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Archive for August, 2012

Radio commercials in the New York metropolitan area encourage listeners to donate blood in memory of September 11th. I wouldn’t give the bloody wisdom tooth that was ripped from my mouth last week in honor of the event. 

We don’t buy our spouses pearls on the anniversary of Pearl Harbor, nor should we roll up our sleeves just so the American Red Cross can sell our blood to insurance companies. 

Remember the millions that were raised in private donations following the attacks? Ever wonder what happened to the September 11th Fund? Most of the charitable funding was “distributed” by a charity in New York called UJA Federation– look them up on-line. They are everywhere, but there are no detailed financial statements relating to all that money that poured out of charitable Americans like blood moments after the towers came tumbling down. 

And to think Bin Laden was already dead before the marines stormed the compound. The story of the September 11th attack and all the wars and assassinations that followed turns more fictional as the years pass and yet we grow more and more protective of our national pride every time we give something to remember it by. 

Donate blood in memory of September 11th if you wish. 

I’d rather slit my wrists than remember something that was not reality to begin with. 

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Ashes and Sand

After finishing all the chardonnay, I ran to the edge of the ocean, pulled out my beloved ‘third arm’, and stood at the edge of the continent with my hands on my hips. I pretended to be admiring the Atlantic. There was a drip that flowed from me that would not end. A man with a dog approached from the East. A ball the man was throwing to his dog landed just inches from my pink toes. I just stood there, counting the waves. I could not bend over to pick it up, so the orange ball was captured by the tide. The mutt ran wildly to fetch the ball, but a golden wave came crashing down and the ball floated further out to sea.

“He does this all the time,” the man explained.

“What’s that?” I asked, not in the mood to chat with a rich Fire Island Queen. The man was at least half my age, had curly brown hair and a near perfect pedicure. I was admiring the tracks I made in the sand with my big drip, and thinking of all the people who I knew who were cremated and had their ashes scattered at this particular spot along the coast. I was not interested in running back to his beach house and fucking him in his pool like I had done to so many others here on this creepy, gay resort island.

“My dog—he always wants to play with strangers.”

“That sounds like the perfect gay dog,” I said while reaching down to pet the unusual breed. As the man and his dog walked away, I started to cry. Out of the blue, a chill hit me, my eyes fogged over, and I remembered the day, nearly twenty years prior, when I was not yet a jaded old queen. While cruising in the nearby dunes, a man with KS lesions all over him tried to join a ‘circle jerk’ in which I was the center of attention.

All the other men ran when the man with scabs all over him tried to join in. I stood there with my cock in my hand, not in the least bit attracted to the skinny homosexual, but I did not want to hurt his feelings. He smiled at me as the boys of summer vanished into the nearby thicket of pines. I stood there like a model for an artist—it was the kindest of charitable deeds I ever remember performing for my fellow man. Perhaps I was crying because I was proud of myself, I don’t know, but the tears came out of me like chardonnay pee.

I have dreamed so many times of that stranger with KS and the sadness in his eyes as all the other men ran away. I never wanted to feel like he must have felt that day, but the truth of the matter is, I have, even though that awful disease somehow never caught up to me.

As I stood there watching sea gulls glide over the waves, and wishing I had more wine, I realized that I was not so kind to the rich man with the dog ; perhaps I’m just jaded like the rest of the gays who come here every year wishing things would return to the way they were in 1970. That life is gone, the world has changed and all that remains is an old man crying on a beach with his dick in his hand.

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We carried our own booze to the beach on Friday. B took a pint of Svedka Vodka. I purchased a plastic jug from the Dollar Store and filled it with chardonnay wine from a box. A three dollar Styrofoam cooler filled with ice was all we needed to survive the beating rays of a golden August sun beating down upon the Fire Island Pines. B made roast beef sandwiches and potato salad.

 

The beach was still relatively empty when we arrived at 2 pm. A portion of the beach was roped off due to the growth of some protected shrub. There was little room for anyone to sit on the beach without being washed out to sea by rogue waves that sometimes crested above the mountain of sand that obstructed our layman’s view of the Atlantic. We took refuge behind a large piece of driftwood that had washed ashore, and did not realize that more than one hundred well-bred dogs would stop to pee there over the course of the day.

 

B forbade me from swimming, although several naked gay men swam in the sea right before us. Reports on Channel 5 news on Thursday indicated that sharks and large stingrays were spotted in the waters off Fire Island. By 3 pm I was too intoxicated to swim anyway.

 

A heterosexual couple, Harry and Joan sat on the sand near us and the piece of peed upon drift wood. Harry drove two large wooden stakes into the sand just inches away from my white feet and inserted umbrellas into them. “We are not in your way?” The rich Jew asked. “No, not at all,” my lover responded, his gold tooth shinning in the sand as the couple looked down on us.

 

“I have to stay out of the sun,” was all Joan admitted. A large hat with a wide brim offered shade over her entire face as she smiled.

 

Joan sat down and started to read immediately. Harry ran to the seaside as if in search of some sort of solitude. B whispered in my ear, “I’d rather have them sitting next to us than one of those chatty queens who sat behind us on the ferry ride here.”

 

to be continued….

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A job interview with the William, Allinson White  Institute, a high-end post graduate school for psychologist nearly inspired me to erase my blog last week. The last thing any job seeker in this economy needs is a bad on-line reputation. The place was grand. It was located on Central Park West and 72nd Street. A winding, marble staircase led me to the office of the man who runs the place.

The executive director of the institution asked me a question that I could not answer in typical interviewee fashion–

“How well do you deal with supervisors that are difficult?” He asked.

“Oh, my teeth have been cut on the worst of them,” I responded without bliking, “It seems to me that those in your profession take on a certain energy from those they treat. I’ve witnessed psychiatrists at my old job go totally off the handle after holding a session with a troubled kid. They’d leave their offices red in the face, ready to scream at someone, and there I was– who better than the office manager to go off on? Very few understand how difficult your job really is.”

I chose not to delete my blog after leaving that interview. The doctor, whose name already escapes me, seemed so defeated, and that was not my intention. I only wanted a job. I felt so bad for reading him.

But today, a new comment in my blog convinced me that some of the things I’ve written over the years are not mean spirited at all. These writings are only therapy of sorts, and there are so many shrinks out there on google looking for information relating to the sale of seeds from door to door.

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I met Ruben at the Tunnel, a huge dance club in New York City. I was on my way back to Germany, to serve four more years in the Army, so I needed to have as much homosexual sex as possible before giving my soul to a nation that hated gays. 

The Tunnel, a disco located in the Meat Packing District, was a warehouse of sorts that was once part of the New York City subway system. Inside, it appeared that part of an old subway platform had been converted into a dance floor. There were several floors and each floor had its own dj. There were both male and female dancers with bodies of gods; they danced on podiums throught the club like sex objects. There were little rooms scattered throught the Tunnel—little alcoves where one could buy cocktails. It was in one of these quiet little rooms with brick covered walls where I met Ruben and his friend, Andre. 

“Wow! You are in the Army?” Ruben asked, “Let me buy you a drink.” 

I sipped on a Pepsi while Ruben and Andre drank beer. Finally, Ruben asked if I wanted to go home with him to Brooklyn. Andre struck-out with a girl he was rapping to. The three of us crowded in the back seat of a cab. I sat in the middle. The car raced across the Brooklyn Bridge at 3 a.m. Andre didn’t say a word. Ruben did most of the talking. 

When the cab reached Ruben’s apartment in Bushwick, Andre asked if he could come upstairs. Ruben looked at me. I smiled and shrugged my shoulders as if I didn’t care, so all three of us headed upstairs. 

I remember so little of that evening in the dark bedroom—reaching, squeezing and wondering who was who. Did it really matter? 

If I could turn back time to that night in Brooklyn, I’d set my watch for 4 a.m., the moment just before rays of sun started streaming through the shade of the bedroom window. I’d watch the scene over and over again and try to capture the essence of how these two men brought tears to my eyes, lust to my heart, and a love for a country with such hunky men, both in and out of uniform. 

That was the only time in life I put on a pair of pink panties to have sex in. What was the purpose? It was so dark, yet Andre seemed to have night vision. 

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