The Poseur

"THE GOOD LORD LEFT ME THIS..."

2011-11-05T13:06:00.000-07:00

My family never made a big deal about Thanksgiving. My father and mother would fire up the grill regularly with their friends, regardless of the time of year, so the idea of everyone getting together and cooking a lot of food on a Thursday in November just didn’t seem that special to us.

Even so, when I find myself alone on that particular day, I do feel as though I should be somewhere eating lots of food with others. And that is how I found myself in San Francisco last year — walking around with my hands in my pockets, trying not to look like someone who knows they should be at home eating canned cranberry sauce with loved ones.

Near my apartment in the Tenderloin, by a construction site where a new building was being put up, I spotted a young couple smashing thick electrical cords with bricks. They were both blonde, tan and rather healthy looking. They didn’t look hard and dirty like most of the street kids in the area, which told me they must be new in town. As I approached them, the young guy looked up at me while his girlfriend kept hammering away.

“Hey, what’s up? Dude, if you help us out, we’ll split the money with you after we take the copper from these to the recycling plant. They offer bank for this stuff!” I noticed he was missing all of his front teeth. Not that uncommon in my area of the city, but particularly sad in this instance; he was rather cute. “So what do you say? It’s Thanksgiving, man. Let’s cash this stuff in and feast!” We both smiled and chuckled a bit, as he handed me a brick. I took it in my hand, got down on my knees and started pounding. What the hell? Why not?

“We need to get this wrapped up fast. She grabbed this from the construction site. It’s hot. If the cops see us, we’ll get nailed. So hurry!” the cute guy said.

I picked up the pace as his girlfriend turned to me and smiled. She was missing one of her front teeth as well, which made her look like a sweet, blond-haired jack-o-lantern. I noticed her reach up and adjust a hearing aid in her left ear. It made a slight, feedback sound each time she hit the wires. The guy noticed me looking at her. “Yeah, she’s partially deaf. Her hearing aid goes off all the time. It’s broken or something. Her name’s Carrie, I’m Todd.” I introduced myself and we all got to work.
After a few minutes of pounding, I noticed their pile of copper was far bigger than mine. I felt bad and started working faster. Then Todd looked up and over me; his eyes widened in fear. “Shit, the cops! Let’s get out of here!” Carrie was still pounding as Todd and I each grabbed one of her arms and ran into the construction site. We hid behind a large stack of drywall and waited. Carrie’s hearing aid was still whistling and popping from the sprint. Todd placed his hand over her ear to muffle the sounds then put a finger to her lips, whispering to her, “Shhhh.” I was panicked. I couldn’t see where the police were but could hear the dispatcher coming from their radio.

“We have a 211 in progress. Polk and Eddy.”
“10-23 standby.”

As we sat quiet and listened to the police call in, we heard someone shouting. I turned and saw a large, black woman at a bus stop, holding plastic KFC bags and waving at us to come over. Todd knew who she was. “Oh, right on! It’s Mama! We got to get over there. She’ll help us out!” He motioned for me to hold Carrie’s hand and follow him. Her hearing aid was screeching feedback as we ran. We were just a few yards from the bus stop when I could see the woman clearly. She wore a vintage olive green dress; all made-up like the Mad Men girls, with two bags of KFC — she’d also forgotten to shave her arms and chest.

As I sized up her drag, she waved us over and began to scold my two new friends as she led us around to the other side of the bus stop, presumably to keep out of sight of the cops. “Now look here, I don’t know what you two are up to, but with the cops around, it can’t be good!” She was visibly irritated with them and tried in vain to keep her voice sweet as she laid into them. She too was missing almost all of her front teeth, which gave her a lisp. So the angrier she got, the more spit shot out from her mouth and onto the bags of chicken she held. We stood quiet for a moment as Mama looked around for the police. “Well, I think you all got lucky this time. They’re gone,” she said. “Why don’t you two bring your friend upstairs for some Colonel. We’ll have a lovely, little chicken dinner for Turkey Day!” She giggled at me and raised the bags of food up underneath her chest, creating a large, round bosom. “My name is Monique, sweetheart. You can call me Mama.” I introduced myself and she led us away, following her in single file like a row of ducklings.

Mama lived in a small studio apartment above a garage. It was right out of Victor Victoria: Lots of old art deco lamps, heavy wooden furniture and chaise lounges. Magazine clippings of Ava Gardner and Sophia Loren were framed and hung everywhere the wall could take a nail. She laid the KFC on a small card table in the middle of the room when the kids reappeared from the small kitchen in the back with place settings. Todd hadn’t said a word since she rescued us. The atmosphere was quiet and unnerving. Mama pulled up chairs and invited me to sit with her while Todd and Carrie set the table.

“Tell me something about yourself. You seem out of your skin. Things not going well for you during the holidays this year?” she asked.

“I’m okay,” I told her. “I’ve got my problems, that’s for sure. The city hasn’t really cut me a break since I got here.” She perked up, smiled and touched my hand. “With all the services for folks being cut left and right, it’s something awful, but I have no fear. God will provide. He always does. You know, I have a story.

“When I was very young, I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. This was before LBJ, so there was no Medicare — we were on our own, baby. My folks let it go as long as we could until my legs started to get rubbery. Someone told them to take me to this old lady outside of town that might be able to help. So we drove to her house and she came outside to meet us, as if she knew we were coming. She was holding a bottle of bees. Bees!

“My folks held me down on the hood of our car and she pulled out one bee at a time with her bare hands and got the damn things to sting me. I was screaming and crying. I went there twice a week to get stung for a quite a while, then you know what? One day I woke up, got out of bed and started getting ready for school. It was 15 minutes or so that I realized I was okay. I was normal again! My legs worked just fine! I ran down the hall to tell my momma and she started bawling. That woman’s bees cured me! Every time I hear they’re going to cut my benefits or when my feet get numb in the mornings, I just keep reminding myself of that wonderful day.” As she told me her story, I could see by the far-off look in her eyes that she was making the whole thing up. Perhaps it was just for my benefit. It was a very sweet story; it made me feel appreciative.

The table was set and we all sat down to eat. I love KFC and she had pretty much everything they offered. Todd and Carrie sat silent while Momma told me her take on the state of the world, her singing career and the man that got away. Like most queens she’d seen it all, and her company ended up being just what I needed. Some minutes later, the conversation turned back to me. “So what’s your deal? Why you walking around the TL on Thanksgiving?”

I hate talking about myself, so just rolled my eyes and shrugged my shoulders. She broke in with some final wisdom.
“Look son, no matter how bad it gets, there’s always something to be thankful for. Look at me! I’m old, my feet are going and no man wants to take me to a movie. But ya know what? The good Lord left me this...” She opened her mouth and pointed to her single, front tooth and laughed. “He left me this, so I could eat the corn on the cob for Thanksgiving.”

"YOU'RE A CHASER, AREN'T YOU?"

2011-07-01T14:34:00.000-07:00

There lives, in my part of town, one of my favorite characters in San Francisco. I’m not going use her name in this column because, not only do I enjoy chatting with her at the local hangouts, I’m also slightly afraid of her. Most of the stories I’ve been told about her involve at least a little blood. Like most transsexuals in the Tenderloin, she looks like an old showgirl — who can cut you in half with a nail file. I was taking one of my late night strolls when I bumped into her coming out of a small market. She was holding a bag of groceries . . . and wearing a full mink coat. Trotting out of the store and brushing her long, blonde hair away from her thin, chiseled face, she saw me and smiled. We hugged and chatted a bit.

“How’s your living situation, darling? Still couch-surfing?” she asked.

“No, I’ve upgraded to a mattress on someone’s floor.”

We laughed a little and she lit up, “Well don’t feel too bad. I got released from SF General again last week. They kicked me out because I kept sucking off the Filipino orderlies during our smoke breaks. Anyone who says Asian men aren’t hung have never sucked a Filipino. But enough with this, let’s go in and have some coffee,” she said.

“Oh, I can’t, it’ll keep me up.”

“What are you, a Mennonite? I have to be up early too. I need to figure out a way to get to New York this week. Joey Arias stole my wig! C’mon, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. We’ll talk. Why doesn’t anyone just like to sit and talk anymore?”

It had been a while since I visited with her. Her wild, disjointed and unbelievably fantastic stories have supplied me with material for years. I agreed to hang out and off we went to our favorite bar. “I don’t drink anymore, you know that,” she told me. “I just love their awful coffee.” Once there, being the gentleman, I offered to carry in her groceries, and she giggled. She gave me her bag, pushed her coat up around her Adam’s apple and we went inside.

The bartender served us our coffee as I asked her to tell me again about some of the interesting things she’s done. She’s always happy to oblige.

“The other night, I saw the documentary about the Cockettes going to New York sometime in the early ’70s. Weren’t you performing with them around then?” I asked.

“I was, but I spent more time with them in Europe than New York. We all just packed up and went to Amsterdam one day. That’s where I met Bowie, Iggy Pop and Siouxsie. Everyone came to see us. But to be honest with you I’d rather not talk about it. Although it was magical, it wasn’t all champagne and glitter. One day I was holding hands with Bowie in front of The Hague, the next day I was hooking in a trucker bar in Texas.”

“With truckers in Texas? Did they know you were a tranny?”

“Those boys just saw big titties and hair when they looked at me. I had tits like butter — soft and smooth and firm. I really sold it all up top. But, as time went by, the titties started to droop. So I got my lips done. You’ll often see older women wearing large rings to draw attention away from the liver spots on their hands. Well, I use my fabulously large, silicone lips to hypnotize men from noticing my saggy boobs.”

Her lips are gigantic. They really are the most striking characteristic about her. “You used silicone?” I asked. “I’ve heard about ‘Pump Parties’ where the trans girls get together and shoot each other up with silicone they buy at Home Depot. It’s very dangerous.”
“Oh no, this isn’t that stuff,” she said. “I used high-grade, European, tranny silicone. And yes, I know about the girls down in LA with their parties. I knew a young queen who went to one of those. She showed up to the party with $300 under her wig and dreams of a big, round butt. She woke up the next day lying on the bathroom floor with no money, no wig and bathtub caulk dripping out of her butt cheeks. The doctors had to cut off most of her ass. It took months to heal. She dated One-Eyed-Bobby in LA for several years — a tranny chaser. He was an ex-con, of course. They all are. Anyway, he took care of her as best he could, but she never really recovered. How could she?

I dated Bobby once. This was before he met her. He took me with him to New York in 1978 and left me at Max’s Kansas City. He caught me blowing Jim Carroll in the bathroom. I think I was a victim of the times, really — cocaine and women’s empowerment. You understand? You’ll be surprised to know I believe in the institution of marriage. I’ve always said. ‘Any girl who doesn’t want to get married is a dyke.’ You ever think about getting married?”

“No. I don’t think I’d make a good husband,” I confessed.

“Oh, nonsense,” she snapped. “There’s a lid to every pot. I almost got married once. I was in LA in 1982; I was still punk then. I was spending time with Henry Rollins. He ran with tranny chasers, though he wasn’t one himself. He had a roommate that fell in love with me. This guy used to keep empty soda bottles on the floor near the mattress he slept on. I couldn’t figure out what they were for. Later, he confided to me that his kidneys were failing. He’d get up four or five times a night to pee in the bottles so he wouldn’t have to keep walking to the bathroom. We’d make love and I’d look over at the bottles full of piss, right there on the floor next to my head. Things like that can affect a girl. But he was a good man.”

She stared off into space for a second, then looked at me. Her personality had suddenly changed, as it often does. She examined me.

“You’re a chaser, aren’t you?” Why else would you spend time with girls like me? It’s okay, you can tell me about it. It’s like talking to your doctor about where you got the sore on your dick from. We’re professionals.”

“No, I like men,” I told her. “I just don’t want to get married.” The bartender overheard her interrogating me and was staring at us like he knew something was about to happen.

She leaned over and grabbed my arm. Pulling me closer, she whispered in my ear. “Come back to my place. I’ll make a call and get a mountain of coke for you.” I looked down as she spoke and noticed she had unbuttoned her coat, revealing her breasts. They hung stiff and unnaturally away from her skinny chest and had a bluish hue to them. I looked further down, toward her groin to see if she still had a penis. But, before my eyes could get past her belly, the bartender walked up to us and yelled at her, “Goddamnit, put some clothes on! I told you not to come back here if you plan on making a scene!”

She released me, smiled and threw her head back, laughing. Then, leaning over across two of the bar stools next to her, she brought her coat down around her shoulders, and exposed her breasts to the entire bar and began to sing aloud ...

“No one here can understand me,
Oh, what stories they all hand me,
Make my bed and light the light,
I’ll be home late tonight,
Blackbird bye-bye!”

The patrons clapped and whistled at her as she snapped back up on her stool. “So, will you be my lover?” she asked me. “I’m very kind and selfless.” Before I could tell her no, the bartender came from behind us and reached out to grab her. In one movement she buttoned her coat, grabbed her bag and headed for the exit. “I’ll be right back, I have to find my dress!” She ran out with the bartender following. I threw some money down and walked after them.

I roamed a few blocks, looking here and there for her. Right before I was about to give up and go home, I came across a group of bums camped out in front of an abandoned storefront. One of them smiled and reached out and grabbed me, “Wait dude! Wait for it!” Then, from each corner of the intersection nearby, the crossing signals for the blind began going off at the same time. The chirps ricocheted off the walls behind us. It was an eerily beautiful sound. As the bums and I stood there, sharing the moment and smiling at one another, I could hear my lady friend cackling somewhere in the distance. She mimicked the chirps of the signals and then began singing her song again:

“Make my bed and light the light,
I’ll be home late tonight,
Toodle-ooo! Farewell!
Bye bye!”

"SUGAR TOWN"

2010-09-02T11:52:00.000-07:00

My friend, Jamie, called me that evening. I knew what she wanted, even before I picked up the phone. “Hey Kurt, you want to be my wingman tonight?” Jamie had a problem with Vicodin. The doctors stopped filling her prescriptions months ago, but she was resourceful. Every other weekend I’d go with her to score pills in the Tenderloin. But, I had plans to see an art opening for John Waters that night hoping she could work both plans in. I always liked going on pill runs with her.

“That’s perfect!” she told me. “I’ll just tell Ron I’m hanging out with you at the gallery. Jamie’s husband takes her wallet and checkbook with him when he leaves town on business. When I got to her apartment, I found her in the kitchen going through a jar of coins on the table. There were two small piles in front of her. One was made of quarters, and the other paperclips. "Ron mixes paperclips in with the change, making it a chore for me to get money for drugs. Can you to help me sort them out?” Jamie asked me.

I grabbed a handful of coins out of the jar, carefully letting the quarters slide through my fingers and drop into the pile she started. It reminded me of the times my grandmother and I used to sift through pinto beans. She’d buy bags of dried beans and I’d help her sift out the little rocks that sometimes would get mixed in. Gathering the quarters with Jamie wasn’t as sweet and engaging; she grabbed them as fast as I found them. After about 20 minutes of sorting, we were done. “Okay that’s 60 bucks. Let’s get this over with.” She assured me we’d make it to the Waters show and we were off.

The streets that evening were hopping with dealers, transvestite hookers, thin, white junkies and kids from the suburbs — all looking to score. Jamie knows the area pretty well. Each section of the neighborhood specializes in a particular vice. We where looking for the “Doll District.” We came to an area near an abandoned storefront with a few people standing in the shadows. I stood behind as she walked up to one of them smoking a cigarette. The one closest to her threw their cigarette to the sidewalk as Jamie walked up to him. “You got vics?” The two figures standing to his right started to chuckle. They were smoking as well and, as they laughed and shook their heads, the lit ends of their smokes bounced and waved from side to side in the dark.

“Naw, just chivay (crack),” he told her flat. “But, even if I did have it, I don’t do business with “clears” (amateur white folks).” They all laughed and slapped each other on their backs. As they laughed, a familiar, deep, velvety, Southern drawl called to me from within a small, gloomy park across the street. I couldn’t see her, but I knew who it was.

“Portland? Is that you?”

It was Creamie, my transvestite friend from the Mission. (The other queens call her “Cream Rinse” because she doesn’t like to swallow so it sometimes ends up on her head). She slipped out from the darkness and into the streetlights near us, dressed up in her signature cream colored, form-fitting dress. It hugged her tall, athletic, black body perfectly. Her hair was the same, pulled back tight from her face and back into a long black ponytail that ran down her back.

“I see those green eyes all the way over here, Portland.” (I remind her of an old lover she once had in Portland, Oregon.) She walked up, we hugged each other and I introduced her to Jamie. “What on earth are you two doing in Sugar Town?” “We’re looking for some vics,” Jamie stated. “Can you help us out?” Creamie recoiled slightly, then looked at me for a moment. I could tell she didn’t approve. She obviously expected more from me than trolling the Loin for pills. “Let me see what I can do.” She turned around and walked back into the dark. We heard some mumbling for a few seconds. Creamie strutted back towards us with a few of her girls and a young, short, blond man in tow. He couldn’t have been more than 16. He sported all the trappings of your usual street thug, including a sideways baseball cap. It pushed his curly blonde hair down just over the tops of his eyelids. He stepped up to me and looked me in the face.

“You want some pills?”

He was slightly shorter than me and started poking my chin with his nose. “Can’t this dude talk?” “Tell him what you want honey,” Creamie told Jamie. “You got any vics?” Jamie asked. He looked over to her, then back to me. “Your girl wants some Vicodins, huh? Yeah I got some. Come here.” He took me to a public toilet nearby on the sidewalk. “Don’t you have to take a piss, asshole?”

“Get in there a take piss. If the cops come, I’m gone and you’re taking a piss, got it?”

I agreed and turned to unzip my pants and tried to pee. He came in too and stood behind me with his foot in the door crack so that it wouldn’t shut all the way. “How many you want?” he asked. I turned around to ask him the cost per pill. As I turned to answer him, my zipper was still down. “Oh, damn! he yelled. “Put that shit back in your pants, asshole!” He looked back at Creamie through the opening in the door. “Well at least the dip shit’s got class. He shaves his balls.” Creamie’s girls all started to laugh and cat call outside.

He was now right behind me and whispered into my ear. “Your girl makes you shave your balls?” I tried to laugh it off and get us back to the deal. “I asked you a question, Fonzi! Does your pain pill bitch make you shave your balls?”

“Yes. She does.”

“Of course she fucking does! That’ll be $60 bucks for 20 pills... you smooth motherfucker!” The girls started laughing again. I could hear Creamie and Jamie trying to quiet them down. “God, I’m sorry.” Jamie told me. “Here just give him the money and let’s get out of here.” She handed me the plastic bag of jingling coins and I handed them to the dealer. “What the fuck is this? Are you paying me in fucking change?” “No, they’re quarters,” I told him. “No they’re quarters,” he mocked me. “Quarters are fucking change, retard! What the fuck is this? Are you assholes serious?!” He was screaming pretty loud. I was starting to get afraid. As he raged, Creamie stepped in to save my ass. “Honey, what ya doin? Give me that.” I stepped out of the toilet and gave her the bag. She walked over to one of her girls, a young blonde, and said something to her. “Hell, yeah I’ll do it for a bag of quarters!” she said. Creamie brought her over to the bathroom, leaned through the open entrance and spoke softly to the angry kid inside. “Oh fucking, Christ,” he said. “Which one, the blonde? Bring her here.”

Creamie stepped back and helped the girl inside as the bathroom door slid shut. She turned to us and took Jamie’s hand. “I want you to remember this: If I hadn’t been here, things could’ve ended up differently.” She placed a small pile of white pills in Jamie’s hand, smiled, and scooted us off. I told her, “Thanks.” “You owe me, Portland.” She winked and pushed us off.

Jamie and I hurried down the street towards the lights of the Civic Center. “I’m so sorry,” Jamie told me again. “Do you still want to go see John Waters? “Naw,” I said. “I think we missed the show.”

"YOU LIKE DA BOBBLE BOT?"

2010-01-06T11:04:00.000-08:00

Before looking around the neighborhood for a barbershop, I remembered that a friend once told me of a hairdresser nearby who, if you let him jerk you off in his shop, would give you a free haircut. This type of thing has always intrigued me — I’m really very shy when it comes to sex. So I thought it might be a sort of “therapy” for me to allow him to do this and, of course, get a free haircut. So I called my friend for directions, grabbed $10 of quarters from my laundry jar (just in case it didn’t work out) and was off.
The salon was surprisingly close to where I was staying, I had passed by it countless times. Nestled between a Latino market and a Vietnamese sandwich shop, it just looked like another scruffy, little business in the area. I did remember this part of town because on the corner, nearest to the salon, was an old woman in a wheelchair begging for money. She was always there, wheeling around in circles; her dirty, gray hair, missing teeth and wrinkled face always on the lookout for a gentle soul to help her buy a sandwich. She also had a tiny, brown dog sniffing around her looking for scraps of food.
As I walked up to the salon, she spotted me and wheeled over. “Please help, son. All I need is a buck-twenty. The Chinks inside won’t give me a break.” Just as I was about to tell her “no” I made the “I have no money” sign by patting my front pockets. Unfortunately, I had forgotten that there was about $10 worth of quarters rattling around in them. “Oh... sure… here ya go.” I counted out two dollars and put it in her hand. While I did this, I noticed that her feet were bare and hanging over the edge of her seat. The big toe on her right foot was missing. It looked like it had been surgically removed. She sat thanking me and wiggling her remaining toes in anticipation as I gave her some change and went inside to get my haircut.
The inside of the salon was just as inconspicuous as the outside; six barbers chairs on either side of the room with lots of mirrors, fake plants and pages from 1980s glamour magazines taped to the walls. There were two Asian women cutting hair and a large, bald, black man sitting on a barber chair reading a newspaper. He looked up at me and instantly I knew this was the guy. He had a big, round shiny face with high-arched-plucked eyebrows. He wore a tight, black T-shirt tucked over his big belly and into his baggy jeans. He was quite voluptuous and seemed very confident as such.
“Can I halp you?”
He had some sort of Caribbean or African accent. It reminded me of one of the characters in The Little Mermaid. I forget which one.
“Yeah, I just need a quick haircut.”
He sucked in his cheeks, raised his eyebrows and sauntered over to me waving the folded newspaper by his face as if it had suddenly become warm in the room. “Oh God…” I thought, “I just gave that old woman two bucks. Now I don’t have enough to pay for the haircut! I’ve really got to make this guy happy. I just wish he was more attractive.” I asked him how much he charged. He looked me up and down.
“First we give da scalp a massage. Den, if you are comftorbal, we talk da price.”
I agreed and followed him to a small room behind the shampoo area. He opened the door and led me into the tiny, cramped room full of bookcases, hair care products and a leather office chair in the middle of it all where he asked me to sit down. I sat and tried to get cozy. It was cold in the room and I could hear the women outside talking and giggling while he closed the door behind him.
He stood behind me in the chair and started rubbing my shoulders. “You hear abbot me from someone?” he asked. “Yeah” I said “but I don’t think I have enough money.” He patted me on my shoulders and said “Dat’s ok, we work somethin’ out.” Chuckling a bit through his nose, he reached down to loosen my belt. He was having a hard time getting me unbuckled so I slid my hands beneath his and did it myself. His hands were really soft, and his big belly rubbing up against the back of my neck seemed to warm me up a bit. I un-did my belt, spread open the top of my jeans, reached inside and pulled out my penis. Thank God I was hard. He reached over, held and caressed it for a few seconds. “Mmmyyess… very nice,” he said. Out of nowhere he produced a bottle of hand lotion, squirted some on his palms and began rubbing it up and down my shaft. It felt ok, but I was starting to feel a little dirty.
Outside I could hear his co-workers speaking Chinese and giggling. It was hard for me to concentrate. After a minute or so, I got the feeling he was getting impatient. He was probably used to guys coming faster. He stopped rubbing me and asked, “Do you like bobble bot?” I assumed he meant bubble butt, I told him I did. On the shelf in front of me stood a picture with its back to us. He reached over and turned it around. It was a photo of him, naked, leaned over a bed and smiling back at the camera with his big, round, black butt taking up half of the photo. He had a big smirk on his face in the picture which reminded me of a pair of porcelain fish my parents had hung in our bathroom when I was a kid. One fish was a girl acting coy to the male fish’s advances — he had the same smirk as the guy, now rubbing lotion on my testicles. It reminded me of the time my father caught me masturbating in that bathroom. He walked in and I screamed at him, with my dick in my hand, to “get out!” Later, that day, he took me aside in the garage and tried to discuss procreation with me. “Well, first your weenie gets hard then the woman spreads her legs and you stick it in her…uh... vagina.” Then, my thoughts switched to the old lady in the wheelchair outside. I pictured her eating her sandwich: pieces of tomato, meat and fish sauce dripping all over the spot where her toe used to be and her hungry, little, dog licking it up and whimpering for more. I started fidgeting in my chair. I felt uncomfortable and the guy could tell the session wasn’t going anywhere. He stopped, took a towel, cleaned us up and walked out of the room, leaving me there with my pants open and the towel on top my head where he had thrown it.
As I buttoned-up and got myself together, I heard them all outside giggling. I walked out to the front of the salon looking at the floor, trying not to draw attention to myself. As I approached the door to leave, the man reached out to me from behind the counter, patted me on the back and winked. It made me feel a little less pathetic. I thanked him for his time and left with my groin nicely moisturized, my pockets full of quarters and no haircut.

"...YOU SEE THOSE, DO YA?"

2009-06-22T20:50:00.000-07:00

A few weeks back, during a particularly boring spring evening in San Francisco, my friend Tom and I set out to lay waste to the city. After a few minutes of walking around the ’Loin, we stopped in front of what looked like the bow of a ship jutting out of a dark blue wall. It was the front of a bar. Directly underneath was the entrance and the sign on the big, wooden door read “The Titanic.” “You’re gonna love this place,” Tom told me. “It’s full of characters.” As he said this, a young, bleached-blonde transvestite came strutting right past us in her high heels, singing, “Everybody wants it, everybody needs it, to survive on business!” She was dark- complected, possibly Latin, and wearing a dingy, red halter top with tight denim hot pants — so tight that part of her scrotum was peeping out. “Not so much fun inside for you!” She shouted back at us. “They all poor and OLD!”
The inside of the bar was pretty amazing. The whole place had a red, white and blue nautical theme: The walls were covered in dark-stained beechwood with portholes and aquariums embedded. Above the bar was the underside of an actual boat about 12 feet long, with fake seaweed hanging down its sides. Sitting at the bar sipping drinks were a group of older gentleman, all neatly dressed and rather dapper. One of them was standing up, finishing a story. He was a cute, portly little guy, kind of like my grandpa. He wore Bermuda shorts and a buttoned-up, short-sleeved shirt with a salmon-colored sweater tied around his neck — as if he’d dropped by the Tenderloin on his way home from a country club. Tom and I sat down to order a drink and listen in.
“… And I kept having this dream for MONTHS!” he told them. “ I’m in someone’s house visiting with lots of folks there. When everybody gets up to go into another room, I stay behind, pull down my pants and piss in the corner!”
All his friends started laughing at him, including Tom and I. Tom leaned over and whispered, “I told you!” as our storyteller resumed.
“The damn thing is, two weeks ago, my neighbor across the hall from me, told me that her apartment smells like urine. So, I remember my dream and tell her to check all the corners of her living room. Wouldn’t you know, she comes knocking on my door a few hours later and tells me the smell’s coming from a corner right behind her couch… someone’s been peeing there! And I’ll tell you something else: I haven’t had that goddamn dream since! Now what the hell does this all mean?”
“I’ll tell ya what it means, friend!” one of his buddies shouted, “It means you’re a goddamned piss queen!” “Not just that…” another voice blasted, “you’re some kind of breaking-and-entering piss queen! The worse kind!” The whole bar erupted in laughter. The poor old guy stood there shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck as if he were still trying to figure out what, if any, connection his dream had to his neighbors piss mystery. He looked around at all of us laughing, shrugged his shoulders and walked over to the bathroom near the back of the bar.
After a few minutes, things died down. Tom and I chatted with the bartender, who told us, “All these old dudes are here every night. They’ve been coming here since this part of town was nice. Hitchcock filmed Vertigo right around the corner and all these guys were probably sitting right here when he did.” As he and Tom conversed on the history of the neighborhood, I snuck away to use the bathroom.
While I stood at the urinal, I heard something in the stall next to me, strange huffs and moans. It sounded like someone was in trouble, so I zipped up and looked around the door to see what was going on. It was the elderly storyteller. He was slumped over the toilet and his pants were down revealing his pale, saggy little butt. He was having trouble getting up. “You OK?” I asked. “What the hell do you think?” he shot back. I leaned over, grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back and up against me. His pants were still down; I tried not to look at his genitals, but I couldn’t help myself. He had an enormous bush of gray pubic hair covering his entire groin. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was so full that it hid his penis entirely. While I stared, I couldn’t help but think to myself, “Good Lord! Am I going to have pubes like that when I’m old?” He caught me checking out his crotch and started laughing, “Oh … you see those, do ya? Yup, they’re all gray, my boy. Don’t smirk, it’ll happen to you too!” We smiled and giggled with each other while I helped him pull his pants up and got him on his feet. “You know,” he said, “they used to be black as coal when I was your age — a lot less of them too. Yeeaah, but that was a long time ago.” I got his pants back up, put my arm around him and walked him out of the bathroom. “Thanks for your help, buddy. “I’m Larry, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Larry. I’m Kurt.”

"BOY, IT'S GOOD TO SEE YOU SON."

2009-02-25T18:42:00.000-08:00

I flew out to Oklahoma to spend Thanksgiving with my father, his wife and my sister. It was the first time we attempted spending any holiday together in years and, with my dad having recently had a heart attack, I figured I should cut the crap and try to spend time with him.

On the flight over I made friends with a woman sitting next to me. She initiated the conversation, asking me about where I was going and such. I tried to be polite and engaging but one of the stewards on board was an incredibly beautiful Filipino guy, and it was hard to concentrate. I knew he was Filipino because when he talked, all his Fs sounded like Ps and, well, I just knew. After a few minutes, the gal sitting beside me pulled out a handful of drink tickets and offered to get me drunk. Once we got buzzed, she told me about this being her first visit home for Thanksgiving since her brother died three years ago. Her eyes teared up and she looked down at her drink on the little tray. Usually after one drink, I know just what to say, this time I drew a blank. Looking back on it now, I don’t think she was looking for someone to talk to, just someone who’d listen.

I arrived in Tulsa and my father and sister were standing there waiting for me. My sister has looked the same since we were kids — my dad, not so much. The heart attack had obviously taken its toll on him. He was stooped over a little and his face looked like FDR’s before he died: deep wrinkles, and dark circles around his eyes. It broke my heart. But as he saw me walk up, he brightened up and walked toward me with his arms open. He was really happy to see me. It made me feel like an ass for never returning his calls. We all hugged, got into his pickup and went to his place. Soon after we got home, we settled in, exchanged minor chit-chat and went off to bed. It was late and I was still a little drunk. His wife showed me to my room. I got undressed and tried to get some sleep.

About an hour later, I woke up. I was wound-up from the cheap drinks on the plane and so, in order to relieve some of the stress, I decided to masturbate. I’m not proud of my compulsions but I’ve realized that, at some point, you have to make peace with who and what you are. So I lay there, handling myself in Dad’s house, fantasizing about having sex with that Filipino steward I saw on the plane: We were in a hotel on one of those hard, cheap beds. I was kissing him and telling him how much I loved him. He kept smiling and saying “I know, Kurt. I lubb you too, but it’s just not meant to be.” I imagined that he smelled like honey-roasted peanuts. We were in love.

Once I came, I looked for something to clean up with. There weren’t any tissues, so I reached down and picked up one of my socks and used it. I tossed it back to the floor, turned over and held one of the pillows close to me — I imagined spooning the steward after we’d had sex. I guess I’m a romantic.

My sister’s kids woke me up early the next morning. She has two little girls, 4 and 6-years-old and we always have lots of fun whenever I visit. We spent all morning watching Sponge Bob, building a fort out of a coffee table and eating waffles. Eventually, my dad and his wife woke up and sat at the kitchen table watching us and laughing. Later, my dad and I drank coffee and discussed why I still didn’t have a boyfriend. “Boy, it’s good to see you son,” he told me. The visit was going far better than I thought. It was really nice.

After chasing my nieces around the rest of the afternoon, I needed to take a nap. I went to my room to lie down and noticed it had been tidied-up. I immediately thought of my soiled socks and started to panic — had dad’s wife picked them up? Did she make us breakfast with my DNA on her hands? I looked in my bags, under the bed and in the drawers. They were gone. My dad heard me rustling around the room and called me out to the kitchen. I froze. “Oh God,” I thought. “His wife found the socks and, being a good Christian, she turned me in to her husband to set me straight.” Of course, I knew this couldn’t be possible, so I casually walked out to the kitchen to see what he wanted.

“So, what exactly do you think Obama is going to do?” He asked me. “NBC and the media refuse to dig into any of the claims he’s made about how he’s going to fix things! That’s why I watch FOX. I just want the news. I don’t care what Barbra Streisand or some nigger-basketball player thinks …” Usually I would be embarrassed and upset at my father’s comments, but I needed to find out what happened to those socks. “Yeah, I hear ya. Say, did you guys see any white socks lying around? I seem to have lost a pair.” My dad’s wife spoke up, “Oh! Those are yours? The girls got them out back. They’re hitting each other with them. I’ll get them for you.” I bolted to the kitchen window to see what was going on. They each had a sock and were smacking each other in the face with them. Soon my dad’s wife was outside, trying to wrestle the socks out of their hands.

As I watched all of this go down, I thought of the woman on the plane. She poured her heart out to a man who watches his nieces play with his semen-coated tube socks. My sister ran out and soon all four were laughing and playing; tugging and slapping each other with them. Behind me, my father talked about our new president; and I could smell the turkey in the oven, hear the cartoons on the television and watched as all the girls were playing with my crunchy socks out in the cold, gray backyard. It was Thanksgiving with my family. And they were happy – Because I was there.

"OOOH... HERE COMES CREAMIE!"

2008-11-04T08:04:00.000-08:00

I was walking down Mission Street; I live in the Mission, between 16th and 20th, where all the action is — crack, prostitutes, taquerias and Latin Pentecostal churches up and down each side of the street. One of the churches was in full swing that evening with lots of singing and shouting. I peeked into the large front window to check out what was going on inside. It was packed. There was a stage up front with a piano and a lectern. Flowers were all around and the young Latino minister was addressing the attendees in Spanish. He was emotional and even seemed angry at times — alternately looking up at the ceiling, grasping his chest as he delivered an impassioned message to his flock, then glaring at the floor, yelling and shaking his fist. Everyone seated were raising their hands, crying and yelling out in Spanish. Some were even jumping up in their seats and twirling where they stood. The spirit was everywhere. I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. Until, from behind me, I heard someone commenting on what I was watching inside.

“They do all that laying of the hands and exorcism stuff. Like that vice president lady on TV. Did she win? That shit’s crazy. Look at ’em go!”

I turned around to see who it was. A small group of black transvestites were hanging out near the entrance of a seedy hotel next door, smoking cigarettes and checking out the scene up and down the street. The one who was talking to me stood out amongst them, mainly due to her sheer size — she looked like an Olympic track star wearing a long, straight, blonde wig, stuffed into a black miniskirt. Flicking her cigarette and fixing her hair, she said to me, “Oh my Lord, lookit here. Honey who gave you those eyes, your mamma or your daddy? I bet it was your mamma.” She spoke with a deep, Texan drawl.

And she was enormous. The heels of her pumps sounded as though they were digging into the concrete below her. Everything about her was big. Her feet, legs, shoulders and hands were like a football player’s. But, even with these distractions, she carried herself with the poise and grace of a refined lady about town … who was missing a front tooth.

“You a cop? You don’t look like a cop.”

“No,” I told her. I’m just checking out this church. Isn’t it something else?”

She tossed her cigarette away, threw her hair back over her shoulder and looked inside. “Yeah, you don’t know the half of it. You from San Francisco?"

“No. I’m from LA. I’ve been here for about a year. I live in the neighborhood.”

“I see. I ask because you remind me of a man I knew up in Portland. He had pretty eyes like yours. I’m JJ. We’re calling you ‘Portland’ today!” She laughed and looked back to her friends. “Hey girls, this is Portland!”

“He a cop!” screamed someone from the crowd. “Naw, he’s a reporter.” Ain’t ya, Portland?”

“What makes you think that?” I asked. She motioned around us, “You’re paying too much attention to all this, that’s why. Down here, you’re either a cop, a reporter or a horny Mexican … Hahaaaa!” All the girls in the group exploded into laughter, slapping their legs, playing with their hair and twirling around in their pumps. I got caught up in their fun and started laughing too. By this time it was clear that they were indeed prostitutes and had known each other for a long time.

“You see, Portland,” JJ explained, “A few of the young guys in there always stay after the services to ‘clean up.’ They make sure all the others are gone before they lock up and come hang out next door with us. You have to understand, they’ve left their wives and girlfriends back home in Mexico, or wherever, and they send money back to them each month … well, not ALL the money.” She giggled and patted me on the shoulder. “They’re real sweet. I’ve never had any problems with them. They always tell me ‘thank you’ when we’re done.”

Then one of the girls in the crowd shouted out, “Yeah they’re real sweet all right! Girl, once they’re reminded of what you got between your legs, you’ll find out just how nice they are!”

“Don’t mind that bitter hag. She jealous I have a little boyfriend. He’s inside there now. He tells me he loves me and shit. Hell, he’s just a lonely, horny little boy is all.” “Wow,” I said, “when he tells you this, what do you tell him?” She whipped her head around and shot me a look as if to say: This interview is over. “I tell him to go home to his friends.” It became uncomfortable, but then, her face lit up as she broke off her stare and redirected it up and over me, shouting, “Ooooh … here comes Creamie!” Her friends began screaming and dancing around while pointing behind me. I turned around to see what the fuss was about.

Strutting up the street, brushing past everyone she came across, “Creamie” was extraordinary. Her appearance was immaculate: long, straight hair pulled back tight and draping down her back. She wore huge, round, black sunglasses and sported a pale yellow form-fitting cocktail dress with matching pumps. Everyone scrambled out of her way while gazing at her. For a second, I felt underdressed, like I had showed up to an awards party and forgot my tux. The girls were all singing “Go Creamie! Go Creamie! Go Creamie!” As they did, she strutted to their rhythm, walking hard against the sidewalk in her heels. JJ bent over and whispered in my ear, “We call her Cream Rinse. That’s because she don’t take it in the mouth … it all ends up on her head.”

Once she reached the group, Cream Rinse stopped dead in her tracks and looked at me and then scolded JJ. “Why you hangin’ with a cop?” JJ calmed her down and assured her I was a “reporter.” “Oh I see. Well, what do you want to know? I run things around here, anything you got to ask, you ask me. Would you like to know who we’re all voting for?” “Yes!” I told her. “As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here.” Creamie turned around to the girls and shouted out, “Who we voting for?” “OBAMA!” they screamed back, and went berserk jumping up and down and laughing and hugging each other. “You write that down. Mission Street is for Obama.”

“Got it.”

“Once my boy gets in there, he gonna fix it.” She smiled at me and gave me a hug. She was soft and smelt like flowers and Carmex lip balm. “OK, now get outta here. We’re opening up for business. You don’t need to be here for that, sugar.” Cream Rinse patted me on the head, turned around to the girls and waved them into the hotel. One by one they waved “good-bye” to me and blew kisses. JJ, the last one up, turned to me right before she closed the door behind her, blew a kiss, smiled and shouted to me, “Hey Portland, are you gonna write about me?”

"YOU LIKE ME?"

2008-09-03T17:07:00.000-07:00

A number of years ago, I flew out to New York for my first visit. I was to meet friends at the American Folk Art Museum to see an exhibit of Henry Darger on the night I arrived. Darger is a favorite of mine; all the pictures of naked little girls with penises reminds me of the illustrations of the nude, pudgy angels in my family's bible that my sisters and I used to tickle the feet of and giggle at. It was rather sweet and innocent, but we knew it was kind of nasty.

But before the museum, I was to have dinner with my friend Rico. He took me out on the town as soon as I arrived. The whole city was brand new to me so I drank up and just went along with him. After visiting a few bars in Chelsea and Hell’s Kitchen, I wondered if I was drinking too much too soon. I knocked back some fish pills with my beer to make sure I stayed healthy for the trip. “What was that?” Rico asked me.

“Oh, some fish oil tablets.”

“You’re taking vitamins in a bar?”

It didn’t seem strange to me then, but now it does sound a little ridiculous. I just want to be healthy.

We forged ahead to a monthly underground club named “John’s.” As soon as we got inside I realized why it was illegal…all of the bartenders and go-go dancers were nude. Most sported erections and encouraged the patrons to fondle them. Rico and I made our way to the bar, checking out everyone.

My stomach started bothering me and I was feeling gassy and discreetly burped into my hand when the smell of fish filled the air. “What the hell is THAT?” Rico laughed. “Did you just burp up fish?” It did smell awful.

We walked around with me burping up fish oil. I noticed a young Latino guy following me. He was quite cute but I was afraid to talk to him due to my awful breath. He looked like one of those emo kids that are getting beat up in Mexico City — black spiky hair, rail-thin in his Levis and an old, rocker-T with Blondie screened on the front. He was definitely young and was coming straight for me. “Hi. How’s it goin’?” He was sheepish and I could barely hear him. “Oh pretty good.” I said, trying not to breathe on him. He told me his name was Ivan and that he lived a few blocks away, which meant he was cutting to the chase and wanted me to come home with him. I looked over to Rico. He saw us and waved me away. Ivan grabbed my hand and we were off.

He did live right around the corner, and we were up the stairs to his flat before I knew it. Once inside, it was obvious he lived with his parents — dark brown rugs, wallpaper, family pictures everywhere, and the smell of cooked meats. I could hear the evening news on a television in the background. That’s when I realized that it was 11 p.m. and I had completely forgotten my friends at the museum. He put his finger to his lips, signaling me to keep quiet, and pushed me into his room.

Inside his room there were clothes strewn everywhere, posters of ’80s New Wave bands, smelly gym socks in a pile near a closet door. This was a teenager’s room. It was MY room in 1983. “How old are you?” I asked him. “Eighteen” “Oh Christ.” I muttered. “Really? How the hell did you get into that club?” He was looking down at the floor like a little boy who’d been caught shoplifting. “You like me?” He asked. “You like me Big Brother?” Then I got it, he’s into older guys and wanted to be the “boy.” I felt like an old pervert but it was sexy. While I debated with myself as to what to do next, he was on the bed, pants down and pulling his shirt off. “Oh Big Brother,” he said “won’t you let me taste you?” I stood there, watching him do this — his underwear dangling from one of his toes while he writhed on the bed, begging me to stick my balls in his mouth — when I thought about the kids in Darger’s paintings — naked and holding guns. I looked at this boy looking at me with his big, beautiful dark eyes. He looked like a child. But, God, I didn’t care. He was just lying there waiting for me to do whatever I wanted.

I shook off my clothes and he asked me again to sit on his face. So I did. I looked down at his young, smooth body while I soaked in his mouth. It was wonderful. Until his bedroom door swung open. It was his mother. She saw me squatting over her 18-year-old son’s face with my 35-year-old scrotum in his mouth. She covered her face and screamed. I panicked, and, with my balls still in his mouth, I jumped up. “POP!” went my sack from his lips and down to the floor I fell in pain that is indescribable. The father ran in and all three were yelling at each other in Spanish. “Get out! Get out!” his father screamed at me. Painfully, I pulled on my pants, grabbed the rest of my things and ran for the door. As I reached the front door, I vomited. Beer and fish oil landed everywhere. I slipped in it as the father pushed me into the hallway outside. He slammed the door behind me. I could hear them all fighting while I slowly put on the rest of my clothes and limped back to the bar. I had to find Rico. I needed to lie down.

Stumbling into the club, I found Rico where I left him. I grabbed onto him and hung on for balance. “What the hell happened to you?” He asked. “You’re white as a sheet!” “Oh my God,” I whispered, “You have to get me out of here. I need to lay down.”

“Where’s that kid you left with?”

“He’s gone. I’m in a lot of pain”

“Are you okay? Did you get jumped?”

“No. You’re not going to believe what just happened. Please, I need to lay down.”

“Oh God. Is this going to be another one of your stories?"

NUMBERS II

2008-06-25T10:27:00.000-07:00

I turned 40 this year in Berlin. The trip was a present to myself. My little vacation was also special because my good friend, and long time crush, Dean Sameshima, was to have his first big opening in the city the night I arrived.

I met Dean about 8 years ago. A mutual friend introduced us, saying to me, “You’re both crazy, so I really think this could work.” Dean and I spent that summer getting drunk at his place and watching reruns of Sex and The City. The more we drank the less television we watched and the more Polaroids he took of me holding my dick. He jokingly told me that I’d be famous someday. We had fun. But things never really took off for us. Looking back on it now, it was obvious that we were both scared to death of dating the other. Of his reasons, I’m not quite certain, but mine was that I could see my being the George Dyer to his Francis Bacon — After years of booze, pills and rent boys, the police would find me dead in Paris, hunched over the toilet of our hotel room while Dean would be attending his retrospective at the Grand Palais.

After arriving at the airport and cabbing it to his flat in Kreuzberg, Dean buzzed me upstairs and met me at the door. “Hey! You finally made it!” We kissed and hugged and I got settled in. His apartment was littered with silk-screened images of what looked like vintage pictures of a gay guy cruising in various places around Los Angeles. And that’s just what it was. “Is this part of your show?” I asked. “Yeah.” He said. “It’s John Rechy, the guy who wrote City of Night. The stuff I did for this show is based on his second book, Numbers.” Numbers is a book about a guy who, mindful of his waning youth, goes on a quest to convince himself that he’s still desirable. He does this by sleeping with as many men as he can. “Don’t look at those prints on the floor!” He demanded, “You’ll see the real ones at the show. We’d better get ready. It’s getting late.” I was pretty tired from my trip but we had to be at the Gallery within the hour.

We arrived at Peres Projects and Dean quickly introduced me to his friends and left me in their charge. This was a working night for him so they were going have to entertain me. I quickly made friends with a young woman he knew. I can’t remember her name, but she works at the gallery. “So I hear you’re in San Francisco now. How is that working out?”
“Oh, it’s ok. I sometimes feel as though I’ve beached myself by moving back there. It’s nice not having a car.”
“I thought you were going to move here. What happened?”
“I’m broke, and the Germans aren’t very accommodating. It’s not enough to just want to live here.” She patted me on my back, grabbed my hand and led me to the bar. “Let’s get drunk. I’m off tonight and you look like you could use a drink.”

Jetlag is a helluva thing — especially when you mix it with booze and cocaine. My lovely new friend leading me to the bar is one the last things I remember about Dean’s show. The rest of the night I’ve been able to piece together with bits of loose memory and from what Dean and his friends have told me.

It sounded like, for a time, I held it together pretty well. I do remember the staff putting me to work serving wine until I began to “get loud” after a quick trip to the bathroom where someone had offered me some cocaine to help with my jetlag. Later in the evening I remember us all at a nice restaurant eating steak. I told everyone at the table that I was “molested by my mother” and that “my family was part of the clan that founded The Los Angeles Times.” Sometimes people convicted of rape or murder say that they had watched themselves commit their crime as though they were outside of their bodies. Like a murderer, I watched myself make a scene at my friend’s art opening in Berlin and I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. The cocaine had taken over, and the rest the evening belonged to it and it alone. Luckily, my memories from this point on are forever lost.

I awoke the next morning lying in bed next to Dean. It was my birthday. I felt like shit and, as with all my hangovers, I had an erection. I turned away to try to hide it from him. As I did this, he playfully slapped me atop my head. “You wear American Apparel butt-huggers? Faggot!” I noticed then that I was lying in bed in only my underwear. He tugged on my shoulder and turned me around noticing the tent in my gay skivvies. “Ahhh, you’re horny?” It was embarrassing, but I figured I might get some action for my birthday. “Jack off for me,” he said. Well, it was better than nothing.

So there I was, spending my 40th birthday trying to take the edge off of a night of doing drugs by masturbating in front of my friend in Berlin. I was about to come when I started to obsess about the comment Dean had made about my panties. Did he think I wasn’t butch enough for him? How pathetic did I look jerking off in purple underwear? Even with this going on in my head, it didn’t take long for me to come. I was pretty wound up from the dope. “There ya go. Feel better?” he asked.

“Yes. Thanks for letting me do that Dean.”
“Don’t mention it. Happy Birthday Kurt.”

"I DID IT FOR YOU, CHARLIE JR.!"

2008-05-06T09:07:00.000-07:00

While going to school for graphic design, I was required to take a figure drawing class. My father, of course, was totally against it. “They’re gonna make you draw naked people! I’m not paying for you to go to school and draw men’s weenies, I tell ya what!” I paid for it myself and shortly thereafter arrived at my first day of class, ready to draw some weenies.

The class was packed and there were only a few seats left. I chose one in the back next to a young woman wearing men’s clothes. I sat down and got settled in when she leaned over and said, “I was late too so don’t feel bad.” “Oh good!” I said, “I couldn’t find the room!” She told me her name was “Charlie.” She was a young, heavy-set black girl who liked to wear men’s vintage clothes: pressed slacks and button-up shirts that she tucked in under a dark red sports coat that she wore everyday, even when it was hot. She also wore black wingtip shoes and shaved her eyebrows. Over the next few weeks we became friends, helping each other with our projects and taking breaks together. She was very sweet and talented and seemed exceptionally bright for her age, 15. She was in a bridge program for “gifted” high schoolers that needed a more challenging atmosphere than public high school. She wanted to be a cartoonist. We became pals and things seemed pretty swell.

One day while we were having lunch, she wanted to show me her new drawings. They were ideas she had for a comic book. “Check these out. I think you’ll like them. They’re kinda sexy, but I think they’re cool.” She pulled out a small stack of papers and gave them to me. My sweet, young, gifted friend had drawn pictures of big, black muscular pit bulls with enormous penises. They were very graphic. The dogs looked like they were weightlifters and their dicks were so huge that they curved up over the dog’s head packed full of veins. She even drew the foreskin and little droplets of pre-cum on the tips.
I quietly looked them over, wondering what the hell I was going to say about them. Then she tried to explain, “See, I have this thing for my dog, Charlie Jr. He’s so hot! I know it’s kinda fucked-up, but I totally get off on him. Do you think I’m crazy?”
“No, well, I’m confused. What do you mean you get off on him?”
“Well, I like to let him lick me… down there. He likes it. I also like to jack him off.”
As she told me this I couldn’t help but wonder if my dad had been right. The art world is obsessed with penises, human or otherwise.
“Well,” I said. “I think that’s really strange. I mean, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, I’m flattered that you felt you could trust me with this secret, but I don’t really understand why someone would let a dog lick their privates. I’m just really paranoid about germs.”
“Oh, dogs are very healthy. Did you know their mouths contain a natural antiseptic? I mean, you’re gay; you should be more worried about getting something from guys than from a dog. I’m just saying.”
I nodded my head and gave the drawing back to her. We spent the remaining minutes quietly eating our lunch. Once again I had found myself befriending an odd character that I was going to have to somehow avoid for the next eight weeks when the semester ended.

At home later that evening I got a phone call. It was Charlie. “Hey Kurt. I hope I didn’t freak you out earlier today. I just think you’re cool and I wanted to share with you.” “No problem,” I said. “We’re cool.” I told her that my main issue was germs. And as I elaborated on this I could hear her panting. She was making short, squeaky noises. Then she stared whispering, “Fuck me… fuck my pussy… fuck my pussy… oh! ohhh!.. Did you come?” She asked me. “No!” I said. “Did you just masturbate with your dog over the phone?”
“No. I wanted to jerk off with you.”
“Look, I’m gay. That means I’m not attracted to you or your dog. I don’t know how many different ways I need to explain this to you! Please, just leave me alone, Charlie.”
Then she became angry. “Oh you think you’re so big being a fag and all. You think that’s cool? Fuck you! You’re nothing! You’re a fucking AIDS faggot!”
I just then envisioned her walking into class with a gun and shooting me in front of everyone and then turning the gun on herself after she screamed “I did it for you, Charlie Jr.!” So I tried to appeal to the gifted kid in her. “Come on… I thought you were bigger than this.”
“What did you call me?” she screamed. “You call me a nigger?”
“What? NO! I said…”
“You mother fucker! You’re dead, you butt- fucking AIDS asshole!” She hung up the phone. Now I was scared. I sat up all night wondering what was going to happen in class the next day. I had to go, it was midterms. I finally fell asleep and woke the next day full of dread.

I arrived to class later that day. Charlie was sitting in her usual seat. She didn’t speak to me. After we presented our midterm assignments I got up to go to the bathroom. I returned to find the instructor and a few of the students gathered around my desk. The instructor saw me walk in and held up one of Charlie’s X-rated pit bull illustrations. “What’s the meaning of this?” He was mad as hell and Charlie had her face in her hands sobbing. “He made me look at them. He made me!” She had put her drawings on my desk and told the instructor I drew them and made her look at them. Everyone was looking at me like I was Jeffery Dahlmer. All I could come up with was, “Those aren’t mine. They’re hers! She’s the one making me look at them!” She started crying louder… “He made me jack off his dog!” The students howled. My only option was to calmly gather my things and leave with echoes of “Dude, what the fuck?” and “Sick!” I felt like I was going to throw up.

I walked out to my car, sick to my stomach and feeling the need to go home and take a long hot shower. As I got closer to my car, I saw that there was a note under the windshield wiper. I prayed it was ticket and not a note from Charlie. Of course, it was a note from her and, after having read it, I strangely felt a little better. It read: “All you had to do was fuck me.”

THE NEXT WORLD

2008-03-20T01:00:00.000-07:00

“It is an odd thing, but everyone who disappears is said to be seen in San Francisco. It must be a delightful city, and possess all the attractions of the next world.” -Oscar Wilde

As part of my plan of eventually relocating to Berlin, I have come to San Francisco. I could tell you that it’s because of the great German classes they have here or that I’ve got some good jobs lined up, but the real reason is because I had been drinking and driving a lot back home in LA. It was only a matter of time until I got busted by the cops or killed someone, so I sold my car and moved north. I now take streetcars to my language classes, bars and art openings.

My first opening in the city was at Space Gallery, a small, two-story gallery in the Polk Street area. The show was called “Vice.” As the title suggests, the art was supposed to represent people’s various addictions. As I walked toward the gallery, the street was full of transvestites and Muslims — all wearing dresses. There’s a mosque nearby and a trannie club with the marquee “DIVA’S!” in bright, red neon. That’s where all the “girls” were headed. It was an amazing sight.

Once inside the gallery, I immediately noticed that everyone there were friends and they all loved each other’s work. As I walked around and checked out the art, even with what little I know about what art is and isn’t, I couldn’t help but notice how boring it all was. There was one photo exhibit of people wearing S&M gear (yawn), a medicine cabinet hanging on the wall full of pills, illustrations of vaginas, (I kinda liked those), and other obvious choices. As I was finishing up my beer and getting ready to leave I was approached. “Hi there. You’re Scott’s friend, Kurt, right?”

“Yes. I remember you. What do you think of the show?”

“All I know is that it’s 9:30 and everyone is leaving. Not a good sign.”

“Are you one of the artists?” I asked him. “Naw, I live down the street. You want to come over? I got some pot cookies.” I thought about it for a second. I was bored. “Sure!”

We walked about four blocks up to his building. “Sorry for the mess. Let’s hang out on the couch.” On the way to the couch I detoured to the bathroom. I noticed small shiny packets lying all over the floor in front of the sink. They looked like little dead fish that had jumped out of the tub. After I zipped up, I picked one up. It was a topical medicine, Androgel. I put the spent packet down and returned to the couch. There was a very muscular black man on TV. Apparently he was a rap musician and was being investigated for steroid use. “They’re trying to nail this guy for buying steroids. He’s probably just using Androgel. Everyone’s doing it. You know, testosterone gel.”

“Is that what I saw in your bathroom? Are you using it?” I asked.

“Yeah. I get it from my friend. He’s a transgender guy. He gets it for free from his insurance and he sells me a little. I love it. It makes me feel like I’m thirteen again!”

“Your ‘transgender’ friend?” I asked.

“Yeah, you know how it is up here. He used to be a woman.”

I realize the City has a sizable population of them here. I have no problem with it myself. Hell, I thought I was transexual when I was 13.

I started telling my new friend how I wanted to be Pat Benetar. I used to wear my hair like her’s and sport really tight T-shirts. I would walk around sticking my lower jaw out as though I had an under bite like her. Then about a year later I changed it up and tried to look like Chrissie Hynde. I dyed my hair dark brown and wore bangs low over my eyes the way she does. For some reason no one ever said anything. I guess my mom thought it was a phase. My poor mom.

My friend was laughing pretty hard at this point. “Oh no! That’s brilliant!” The cookies were starting to hit me as I remembered my teens. I thought, what would my 13-year-old self think of me now — 40-years-old with no job, drunk every night and going to art shows surrounded by transvestites and Muslims? And then it came to me. I was a pretty smart kid. I would’ve said: “Well, all I do is sit in my room, smoking pot and listening to records. I sneak pain pills out of my mom’s purse and pop them while I put on her clothes and lip-synch to The Pretenders.

The air is full of hairspray, mist from the beach, car exhaust, pizza, cum and new records out of their sleeves. I realized, I’m still there. Only this time we gotta use some gel.

"I BECAME THE SECRET."

2007-10-24T10:51:00.000-07:00

My friend Pete and I went to an exhibit in West Hollywood for an artist who does ceramics. It was packed that night and very warm inside. They had run out of wine before we got there so we made do with the Diet Cokes. The artist was a young Japanese guy, which would explain all the Anime-looking creatures that were on display. He was tall and very thin, sporting one of those long, straight ’70s haircuts wearing a black-and-white striped jumpsuit with a white scarf wrapped around his neck — like an Asian Mr. Furley. I thought it was brilliant.

Hovering around him was an older, nebbish looking gentleman who refreshed his drinks and answered questions about the art from the attendees. I assumed he was the gallerist and interpreter because the artist couldn’t speak English. But then I noticed he spoke to him in English as well, and it was in that cute, soft way you talk to a baby or favorite pet. “Are you okaay? Do you want some juuice?” “Get a load of that.” Pete said. “What’s next?” I said. “Do you like ice cream? I have some for you in the bathroom...” As we laughed, I noticed the older guy looking at us unamused, so we left to check out what was going on at the Brewery Lofts. I told Pete I’d meet him there. On the way over, I stopped into a 7-Eleven for a six-pack, just in case the next show was as dry as the last one. Having recently fallen off the wagon, I figured the evening shouldn’t be wasted on Diet Cokes any further.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed a large trailer on the corner. It had a huge sign draped along its front that read: “Get Tested For Syphilis!” Dancing around in front of it was someone dressed-up like some sort of big, purple cartoon character, like the “Grape Man” in the Fruit Of The Loom commercials. But this character had a huge, menacing grin and pierced ears. I then realized it was a caricature of a syphilis bacterium. There had been a summer-long campaign by L.A.’s public health department targeting gays. Syphilis had spiked in recent years. I was walking up to the store when he spotted me and bounced over.

“Hey! You be careful tonight!” He handed me a bunch of condoms and lube and then patted me on the back. It was rather nice, like he was genuinely concerned for my safety. I could smell booze coming from the opening in the suit’s mouth. I told him “Thanks!”

“Hey no problem. So where you off to tonight?’

“Oh, I’m supposed to meet a friend out at the Brewery Lofts. We just left a show down the street.”

“Oh yeah, a real tiny place. No bigger than a studio apartment, right? I hear they lost their lease and tonight’s the last night for them. When you walk around dressed like an STD long enough, you learn things.” We laughed. “You know a lot of folks around here I’m sure.” “Oh yeah,” he said, “I take care of these boys walking up and down here. Just second nature I guess. I used to be a nurse in the Army until one day, while I was donating some furniture to the Goodwill, a mirror I was holding slipped out of its frame and sliced my fingers off. You can’t sew-up too many battle wounds with nubs.” I looked down at the hand he just used to give me the condoms. “Naw, it’s my left one.” He produced both hands and shook them a little. He was wearing large, white gloves like Minnie Mouse so I couldn’t see his missing fingers.

“Well damn!” I said, “That’s a hell of a story. If we were at a bar I’d buy you a drink, friend.” “Well shit, bring me out a 40! I’m due for a break, buddy!”

A few minutes later, I came out of the store with two 40-ounce beers in paper bags for us. I walked up, handed him his beer and sat next to him. “So, after losing your fingers, is this all you do now?” I asked. “Naw, I get disability. I hated being in the Army, I consider my lack of digits a mixed blessing.” I took a drink and tried to lighten the mood. “Well, at least you got to travel!” “Travel?” He yelled at me. “Jesus Christ, that was the WORST part of it. One day, while on leave in Thailand, I walked passed this guy in an open-air market that had a little girl sitting on his lap. She may have been his daughter, I didn’t know, but as I walked by he signaled me to look over at him. When I did, he lifted up her dress and spread her legs apart to show me her little… you know… little pussy. She just sat there looking around like she was waiting for a bus. I wanted to chop the guy’s fucking head off.” He paused a bit then continued, “Eugene O’Neill once described this moment. When he was a young guy working nightshift on a boat, the moon was bright and it lit up the ocean as far as he could see — it was in that moment, he said that ‘…an invisible hand reached down and drew back the veil on this life. I became the Secret.’” Buddy, I’ve seen dead men. Guys burned alive. But when that asshole offered me that little girl’s pussy, that’s when the veil was drawn back for me. The human race is disgusting.”

Our visit had turned dark and now he wasn’t talking anymore, as if I had shown up uninvited to a funeral. Like the kids who made Bum Fights, I bought him a beer so I could hang out with him and get some material for my column. It made me feel like an ass. I patted him on the back of his costume, “Hey, enjoy your beer, my friend is waiting for me. It’s been nice talking to you.” He perked up a little, “The pleasure was mine, buddy. Thanks for the beer.” I left my can behind next to him figuring he’d finish it. As I got to my car and opened the door, I heard him shout from behind me.

“Hey! I didn’t get your name.”

“Kurt. I didn’t get yours!”

“Steven. Sorry I chased you off. I don’t think you’re disgusting. Just everyone else!”

ARTS-N-CRAFTS NIGHT

2007-08-31T00:17:00.000-07:00

My neighborhood bar has an "Arts-N-Crafts" night each week. It's basically a great excuse to use glitter and paste while you get hammered. Existing somewhere between pure genius and total chaos in regards to the attendees, it's the hippest thing to do in Silver Lake each Wednesday night.

The event is held in the area normally used for dancing. I walked in and saw everyone milling about, showing each other what they'd done. Lots of folks were laying around on their stomachs as they worked on their projects. If it weren't for the highballs and pint glasses sitting next to them, they'd all would've looked like preschoolers – everyone giggling, rolling around on the floor coloring and clipping construction paper. I got my drink, grabbed some materials and looked for a place to sit. The floor was crowded, so I sat down next to an older, good-looking man near the far end of the room across the dance floor.

He saw me make way towards him and moved some of his things. "Hi there" I said. "Looks like we're working together this evening." He smiled, "We sure are! I'm Andrew." "Hi Andrew, I'm Kurt." We shook hands and got settled. "What's yours going to be?" I asked him. "I'm doing a portrait of my dogs. I have two dogs. Love em!"

"Oh that's cool. I can't have pets, my landlady won't let us have any. Besides, I'm afraid of dogs."

"Yes I know. I can tell," he told me. "How did you know? " I laughed.
"It's your forehead," he said flatly. "You have a one of those high 'Irish-Noble' foreheads. You're not going bald, you just have a very high hairline." (I wished he would've said ‘YOU'RE NOT GOING BALD’ a little louder. I've always thought that some guys didn't want to put much effort into dating me because they thought, "Well, he's cute now, but he's obviously going bald. I don't want to be around for THAT.") It's true, my family doesn't lose their hair, we just have enormous foreheads.

"OK, so why does that make me a target for dogs?" I asked him. "It acts like a radar dish. Dogs can sense your unease with them from a mile away. Isn't that true?

When I was small, every summer my sister Shelly and I were shipped out to Texas to stay with my father's family. His parents worked as caretakers of a large ranch in a little town named Dalhart. We loved it. We got to do cowboy stuff like ride horses, eat barbecue and take my grandfather's old pick up out for joyrides while he napped. One day, during one of our visits, Shelly and I were cleaning out one of the horse stalls, (as punishment for getting caught during an aforementioned joyride) when out of nowhere, two huge, black dogs came barking towards us — and it wasn't to play. They wanted to take a bite out us. We were scooping up horse poop when the dogs came. We screamed and ran for one of the high fence rails that surrounded a nearby stall. I remember myself, in an unforgivable act of cowardliness, pushing my younger sister out of the way and jumping up the rail first, leaving her to the dogs. Once on top, I was frozen with fear. The dogs were almost there and my poor sister stood there, arms outstretched to me crying, "Quick Kurtie, help me up! They're coming!" But I couldn't move. And then I saw it. In her eyes I could tell that she knew I wasn't going to lean over and help her. She was on her own. Thankfully, my grandfather came running around the corner with a shovel and banged one of the dogs atop the head, sending it and its companion yelping back to wherever they came from. He picked up my sister, lifted me off the rail and took us back to the house. Nothing was ever the same between my sister and I after that. She had lost confidence in me, and I never really won it back. Sometimes I think I wanted the dogs to eat her. But that's a whole other story.

I thought about that day as Andrew asked me his question, and wondered to myself that maybe dogs don't like me because I'm a coward. I'm the kind of guy who throws his little sister aside to save his own ass. Perhaps cowards taste better. We've got big, juicy legs from all the running away we do in our lives.

"Well," I told him, "maybe you're right. I've never had much luck with the dogs."
"Ah that's OK," he said. "At least you still have your looks."

As he said this, he reached over and caressed my leg. I was buzzed and now, depressed, after discovering why dogs really hate me. They know my secret. So, I just let the guy go for it on my legs, not because it was sexy but because it was kind of sweet. A strange, tender moment in the bar with the lights up and everyone running around showing each other what they did in arts and crafts class. The way children do. They way my sister and I did before I let her down.

LOVE + SKIN + BONES

2007-02-17T18:33:00.000-08:00

My friend Paul and his partner John were in town from San Francisco for a visit and to check out the new exhibit “Skin + Bones” at MOCA. I’d spent the entire holiday season in bed, hacking and coughing, so I was looking forward to getting out. I also thought it would be a great chance to show them that LA wasn’t the Botox and silicone waste-land that San Franciscans are required to believe. As all Angelenos know, hating Los Angeles has become as cliché up there as tie-dye on baby boomers, and goatees on lesbians.

I pulled up to the arrivals area at LAX and there they were, Paul in jeans and a Gap sweatshirt and John in leather hot pants, combat boots and a red tank top emblazoned with a picture of a cowboy eating a hotdog. John wasted no time setting the mood for the entire evening: “This airport is ridiculous. Hello! 1985 called, it wants its design back!” I tried to ignore him, concentrating only on getting us out of the “white zone” before his outfit attracted Homeland Security. We were off to the Standard downtown, where they were staying.

The drive over was quiet, so I kept trying to start a conversation. “So, how is work, Paul?”

“It’s fine.”

“You still at the health food store, John?”

“Yes.”

Obviously, there had been a fight during the trip and it was still simmering. I stopped asking questions and kept driving until we got to the hotel. We were running late for the show at MOCA, so we agreed we should get ready and leave soon. Paul asked John if he was going to change.

“No, why?” he said.

“Because, you’re wearing hot pants and combat boots — we’re going to a museum downtown, not a beer bust south of Market!”

“I’m wearing this! Can’t we grab a drink upstairs first?” John asked me. “Yes, absolutely!” I shouted — I needed a drink.

We pushed our way through all the suits and went straight for the rooftop bar. While sipping our drinks, I gave them the lowdown on the whole “downtown revitalization” thing currently going on in LA, but it wasn’t long before they started fighting again. I struck up a conversation with a nice couple seated next to us. They were local architects and they told me they had just seen the “Skin + Bones” show. I begged them to tell me about it since it looked like I wasn’t going to be seeing it that night. The husband hated it and his wife said the only thing she really liked was a video installation near the entrance. It showed a guy taking a shirt and folding and ironing it over and over again until it was a tiny square. She said the rest of the show was an “architectural beat off — buildings that will never be built and clothes that can never be worn.” They ordered some quesadillas and invited me to join them since my friends had decided to take a dip in the pool. I looked over and, sure enough, Paul and John were in the pool. The fight that had started somewhere around 30 thousand feet, was now a wet, drunk, episode of Queer as Folk. I grabbed a quesadilla, thanked them for their company and ran off to get my visitors.

Before I made it poolside, the security guards had already yanked them out. They were still yelling at each other as the guards escorted them to the elevator. I shrugged my shoulders and went back to hang out with the couple at the bar. “What’s the problem with your friends?” The husband asked. “Hot pants and combat boots.” I said. “Oh my” said the wife. “You’d expect something like that up in, say, San Francisco, but not here.” I agreed and bought them both another round.

"AHH! IST ES ÜBERALL!"

2007-01-11T12:00:00.000-08:00

Last year I visited friends in Berlin. It was my first time in Europe and my last time traveling there while it’s still winter — it was freezing. But my friends and I made do with lots of potato soup and liquor. The two guys I was visiting are photographers so a good portion of my trip was spent at art openings around the city. One gallery, Peres Projects, belongs to a fellow Angeleno, Javier Peres, so I made sure we stopped by for his latest opening that month by artist Amie Dicke called “Private Property.”

The gallery is in the Kreuzberg neighborhood of Berlin. Lots of punks, artsy types and Turks. Inside a complex of small galleries, it’s right next to one of several small canals that run off the Spree river. Since it was winter, it was very gray and cold — like pictures we’ve all seen from the ’80s of East Berliners secretly gathering in abandoned buildings to hear some illegal rock music or dig a tunnel to the west.

My friend and I walked in and looked for Javier. We found him, but he was busy, so we checked out the art. It was your typical art crowd. But everyone’s speaking German and I couldn't tell if folks are praising or condemning the work, so I had no idea whether I should act as if I love it or hate it — like I usually do when going to an opening. I just kept my head down, grabbed a beer and headed into the first exhibit with my pal in tow.

Dicke’s work was in the main gallery and it appears she’s covered a collection of furniture in black duct tape with a plaster cast of her leg right where it would be if she had been sitting on the couch that was amongst the taped-up living room set — in fact, the tape was everywhere. She had even created a large, black-tape area rug. There was also a cabinet full of furs, and more plaster casts of her body parts. In the next room, another one of her plastered legs was seductively posed on top of a table, like all the furniture, mummified with the black tape. One of her hands, preserved for the ages, was resting on a chest of drawers placed amongst what appeared to be a hair brush and various beauty supplies. There was also a collection of paintings and collages, each depicting cut-outs of models from fashion magazines — again, she chose just the negative spaces between the legs. It was then that I started to get it: the artist is both attracted to our modern concept of beauty, fashion and culture, and repulsed by it. She carefully wraps up, cements and cuts out her subjects’ “private parts.”

Everyone at the show was very nice and engaging. My friend and Javier are pretty well known in the city, so I got to meet quite a few folks. If it weren’t for the fact that I had only arrived from L.A. a few hours earlier, I would’ve seemed quite the "Continental," in for the week to see some art shows then off to Ibiza for the weekend to eat fresh melon and drink champagne. I think it was because of the jetlag that the drinks were hitting me fast. By my third one I had ditched my friend and was in the other room acting like an idiot with two guys I had just met. One was tall and lanky; in an austere, Abraham Lincoln sort of way. Scruffy brown hair, lose dark clothes and calm, dark features like an undertaker. I think it’s because of this that I hardly remember his friend at all. He was short and blonde. I just remember thinking when I met him, “Finally, a blonde German!” I forget their names now, and I doubt if I ever really asked in the first place. All I do remember is that they told me they were looking for trouble and I wanted in. After a few more rounds of a vodka lemonade drink that’s popular there, they grew tired of mere drunkenness and decided it was time to push things up a notch. They offered me some Ecstasy. I took it. It was 2 am, and in Berlin, that’s when things are just getting started.

Once outside, I pulled my scarf up and followed the two men a few blocks. They took me to another club. Now this was the kind of bar you’d expect to find in Berlin. Sure, when you walk in there’s a regular area with a bar and dance floor but there’s also a large subterranean space beneath the club where all the magic takes place. On the upper level there’s all sorts of folks dancing around, drinking and cruising, but, make no mistake, the area below is why everyone’s there. The three of us were pretty drunk and the ecstasy hadn’t kicked in yet so we stood by the bar to order up some drinks. While we’re ordering, some folks my friends introduced me to earlier at the gallery ran up to me and welcomed me. “Have you gone downstairs yet?” one of them asked. I told him I was going down after I got my beer. “If you want a cute boy, you should go now before they all hook up and move on to another club” he told me. I grabbed my drink and headed downstairs with his group, leaving Abe Lincoln and the blonde guy behind at the bar.

Downstairs was packed and, just as I thought, it was a “play space” somewhere for guys to go and screw around. I started making my way through the different areas, each made of shipping palates placed on their sides and arranged like a big maze. The drugs were kicking in and the guys I came down there with had disappeared so I started walking around, looking at the faces of everyone I came across.

There was an older man, at least in his late ’50s, following me dangling a baggy of what appeared to be cocaine or speed up in front of his face, possibly as some sort of incentive to sneak away with him into one of the darker areas of the maze. I smiled at him and strolled on, having fun looking at the guys. While walking around, I also discovered that I couldn’t get an erection — it was the Ecstasy. I turned into one of those guys you see at these places, walking around rubbing their dicks, staring at everyone. Even though I was extremely high, I was embarrassed. Hands would pop out of nowhere trying to cop a feel of my crotch, but I pushed them all away.

After a few minutes of walking around I bumped into the two guys I came to the club with. “There you are!” Abe yelled at me. I guess I was in trouble. He pulled me closer while the blonde moved in behind me. He asked “Why did you run away?” in a Colonel Klink “We have ways of making you talk” sort of way. I figured the best way to keep myself from starting to giggle was to just start kissing him, so I did. They both started taking turns making out with me and since I was high and didn’t want to get into anymore trouble, I obliged. I still couldn’t get an erection, but I got the impression I wouldn’t be needing one from then on out. And as I suspected, they pushed me down on my knees — all the way down wondering if their foreskins were clean. But I was committed now, so in the spirit of international cooperation, I dove in.

Their foreskins were clean, but the one thing that bothered me was how crazy they had become — crazy as in rapists. They each took turns violently shoving their cocks into my mouth. And then they started calling me names and saying things totally unnecessary, like “Eat it bitch!” But, I was the American, so I felt that I had to prove we’re just as piggish as they were “You like it when I do this, no?” The tall one said. “You pretty, little, surfer bitch…” Surfer bitch? Where did he get that? Maybe it was because I’m from California. Either way, he did say I was pretty, so I kept sucking.

After a while the blonde guy said something to Abe in German and no sooner did he pull out of my mouth than the blonde shoved himself in. It went on like this for a while, and I kept thinking, “How did a night at an art opening end up like this?” And just then, I smelled something.

To our right was a man in a sling being ravanged by a number of other men. He was totally nude with his mouth gagged by a towel or something like it. The men fucking him were… well, very forceful. I looked over towards the group and just then realized what I was smelling. Shit. The man in the sling had shit himself as he was getting fucked. I’d obviously made the discovery first, since I was the closest to the floor. I pulled the cock out of my mouth just as someone yelled: “Ah! It’s everywhere!” With a single movement, the crowd of men stepped back and began checking themselves. And as each one lifted his hand to his nose to see if it, in fact, was everywhere, they each cried out and ran off to find the washroom. Needless to say my dates where no longer in the mood. The smell was pretty bad and was now wafting through the maze. Guys were starting to make for the stairs. Pushing his way through the crowd came the manager.

Calmly asking the men to step aside, he found me there, standing next to the guy in the sling who was, by now, just pitifully creaking back and forth in his leather harness. The manager, wearing kakis and a red polo shirt, seemed kind and familiar, like your favorite uncle showing up to take you fishing. He asked me something in German. I just shook my head. So he leaned in closer and asked in English, “Is this person with you?” “No.” I said. “I just found him here.” Sizing up the situation, he asked, “Could you help me with him?” “Sure,” I said.

We took the towel out of the guy’s mouth. He looked over at the manager and started frantically speaking to him in German. I concentrated on getting him out of the sling all the while trying to breath through my mouth and not getting anything on me. Once he was freed, the manager had me follow them to a room down one of the halls nearby. At the end, was a door leading into what looked like was some kind of break room for the employees. Inside was a sink, water cooler and microwave as well as lots of various bar related items. There was also a private bathroom, where the manager carefully whisked the poor fellow into.

After getting the guy inside, the manager closed the door behind him. It keept popping open, showing the guy inside on the toilet, trying to clean himself up. The manager tore a big piece of duct tape from a group of electrical cables nearby and taped the door shut.

He turned and smiled at me, “What a night, ya? Thank you for your help.” “Of course,” I said. “I felt bad for him. It must have been very embarrassing.” He waved aside my comment, “Naw, business as usual. Where are you from?” “Los Angeles.” I said. “Ah, I love L.A.” He looks behind me and then points. “Could you hand me that popcorn?” I turned around and saw a box of microwave popcorn atop a stack of boxes. “I burn it to get rid of the smell.” I grabbed a pack and handed it to him. He tossed it in the microwave and turned the timer all the way around. Just then one of the bartenders from upstairs burst in shouting in German, “He said a few guys want their money back. I’ll return soon. Let the popcorn burn and keep the door open so the smell can go outside.” OK, I said. “And if the bathroom door pops open again, put some more tape on it. Just tear it off something, it’s everywhere.”

DRIVING MR. ULRICH

2006-10-07T15:25:00.000-07:00

Ron Athey’s works over the years have not only challenged his audience, but also his endurance. From having his lips sewn shut to balancing himself in a proctologist’s chair while pulling strings of pearls from his rectum, his productions are, needless to say, demanding. While recently attending his first solo exhibition at Western Projects, I was amazed at how even in video stills and set pieces — seeing just the documentation of his work, still makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up — well that, and interacting with the characters a show like this usually attracts.

I arrived late with my buddy Pete, an artist friend of mine who usually takes me to these things. After we got in, we checked out the photos and stage pieces from Ron’s latest performance. “Which one do you like best?” I turned around recognized one of the guys working at the gallery was standing behind me. “I don’t know,” I told him. “I’ve seen most of these shows in person so, of course, I’m just looking to see if they snapped a picture of me in the audience.” I was joking but I don’t think the he got it. “Okaaaaay . . . ” he said, turning away to find a REAL art critic to chat with.

Earlier, there had been a larger crowd, but by the time we arrived it had whittled down to a small, loyal group outside the gallery on the back patio. I visited with Ron there and he introduced me to some folks. Most of my time spent there was talking about the show and drinking with Pete and a few other people. One of them was an odd, older fellow who looked as though he just woke up, threw on some dirty clothes and hurried to the show. Pete pulls me over and whispers, “Hey Kurt, come here, this guy is fascinating!”

The old guy looked like Mr. Magoo, short and round, wearing thick, coke-bottle glasses that lay crooked on his face. He’s talking to the guy I just tried to joke with inside, about how he worked as a child actor and was in movies with Peter Lore, Grace Kelly and Marilyn Monroe. “I used to take naps on her lap,” he told him. “And she had these big, hairy arms, like a monkey.” By then, he had us all eating out of the palm of his hand. The evening went on like this with the old guy telling us about all his exploits during the Golden Age of Hollywood and of his extensive art collection until a slight breeze kicked up and, being downwind from the him, we got a nose full of . . . hobo — the sour, alley-soaked stench of cheap vodka, wine and the Salvation Army. I took a closer look and noticed his clothes were stained and his pants crammed full of complimentary bottles of beer and water. “Holy crap!” I thought, “this guy’s homeless, and he’s pulling one over on all us art snobs!” It was then that he kicked it up a notch told us he was Skeet Ulrich’s father. Oh boy. “You know” he says, “I hear there’s more food over at Newspace. It’s their last show and tonight’s the big send off.” Pete overhears and agrees that we should all go.

We got outside and, magically, out of nowhere, the old guy was holding two huge duffle bags. Pete and I looked at each other. It was confirmed, he’s homeless and, apparently brilliant. This guy walked in off the street, filthy dirty, and convinced everyone he was a collector, and I couldn’t even get a laugh out of the help. Here it comes. He looks at us, “Can I get a ride with you guys?” Pete and I start to stammer and look around. “Well, I think I’m just dropping Pete off at home and calling it a night,” I said. “No problem,” he said. “Just drop me off at Sunset. I’ll call Skeet and have him come get me.”