
"Fuck off, I quit," I said and then left the retail world behind me. I had had it with being treated like a child by those who were not much more than children themselves. I was tired of being spied on and given the same instructions a million times a day. But the thing I really couldn’t take anymore was how the majority of people tend to treat those who are serving them. Like shit on a stick. No more smiling at people who would look blankly at me, then turn away. Sure, not everybody is rude, but plenty are and they can make those of us with a unabundance of confidence feel like total losers.
After a few pit stops in Latte land and the inevitable Internet start up (and subsequent failure), I’m finally back to just being a freelancer. This time around though, I plan on keeping it together. After all, I had burned my only pair of Levi’s bottoms after I quit and without those, I could never work at Levi’s again.
Have you ever found yourself at a point in your life where it’s either time to start completely over or just fucking kill yourself? When I arrived back in San Francisco a few days after all the new millennium hype had finally waned, that’s exactly where I found myself. My twenty year career as an underground freelance journalist and fashion troll had finally caught up with me and I had woken up to the fact that the chance of my getting a decent paying mainstream industry job was about as likely as a herd of monkeys suddenly flying out of my ass.
I had just escaped the modern vacation tragedy known as the Pocono’s and was living in the Chase hotel at 9th and Market. I had been unemployed for almost a year, my cushy editing job at an alternative magazine based in L.A. mercilessly ripped from me out of the blue (but saving me karma points since it was a thinly disguised marketing tool to get cigarettes into the hands of underage ravers. Anyone remember Sweater?).
Anyway, I had spent the past year wandering aimlessly, doing everything from harvesting kind bud up in Willets to waiting tables off the books at a mountaintop restaurant for summer tourists in Pennsylvania, all the while cashing my unemployment checks and sweating bullets over when my totally taxable $6,000 stipend would come to a grinding halt. I made the decision that if I was going to have an unsecured future, it might as well be spent someplace that I could actually tolerate and get maximum visual stimulation. So I moved back to San Francisco for the fourth time in five years. Face it, San Francisco is like a drug habit you’ve had for so long it’s become more familiar than your family. It’s impossible to escape.
After about a week of getting nowhere with dropping off my resume or cold calling prospective employers, I had a nagging hunch that it was time to shift my game plan. That is how I found myself at the age of thirty-five doing something I swore would never happen to me. I was about to become a sales clerk. Another cookie cutter attired, yes sir/yes ma’amer with a name badge and a permanently frozen smile etched onto my face like some left over Ibiza loser on his two thousandth hit of e……Welcome to the diary of an eight-day retail slave.
I just happened to be walking through the Levi’s store on Union Square, checking out clothes that I couldn’t afford (and wouldn’t be caught dead in anyway) and basically killing time, a habit I was becoming rather adept at. A cute little blonde salesgirl, who looked as if she’d be more comfortable in an Old Navy commercial, started chatting me up about my tattoo’s (something that happens on a daily basis, since I have fifteen neon colored bug eyed characters going down each sleeve). Before I knew what I was saying, I had mentioned that I was unemployed and the girl had a job application in my hands quicker than a friendly appendage at Blow Buddies.
After filling out the application, I left it on the counter and headed towards the exit. A voice called out my name and I turned around to see yet another shiny, happy Levi’s employee running after me. Would I mind being interviewed now, she asked? Why not, I thought. After a quick tour through the "super store", we settled on the top floor, which serves as a kind of high tech gallery/chill room. If you’ve been to the Levi’s store then you already know that it as an ambitious ode to the future of retailing, although instead of attracting a steady stream of hip young trend setters, it mostly fills up with tourists in search of ever elusive sizes and jean styles that seem to have come out of their imagination.
After about forty-five minutes of being asked to describe everything from my personal style aesthetic to preferred work habits and environment, she thanked me and told me they’d let me know in a few days. It took two weeks, during which time I considered every other career path that had previously alluded, even my warped imagination. I still couldn’t get a single writing job and was starting to feel as if I had developed freelancer’s Leprosy and would never be published again. Waiter? Gardner? Latte boy? Rolo sales troll (Market store, not Castro)? Bud runner? The possibilities were endlessly stifling to my inner need not to work nine to five (except the latter) and I was about to answer an ad for a crisis help line center operator when the phone rang. Levi’s wanted me!
The initial excitement dimmed a bit when I heard I would be making $8 an hour, no commission and was required to work one day each weekend and close one or two times a week. For anyone who has ever worked in a store, the thought of working on the weekend and having to close the store can fill you with a sense of dread only compare-able to suffering a bout of Ebola virus. But $8 an hour, without commission when you’re expected to "sell those jeans and sparkle Neely!" is a bit insulting not to mention nervy. Then again, I was coming from an industry where they pay you $1 a word to write about crazy fashion shite that nobody fucking cares about anyway. I couldn’t figure out which reality was worse.
However, it was better than having to tell the manager at my hotel that I didn’t have my weekly rent, so I said sure, why not and was told to report at 6:00 AM the following Monday. As I hung up the phone I actually started to get excited, the thrill of finally getting a job over-taking my mood about what kind it actually was. Yeah, sure. I was about to step into the surreal reality of retail hell and I knew it. I didn’t even like to shop. In fact, the last time I had bought something in a clothing boutique was a camo belt at the army navy store on the upper Haight for $8. Now I could afford a belt an hour!
On my way to work that first morning, I rode the F across market and tried to wake my ass up by pumping a deafening mixed tape on my Walkman and took stock of the early commuters on the way to their day. Sometimes I feel like the only person who doesn’t own something regurgitating from Banana Republic. Stonily silent black clad career types on their way to some short-lived Internet job surrounded me. At least I got to work around clothes all day, I thought to myself, but as I entered the store I took a look behind me at the rising sun and promised myself that this was only temporary and I was going to make it as positive an experience as possible. Problem is, I’ve always been full of shit and deep down I knew I was getting myself into something that was going to annoy and bug the hell out of me. On those two counts, Levi’s never failed to disappoint.
Very first thing I get outfitted with this Madonna/Janet in concert looking headset and mike situation that allowed me to contact and talk to any other employee in the store. They are also so the sales clerks can call the endless stream of "runners", the guys who find your jean sizes in the back and then literally run them out to you. Brilliant idea you’re thinking. Great way to speed things up. Trouble is, it’s also a great way for everyone to hear every word, breath, burp and sigh that comes out of your mouth. With the loose cannon I have attached to my face, this proved to be a problem since I started bitching from the minute I got there. Luckily, there were plenty of disgruntled fellow employees to shoot the shit with.
They clued me in on how to lower the volume on my mike so the managers in the secret control room wouldn’t hear me. Secret control room, you’re thinking? Well for lack of a better word, that’s what it was. Here the managers convened in private, listening to every word we said and watching our every move on a Sliver like video monitor deck. To be honest, it felt creepy. I always thought someone was watching me pick my nose or scratch my ass. I wondered if there were cameras in the crapper to? Just to make sure our toilet technique was up to snuff.
This created a paranoid edge amongst most of the employees, many of whom were Mexican and Spanish. Those kids were lucky, though. If they wanted to talk shit about some uptight manager, they could just speak in their own language. That stopped once a memo was circulated stating that employees are only to speak English with each other while working on the floor. I was also constantly reprimanded about having the volume on my headset set down. After a few monotonous hours hawking 501’s, 505’, 0005’s, whatever, I got to take my first break, which was when I was introduced to the break room.
Whereas on the selling floor, my fellow employees were expected to behave maturely, the break room was an all access excuse to let loose and become equals. The managers tended to avoid hanging out there, preferring to miss out on the day’s gossip about who showed up to work cracked out from last night, or didn’t show up at all. The employees were mostly bright, very young and pretty things more interested in they’re plans for the weekend, how much studying they actually had to do and did anyone actually think they might be cute. Kid stuff. This is the kind of job you get when you’re on your way to the next step in life. Hopefully a step up. For some though, retail becomes a trap they will never escape. It creates bitterness in those who assume they have a better place to go in life and since that’s the majority of the human race, this is why jaded, bitchy and hating the whole word retail slaves abound.
I would encounter Damien, a vampirish looking young man who seemed to have written the book on evil retail queens. An ex Diesel, Rolo, Aveda and Macy’s Mac counter diva in repose, I ran into his bony ass as I was getting off my break and returning to the floor. He was hardly a new specimen since I’d seen his pasty, more make up than Lil’ Kim, Mac highlighted face out at Fag Fridays forever. Word in the break room had it that he made almost double what everybody else was because of his long retail history, but what nobody knew was he kept moving from job to job simply because he was afraid they might catch on to how much he was stealing. Stealing is a big concern in stores, bottom line and all that crap.
He was also a super tweaker, which didn’t seem to register with anyone else but me. I guess talking a million words a second, twitching uncontrollably, neon booger dripping inflamed nostrils and generally resembling something akin to a zombie extra in a horror flick appears normal these days.
After a few forced pleasantries ("What are you doing here?" "I’m working." "No, I mean, why are you working here?") Damien cued me in on the bag search everyone was subjected to before leaving work each day. I shook my head incredulously, but Damien snapped his fingers and told me to not do anything shady. I wondered how he had managed to get around the shady part himself and why he assumed I was big on shoplifting? Before I could escape, he winked at me and made a gross little horse snort with his nose, then tapped his shirt pocket.
"If you need a bump later, let me know. I’m closing with you tonight and I’m sure you wouldn’t mind something to distract you from the thrill of refolding five hundred pairs of jeans."
Luckily, the manager that hired me interrupted us, telling me she needed to have a word with me. What the fuck had I done? I had only been there for a few hours. Turns out I was guilty of a dress code violation. A dress code violation at Levi’s, the original be yourself and fuck the rest of the world rebel? Unbelievable, I thought, as she chided me on my vintage Harley Davidson t-shirt that I thought looked pretty damn good when I put it on with the one pair of Levi’s I actually owned (you always had to wear a Levi’s bottom, to which I often wondered, just what constitutes a Levi’s bottom and where can I find one that likes Russ Meyer flicks?).
In the future she said through an obviously forced smile, I must wear shirts with no other logos or words on them except of course for good old Levi’s. I nodded yes and in my head began assessing the true reason she was so uptight and willing to enforce something as silly as a t-shirt. Hemorrhoids, I reasoned and returned to the floor, ignoring her as she reminded me for the tenth time to keep my volume up. Girl, if she knew how up my volume was getting, she would stay clear.
The rest of the day dragged, although a temporary respite was provided when a very large German woman got stuck in the shrink to fit hot tub that allows customers to sit in a tub of water as people mill about them in the store. After several thwarted attempts by two tiny sales girls who couldn’t stop giggling if their life depended on it, the woman’s husband finally came to her rescue, simultaneously dropping an armload full of clothes into the water. After that, refolding jeans for the next two hours was about as exciting as Damien said it would be. No wonder so many retail slaves get high at work. After a while, I guess there’s no other way to deal with the boredom. I mean, you can only say "Hi, welcome to Levi’s" a few hundred times before the thought of slitting someone’s throat begins to settle in.
The bag check was a bit more than I bargained for. This one particularly anal manager had the task of looking through everyone’s things and I had already clashed with her several times that afternoon for "running" my own jeans and not waiting for the runner. As I watched her search each person, I noticed an alarming trend. Whereas most of the boys and white girls only had to open up their bags to be peered into, most of the black and Mexican girls had to endure every single pocket and flap, even the most miniscule ones, being explored as well as opening up their jackets.
I mentioned aloud that I didn’t recall Levi’s producing a Barbie doll sized line, since that was the only logical thing that could fit into a pocket so small. Without even stopping, she told me to mind my business. When my turn came up, she just gave me one of those; your days are numbered looks to which I simply smiled and said, "Have a good evening" and then under my breath, "ass-wipe". I knew she heard it because I heard her calling for another manager the second I walked away. It was the end of my first day and I had already left a good impression. Well, maybe not good, but an impression at least.
That night I came down with a hella bad flu and had to call in sick to work. I managed to make it back for a few more days, but was still so sick I could hardly make it to the bathroom before puking on the merchandise. After a few projectile vomit incidents, it was decided that I should go home. I didn’t make it back for three weeks, during which time I got so dehydrated, I had to check into a hospital for three days. Nobody could figure out what was wrong with me until my blood test revealed I was HIV positive. It wasn’t two minutes after getting that news that my pager went off and the number of the Levi’s store popped up. They had been endlessly nagging me about when I was coming back, threatening termination and all that crap.
I ended up getting better and went back to work once I had started my cocktail. I didn’t let on why I was gone for so long, but from what I could gather, most of the store just thought I was off getting high somewhere, especially the managers who noticed my ten-pound weight loss. One even went so far as to tell me that employees with crystal habits would not be tolerated. I just smiled at her and wondered if she even knew that at least three of her star employees were keying bumps in the toilet every break they got.
After a few more days of never ending tourists, snotty twenty-three year old managers telling me that my jeans folding needed polish and even bitchier trolls from corporate who loved to stroll around the store "working" while sucking down Starbucks and clutching their Fendi bags (which, I’m sorry, do not work with Levi’s no matter how bourgeois you are), I finally reached my breaking point. It was about an hour into closing when the evil, bag searching manager sauntered up to me and dourly informed me that my jeans wall was crooked and looked sloppy. I’d have to take down every pair and refold them.
It only took me a few seconds to figure out if my jean folding expertise or my pride mattered more. Pride won out. I asked her what her problem was and what the point was of taking them all down instead of just straitening the stacks. She got really red and silently screamed, "the point is that you need to stop asking questions and do what your told." I just laughed at her and replied, "The point is of no return…and I’ve just reached it!"
Then with a dramatic flourish that even the jaded retail queen managed to note with glee, I ripped the entire wall of jeans down in one fell swoop, getting bug eyed as I stared at the mess I had made. The manager freaked and told me I’d have to stay until every single one of the jeans was picked up and refolded. I just walked away, retrieved my bag from the break room and slowly tried to walk past her as she attempted to block my way. If this nut job thought she was searching my bag, she must be losing it.
"Fuck off, I quit," I said and then left the retail world behind me. I had had it with being treated like a child by those who were not much more than children themselves. I was tired of being spied on and given the same instructions a million times a day. But the thing I really couldn’t take anymore was how the majority of people tend to treat those who are serving them. Like shit on a stick. No more smiling at people who would look blankly at me, then turn away. Sure, not everybody is rude, but plenty are and they can make those of us with a unabundance of confidence feel like total losers.
After a few pit stops in Latte land and the inevitable Internet start up (and subsequent failure), I’m finally back to just being a freelancer. This time around though, I plan on keeping it together. After all, I had burned my only pair of Levi’s bottoms after I quit and without those, I could never work at Levi’s again.
No Start. What a finish.
Banging along, slowly. Stopping only to start again.
Never understanding why, or even when.
I feel rich in the cum of total strangers.
For I am a bastard child, without a name.
No one to blame.
Feel the need to self-destruct.
Always wanting to get fucked.
Rude wake up call.
Some guy smacks me.
"Pay attention!" he barks and I wish he’d drop dead.
His jiz splashes across my chest,
Forming perfect pearl like droplets almost evenly spaced
Apart.
Drifting again.
Meaning flows through from lips,
like semen sliding though my slit.
Slow. Deliberate. I wait.
No more trouble. Fury. Pain. Stains.
I know because I can’t say it.
I’ll only give my love to those who’ll play it.
I reach, grab for things that aren’t mine.
Seeing nothing but my own decline.
Wish for more, less. Mess.
Daydream over.
I can smell last nights puke under the rim of my nose
and suddenly I imagine my body riddled with tumors.
Yet I don’t die.
The thought of this guy touching me again spreads like
Cancer.
Slowly,
eating away at my heart.
It was then that I realized the only thing keeping me
from killing myself was the fear that I would burn in
hell.
But I didn’t believe in all that religious crap. Did I?
"My son," God would say.
"You have committed the ultimate treason against me by
destroying my greatest gift to you; your life."
Then like a genie, he’d blink his eyes and I would fall
through a trap door to burn eternally in hell.
Never turning to ash, always feeling the pain of my own
disappointment and his.
It’s time for a drink. Again.
I’m sitting in a bar and the clock above the cash register
says 11:00 am in blinking red digital letters. The
bartender is twirling his mustache, an extra long and
super curled handlebar and pouring out two shots of
bottom shelf tequila. He walks over to me and we knock
them back, toasting each other by mumbling something
neither one of us can actually make out.
As I sit back and feel the cheap booze roll over my
senses like a Mack truck, all I can imagine is another
shot, another respite, another completely inexcusable
exercise into inebriation.
Then she walks in, slamming the door behind her and
takes a seat at the far end of the bar. She’s got long
blonde feathered hair and is wearing a sparkly gold
shoe lace as a headband. Her long, lean body is encased
in powder blue spandex zip front jumpsuit that
pushed her tits so far out that they defy not only gravity, but
my imagination as well. A full length pale pink Ultrasuede cape
was casually tossed over her shoulders, while her legs
were covered almost up to the thigh in lavender patent
leather boots sporting six inch heels covered in
reflective Mylar. Her arms were swathed in white vinyl
gloves that ended in sharp fins just below her shoulders.
She was a super vixen, yet she was soft, almost child-
like. No Varla, she. Not even super Haji. Yet she was
still a vixen, full of superior sensuality and an unending
capacity for counterfeit astonishment. There seemed to
be a force around her that could best be described as
magnetic. Magical. Meticulous. Marked. The walking
embodiment of semen depletion.
She pulls out a book. Maybe it’s a book, I can’t really
see. I get up and walk past her, but she’s in her own
world and seems to be completely absorbed by what
she’s reading. I sneak a look over her shoulder and
notice it’s "The Love Machine," a Jacqueline Susann
classic.
Suddenly the bartender appears in front of her. The
blonde goddess orders a vodka Martini with "five
Maraschino cherries please!" I walk back to my stool,
but when I look behind one last time, she’s looking at
me. Smiling. Big and super toothy and I know where
this is leading. Or do I?
Part of me wants to explore her. Discover her. Yet I
know I can’t. I like boys. No, I love boys. I want boys.
Need them. I feel rich in the cum of total strangers,
malestrangers, not freaky deaky super divas. Still, I can’t
shake the grip of her intensity, the fear that her smile
stirs in me. I want to kiss her, yet I know I can’t.
She turns away and sucks down the drink in front of her
like a Hoover over a dirty carpet. Her tongue swirls
madly around the cherries and she chews each one off
it’s pit in slow motion, little streams of cherry juice
dribbling across her lips and down her chin.
I pretend not to notice, but I want to walk over to her
and lick the juice off her face and then thrust my tongue
deep down her throat, extracting the flavor of her
tonsils, the secret of her mouth, the saliva from inside
her lips.
I order another drink. A double. No, make that a triple!
I know no bounds. My depth is limit less. I am capable
of anything. I slug back the foul liquid, gulping it like a
man, grimacing only slightly. Just as I have decided to
walk over and wrap my arms around her and kiss her so
hard our lips will seal together as if we used Elmers for
lip balm, he walks in.
He’s the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. I
immediately forget about her and center all my attention
on him. The boy. The dude. The slice. The piece. The
mother fuckin’ ultra fiercely correct effect. Hello.
He’s a tad under six foot, with black hair cut into a
jagged cliff that haphazardly frames his youthful face.
Blue gray eyes bolted from narrow slits, while his lips
were full. Thick with pleasure and attitude. He was
wearing a pair of day glo orange nylon pants with legs
so wide it looked like he had on a full length
skirt.
A lime green velour hoody sat across his chest and
obscenely reflects the rude yellow light of the bar as he
walks across the room, stopping when he gets to her
stool. She ignores him for almost a minute until it
seems he’s almost about to explode, then slowly spins around
and wraps her legs tightly around his waist. They kissed
like it was their first time, for a long time.
The rest of the night made no sense.
They left and I drank until I puked.
Right at the bar, on the bar. On the bartender.
On me.
It was fuckin’ pathetic, so I dragged my sorry ass up
and out the door, went home and fell asleep sitting on
the toilet.
I awoke a few hours later and scuffled off to my
bedroom where I sank deeply into the sheets, feeling
their scratchy coolness against my skin.
I sleep for almost twenty hours, but when I wake up I’m
still tired. I roll a fat joint and selfishly smoke the
whole mother fuckin’ thing.
A Fun Lovin’ Criminals lyric pops into my head.
"Never fly coach, never saved a roach…"
Yeah, that’s me.
I’m a fun lovin’ criminal.
I get out of bed, shower and eat a huge bowl of Smurf
Berry Crunch.
It’s 2am.
I get dressed.
I go to the bar.
I get royally fucked.
I look for super vixens, imaginary or real.
Life is good.
Right?
As the clock turns 3am, I notice the bartender seems
pensive. Frozen. Like a man waiting to be executed. I
nod at him and he instinctively walks over and pours me
another shot. I think back to my night clubbing days
and wish I could pay with a drink ticket. But those days
are gone my friend, so I pull out my last twenty and
motion for him to hit me again. He does and I leave an
extra large tip simply because it makes me feel good.
Not like a big shot, or some rich ass mother fucker. Just
because and for the moment, it actually feels good and
that’s good enough.
Exactly ten seconds after I down the tequila she makes
her entrance. There is no doubt as to her fierceness, but
her mood is hardly tangible. Unlike the other day, she
seems sullen. Sad. Almost corpse like. Something has
happened to make her seem so different, yet I can’t
figure it out. In the next instant thought, it all becomes
crystal clear. Just as she takes the same seat at the bar
that she sat at yesterday, he walks in. The boy. The
cute piece.
He starts yelling at her, but she ignores him and orders
a drink. The bartender looks nervous and I myself start
to sweat bullets the size of extra large hail.
He turns around and looks at me, cocking his head
towards the bathroom. Then he gets up and walks
towards it with me following a few steps behind.
I stand next to him at the piss stained urinals and watch
closely as he pulls out his thick cock. As he holds it
with his right hand, his left grabs the back of my head
and forces my more than willing lips down on it. He
comes instantly, leaving his salty deposit half in my
mouth, half smeared on my chin.
He pulls me up by my hair and fixes his pants. I smile
and lean forward to kiss him, but he pushes me away
and bolts out of the toilet. Without even thinking, I
walk into an empty stall and jack off until I come with a
silent fury all over the tips of my black Converse hi-
tops.
When I walk out of the bathroom, he’s gone. I’m feeling
A little cocky, so I saunter up to the blonde goddess and
take a seat next to her. She angrily slurps the drink in
front of her until the sound of the straw sucking at the
glasses’ bottom echoes between us. Then she casually
slides off her stool. I think of something to say, but I
can barely breathe, much less speak.
She walks to the door, then starts laughing. At first
softly, then loud, harsh, almost a witches cackle. She
turns around to catch both the bartender and myself
staring at her with our mouths gaping open in
astonishment. She runs up to me and slaps me so hard
across the face that I tumble off the bar stool and fall on
my ass to the floor.
"Faggot!" she screams, then walks out of the door and
out of my life. Hopefully forever.
I lose it and feel the need for numbness creep into my
system. I say good-bye to the bar and head across town
to the club. I pay my social dues at the door and stroll into the place,
stopping only when I’ve spotted my prey.
Dealers, dealers. Everywhere.
It’s like a gorgeously decadent epidemic. It’s like a
fuckin’ convenience store. He has coke. She has K.
They have E. Nobody is famous or familiar, but all can
at least hope to be hacked up someday by a disgruntled
club promoter if they’re lucky.
I spot my guy and finger my pockets in search of some
bucks. Dinero. Currency. Cold hard spendable on
whatever you fuckin’ please cash. Shit. I left the change
from that 20 at the bar. That’s what I get for bein’
generous.
So I know I’m gonna have to pull something. A scam. A
technically tacky once over that could go wrong, but
hopefully won’t. I approach him slowly. His name is
Mookie and he’s wearing a burgundy faux suede
Member Only jacket. He’s super short and has a
mustache that looks like Oscar the Grouch’s eye-brows.
His hair is so greasy, it wouldn’t surprise me if he combs it
with "I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter…Spray."
He twitches every third breath and looks at me
nervously as I come closer. Suddenly, a group of
overbearing, French Euro-trash descend upon him like
vultures and he is temporarily distracted. Finally, I’m
standing before him.
"What’choo want?" he says as he finishes handing over
several vials to the girls and looks me in the eye. I hand
him a carefully folded single and whisper "a gram" as
he whispers one hundred. Without looking at the bill he
deposits it in his jacket pocket and slips me a vial a
second later. I turn around and head for the bathroom.
I’m praying he isn’t behind me, wise to my deception.
When I get inside the john I lock the door and turn on
the faucets until the sound of water splashing into the
sink drives me out of my skull and back into reality. I
pour some of the blow onto my fist and snort fitfully,
confused by my desire and momentarily paralyzed by
the strong cocaine oozing into my membranes.
I walk back into the room and notice Mookie. "Oh my
God, is he looking at me?" I imagine he’s not and
decide to try to glide by him as effortlessly as possible.
I begin to sweat and my balls feel like peanuts. He still
seems to be looking at me. I’m 50 feet away. 40. 30.
20. Now I’m 10. Now I’m right in front of his mother
fuckin’ face, but wait. He’s actually smiling at me. An
expression lacking only one thing…teeth.
He’s fuckin’ toothless. I smile back and try to hustle my
ass past him without flipping out. The exit is only a
hundred feet away, but I keep feeling like something is
about to go wrong. I get further and further. I’m almost
at the door. Then I hear someone behind me. I don’t
turn around, just keep on walking. The voice gets
louder.
I feel it reverberate against my spine, forcing the hair
on my neck to stank on end. It was fear. Pure, simple
terror. The kind that makes you shit your pants and
freeze in trepidation. When I felt the hand on my
shoulder I nearly jumped out of my skin. It spins me
around to face my foe. It’s Mookie and strangely, he’s
still smiling.
I’m certain he’s about to kill me, but instead he flashes
me a toothless grin and mumbles, "How was it man?
Good shit?" I nod yes as I feel my shirt collar shrink ten
sizes and strangle me. I turn back around and open the
door, not realizing that Mookie’s hand is still on my
shoulder, getting tighter by the second.
He’s playing with me and I’m too stupid to notice. I
start out the door, but stop when the pressure of cold
steel is applied to the back of my neck.
"If it was so good, then why don’t you pay me the other
99 bucks you little fuck!" Mookie screams, but I’ve got
other plans and getting my head blown off wasn’t one of
them. I broke free and ran across the street. Mookie
fired at me and hit a club kid instead. One less lolly pop
kid as far as I’m concerned.
I ran for blocks without looking back, through red lights
and throngs of unsuspecting trolls. I didn’t stop till I
reached the bar and had found my familiar stool and the
bartender had placed a very large glass of tequila in
front of my needy face.
I didn’t notice the boy until almost ten minutes and two
more drinks later. He was back, beautiful black hair and
all. He was staring at me, only I don’t think he wanted
me to suck his cock again. Then he got up, the sound of
his nylon pants swishing against his legs preceding him.
I held my drink up next to him, but he knocks it out of my
hands. The next ten seconds are a blur as he smacks me
with his open palms as easily as a Lion might attack a
mouse.
Before I’m dead and gone, anyway you choose me, it
won’t be long. He climbs off me and slowly walks out
of the bar. I roll over and fall off, laughing silently as I
hit the floor. I can once again smell puke under the rim
of my nose and the uneasy sensation of my own
swallowed teeth catching in my throat like a fish hook.
A slow, quick smile forms on my lips and I imagine I’m
in a honey colored Mustang accelerating down a long
stretch of empty road.
Time and space cease to exist and for just this one
moment I lose myself in a surreal train of thought.
Strangely unsoiled. Slightly serene.
Banging along, slowly. Stopping only to start again.
Never understanding why, or even when.
I feel rich in the cum of total strangers.
For I am a bastard child, without a name.
No one to blame.
Feel the need to self-destruct.
Always wanting to get fucked.
Rude wake up call.
Some guy smacks me.
"Pay attention!" he barks and I wish he’d drop dead.
His jiz splashes across my chest,
Forming perfect pearl like droplets almost evenly spaced
Apart.
Drifting again.
Meaning flows through from lips,
like semen sliding though my slit.
Slow. Deliberate. I wait.
No more trouble. Fury. Pain. Stains.
I know because I can’t say it.
I’ll only give my love to those who’ll play it.
I reach, grab for things that aren’t mine.
Seeing nothing but my own decline.
Wish for more, less. Mess.
Daydream over.
I can smell last nights puke under the rim of my nose
and suddenly I imagine my body riddled with tumors.
Yet I don’t die.
The thought of this guy touching me again spreads like
Cancer.
Slowly,
eating away at my heart.
It was then that I realized the only thing keeping me
from killing myself was the fear that I would burn in
hell.
But I didn’t believe in all that religious crap. Did I?
"My son," God would say.
"You have committed the ultimate treason against me by
destroying my greatest gift to you; your life."
Then like a genie, he’d blink his eyes and I would fall
through a trap door to burn eternally in hell.
Never turning to ash, always feeling the pain of my own
disappointment and his.
It’s time for a drink. Again.
I’m sitting in a bar and the clock above the cash register
says 11:00 am in blinking red digital letters. The
bartender is twirling his mustache, an extra long and
super curled handlebar and pouring out two shots of
bottom shelf tequila. He walks over to me and we knock
them back, toasting each other by mumbling something
neither one of us can actually make out.
As I sit back and feel the cheap booze roll over my
senses like a Mack truck, all I can imagine is another
shot, another respite, another completely inexcusable
exercise into inebriation.
Then she walks in, slamming the door behind her and
takes a seat at the far end of the bar. She’s got long
blonde feathered hair and is wearing a sparkly gold
shoe lace as a headband. Her long, lean body is encased
in powder blue spandex zip front jumpsuit that
pushed her tits so far out that they defy not only gravity, but
my imagination as well. A full length pale pink Ultrasuede cape
was casually tossed over her shoulders, while her legs
were covered almost up to the thigh in lavender patent
leather boots sporting six inch heels covered in
reflective Mylar. Her arms were swathed in white vinyl
gloves that ended in sharp fins just below her shoulders.
She was a super vixen, yet she was soft, almost child-
like. No Varla, she. Not even super Haji. Yet she was
still a vixen, full of superior sensuality and an unending
capacity for counterfeit astonishment. There seemed to
be a force around her that could best be described as
magnetic. Magical. Meticulous. Marked. The walking
embodiment of semen depletion.
She pulls out a book. Maybe it’s a book, I can’t really
see. I get up and walk past her, but she’s in her own
world and seems to be completely absorbed by what
she’s reading. I sneak a look over her shoulder and
notice it’s "The Love Machine," a Jacqueline Susann
classic.
Suddenly the bartender appears in front of her. The
blonde goddess orders a vodka Martini with "five
Maraschino cherries please!" I walk back to my stool,
but when I look behind one last time, she’s looking at
me. Smiling. Big and super toothy and I know where
this is leading. Or do I?
Part of me wants to explore her. Discover her. Yet I
know I can’t. I like boys. No, I love boys. I want boys.
Need them. I feel rich in the cum of total strangers,
malestrangers, not freaky deaky super divas. Still, I can’t
shake the grip of her intensity, the fear that her smile
stirs in me. I want to kiss her, yet I know I can’t.
She turns away and sucks down the drink in front of her
like a Hoover over a dirty carpet. Her tongue swirls
madly around the cherries and she chews each one off
it’s pit in slow motion, little streams of cherry juice
dribbling across her lips and down her chin.
I pretend not to notice, but I want to walk over to her
and lick the juice off her face and then thrust my tongue
deep down her throat, extracting the flavor of her
tonsils, the secret of her mouth, the saliva from inside
her lips.
I order another drink. A double. No, make that a triple!
I know no bounds. My depth is limit less. I am capable
of anything. I slug back the foul liquid, gulping it like a
man, grimacing only slightly. Just as I have decided to
walk over and wrap my arms around her and kiss her so
hard our lips will seal together as if we used Elmers for
lip balm, he walks in.
He’s the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. I
immediately forget about her and center all my attention
on him. The boy. The dude. The slice. The piece. The
mother fuckin’ ultra fiercely correct effect. Hello.
He’s a tad under six foot, with black hair cut into a
jagged cliff that haphazardly frames his youthful face.
Blue gray eyes bolted from narrow slits, while his lips
were full. Thick with pleasure and attitude. He was
wearing a pair of day glo orange nylon pants with legs
so wide it looked like he had on a full length
skirt.
A lime green velour hoody sat across his chest and
obscenely reflects the rude yellow light of the bar as he
walks across the room, stopping when he gets to her
stool. She ignores him for almost a minute until it
seems he’s almost about to explode, then slowly spins around
and wraps her legs tightly around his waist. They kissed
like it was their first time, for a long time.
The rest of the night made no sense.
They left and I drank until I puked.
Right at the bar, on the bar. On the bartender.
On me.
It was fuckin’ pathetic, so I dragged my sorry ass up
and out the door, went home and fell asleep sitting on
the toilet.
I awoke a few hours later and scuffled off to my
bedroom where I sank deeply into the sheets, feeling
their scratchy coolness against my skin.
I sleep for almost twenty hours, but when I wake up I’m
still tired. I roll a fat joint and selfishly smoke the
whole mother fuckin’ thing.
A Fun Lovin’ Criminals lyric pops into my head.
"Never fly coach, never saved a roach…"
Yeah, that’s me.
I’m a fun lovin’ criminal.
I get out of bed, shower and eat a huge bowl of Smurf
Berry Crunch.
It’s 2am.
I get dressed.
I go to the bar.
I get royally fucked.
I look for super vixens, imaginary or real.
Life is good.
Right?
As the clock turns 3am, I notice the bartender seems
pensive. Frozen. Like a man waiting to be executed. I
nod at him and he instinctively walks over and pours me
another shot. I think back to my night clubbing days
and wish I could pay with a drink ticket. But those days
are gone my friend, so I pull out my last twenty and
motion for him to hit me again. He does and I leave an
extra large tip simply because it makes me feel good.
Not like a big shot, or some rich ass mother fucker. Just
because and for the moment, it actually feels good and
that’s good enough.
Exactly ten seconds after I down the tequila she makes
her entrance. There is no doubt as to her fierceness, but
her mood is hardly tangible. Unlike the other day, she
seems sullen. Sad. Almost corpse like. Something has
happened to make her seem so different, yet I can’t
figure it out. In the next instant thought, it all becomes
crystal clear. Just as she takes the same seat at the bar
that she sat at yesterday, he walks in. The boy. The
cute piece.
He starts yelling at her, but she ignores him and orders
a drink. The bartender looks nervous and I myself start
to sweat bullets the size of extra large hail.
He turns around and looks at me, cocking his head
towards the bathroom. Then he gets up and walks
towards it with me following a few steps behind.
I stand next to him at the piss stained urinals and watch
closely as he pulls out his thick cock. As he holds it
with his right hand, his left grabs the back of my head
and forces my more than willing lips down on it. He
comes instantly, leaving his salty deposit half in my
mouth, half smeared on my chin.
He pulls me up by my hair and fixes his pants. I smile
and lean forward to kiss him, but he pushes me away
and bolts out of the toilet. Without even thinking, I
walk into an empty stall and jack off until I come with a
silent fury all over the tips of my black Converse hi-
tops.
When I walk out of the bathroom, he’s gone. I’m feeling
A little cocky, so I saunter up to the blonde goddess and
take a seat next to her. She angrily slurps the drink in
front of her until the sound of the straw sucking at the
glasses’ bottom echoes between us. Then she casually
slides off her stool. I think of something to say, but I
can barely breathe, much less speak.
She walks to the door, then starts laughing. At first
softly, then loud, harsh, almost a witches cackle. She
turns around to catch both the bartender and myself
staring at her with our mouths gaping open in
astonishment. She runs up to me and slaps me so hard
across the face that I tumble off the bar stool and fall on
my ass to the floor.
"Faggot!" she screams, then walks out of the door and
out of my life. Hopefully forever.
I lose it and feel the need for numbness creep into my
system. I say good-bye to the bar and head across town
to the club. I pay my social dues at the door and stroll into the place,
stopping only when I’ve spotted my prey.
Dealers, dealers. Everywhere.
It’s like a gorgeously decadent epidemic. It’s like a
fuckin’ convenience store. He has coke. She has K.
They have E. Nobody is famous or familiar, but all can
at least hope to be hacked up someday by a disgruntled
club promoter if they’re lucky.
I spot my guy and finger my pockets in search of some
bucks. Dinero. Currency. Cold hard spendable on
whatever you fuckin’ please cash. Shit. I left the change
from that 20 at the bar. That’s what I get for bein’
generous.
So I know I’m gonna have to pull something. A scam. A
technically tacky once over that could go wrong, but
hopefully won’t. I approach him slowly. His name is
Mookie and he’s wearing a burgundy faux suede
Member Only jacket. He’s super short and has a
mustache that looks like Oscar the Grouch’s eye-brows.
His hair is so greasy, it wouldn’t surprise me if he combs it
with "I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter…Spray."
He twitches every third breath and looks at me
nervously as I come closer. Suddenly, a group of
overbearing, French Euro-trash descend upon him like
vultures and he is temporarily distracted. Finally, I’m
standing before him.
"What’choo want?" he says as he finishes handing over
several vials to the girls and looks me in the eye. I hand
him a carefully folded single and whisper "a gram" as
he whispers one hundred. Without looking at the bill he
deposits it in his jacket pocket and slips me a vial a
second later. I turn around and head for the bathroom.
I’m praying he isn’t behind me, wise to my deception.
When I get inside the john I lock the door and turn on
the faucets until the sound of water splashing into the
sink drives me out of my skull and back into reality. I
pour some of the blow onto my fist and snort fitfully,
confused by my desire and momentarily paralyzed by
the strong cocaine oozing into my membranes.
I walk back into the room and notice Mookie. "Oh my
God, is he looking at me?" I imagine he’s not and
decide to try to glide by him as effortlessly as possible.
I begin to sweat and my balls feel like peanuts. He still
seems to be looking at me. I’m 50 feet away. 40. 30.
20. Now I’m 10. Now I’m right in front of his mother
fuckin’ face, but wait. He’s actually smiling at me. An
expression lacking only one thing…teeth.
He’s fuckin’ toothless. I smile back and try to hustle my
ass past him without flipping out. The exit is only a
hundred feet away, but I keep feeling like something is
about to go wrong. I get further and further. I’m almost
at the door. Then I hear someone behind me. I don’t
turn around, just keep on walking. The voice gets
louder.
I feel it reverberate against my spine, forcing the hair
on my neck to stank on end. It was fear. Pure, simple
terror. The kind that makes you shit your pants and
freeze in trepidation. When I felt the hand on my
shoulder I nearly jumped out of my skin. It spins me
around to face my foe. It’s Mookie and strangely, he’s
still smiling.
I’m certain he’s about to kill me, but instead he flashes
me a toothless grin and mumbles, "How was it man?
Good shit?" I nod yes as I feel my shirt collar shrink ten
sizes and strangle me. I turn back around and open the
door, not realizing that Mookie’s hand is still on my
shoulder, getting tighter by the second.
He’s playing with me and I’m too stupid to notice. I
start out the door, but stop when the pressure of cold
steel is applied to the back of my neck.
"If it was so good, then why don’t you pay me the other
99 bucks you little fuck!" Mookie screams, but I’ve got
other plans and getting my head blown off wasn’t one of
them. I broke free and ran across the street. Mookie
fired at me and hit a club kid instead. One less lolly pop
kid as far as I’m concerned.
I ran for blocks without looking back, through red lights
and throngs of unsuspecting trolls. I didn’t stop till I
reached the bar and had found my familiar stool and the
bartender had placed a very large glass of tequila in
front of my needy face.
I didn’t notice the boy until almost ten minutes and two
more drinks later. He was back, beautiful black hair and
all. He was staring at me, only I don’t think he wanted
me to suck his cock again. Then he got up, the sound of
his nylon pants swishing against his legs preceding him.
I held my drink up next to him, but he knocks it out of my
hands. The next ten seconds are a blur as he smacks me
with his open palms as easily as a Lion might attack a
mouse.
Before I’m dead and gone, anyway you choose me, it
won’t be long. He climbs off me and slowly walks out
of the bar. I roll over and fall off, laughing silently as I
hit the floor. I can once again smell puke under the rim
of my nose and the uneasy sensation of my own
swallowed teeth catching in my throat like a fish hook.
A slow, quick smile forms on my lips and I imagine I’m
in a honey colored Mustang accelerating down a long
stretch of empty road.
Time and space cease to exist and for just this one
moment I lose myself in a surreal train of thought.
Strangely unsoiled. Slightly serene.
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