I went to the post office today because my travel agent pointed out that my passport was going to expire a month after my trip, and supposedly you’re not allowed to travel overseas six months before it expires, a rule I don’t understand but will abide by as long as it gets me to Africa. While waiting in line some guy suggested renewing it at the library because “the people here are imbeciles and it’ll take forever.” He was standing in front of me so I trusted that it wasn’t just a ploy to get ahead in line. I thanked him and walked down the street to the library, which is next door to the Beverly Hills City Hall, one of my favorite buildings in town. The colors, curves, and grandiosity of the 1932 Spanish Renaissance building makes me feel all fuzzy. I asked Farhad the security guard which way would allow me to get to the tower. He shook his head and put his hands together as though they were cuffed.

 

     “It is prohibited. You can not go up there,” he said.

 

     “Booo,” I said. “Why not?”

 

     “Ever since 9/11 they closed it down,” he said.

 

     “And it’s still a thing?”

 

     “Very much so,” he said.

 

     “OK, thank you,” I said then walked around the outside.



Still Just A Guy Friend, And Liking That

     “What are you guys,” Rosie asked.

     “Just friends,” I said. “Who like to go on dates. And have sex.”

     “Are you dating anyone else?” she asked.

     “No.”

     “Then he’s your boyfriend,” she said.

     We don’t talk on the phone. We text maybe every other day and go on dates every two weeks. Three dates ago we met up right after he got back from a business trip to Italy. We planned on making dinner but when I arrived he was too tried and didn’t want to have to clean the kitchen afterwards. I offered to do it all but he said, “Let me just take you to dinner.” We smoked a joint after dinner and he started to fall asleep on the couch. I kissed him good night and said, “I’m gonna let you catch up on your jetlag.” Two dates ago I canceled because my manager pleaded with me to work a double so I did him a favor. Before last night’s date, I struggled not to masturbate so that I could save my load for him. You know, something guys do that’s special for other guys.  It wasn’t long before our trousers were around our ankles and he said, “Lemme shut the front door just in case the neighbor walks out. He probably won’t, but you never know.” Once finished, I went in the bathroom and used his last baby wipe to clean the sticky off my skin and lube from my crack. We got dressed and went to a Mexican restaurant, one that’s been around long enough to where the Mattachine Society probably met there for cocktails after their meetings. It was dark and classic and had a great gay presence. We sipped Patron on the rocks while waiting for our main courses.

     “I’m noticing that I get up more frequently to go to the bathroom,” I said while breaking apart the shell of the guacamole bowl and throwing a piece in my mouth. “I used to be able to sleep through a pee like no other.  I don’t know if it’s because I can’t tolerate discomfort like I used to, or if my bladder is just smaller, but I’m waking up to go pee.”

     “Just wait until you lose your stream,” he said. “Those quick trips to the bathroom last a lot longer.”

     Losing my stream? Yet another thing I get to look forward to. It reminded me of Dad and how he used to come in the bathroom while we we’re taking a shower (the downfall of having only one bathroom and a father who drank a six pack every night) and his pees would last for-ev-er. Trickle, trickle, trickle. I’d leave the conditioner in extra long just to kill time so when I finally got out my slick afro would fall in my eyes, just like Simba’s mane when he got soaked.


     ”I don’t give a shit what Rick says,” Trish said defiantly. “Nobody tells me I can’t do something.”

     ”I totally agree, Trish,” Lana said. “But you’ve never ridden a bike before.”

      “Oh, now you’re gonna be an asshole like Rick?” she said pushing the bike up the hill. “Whose side are you on?”

      “I just,” Lana said softly. “I just think you should start on flat ground. Get to know the pedals. Here,” she said as she wrapped her hand around the post, “I can hold onto the seat and guide you. It’ll be fun, just you and me.”

     ”Lana,” Trish said sternly. “Remove your hand from the bike.”

     Afraid, Lana did as she was told then clasped her hands in front of her mouth, trying to keep from saying more.

     ”Now get down there and let Rick know that I’m coming,” Trish said as she put her leg over the top tube. She watched as Lana ran down the hill, almost tripping on one of the rivets in the ground. Once Lana appeared as small as an ant, Trish flipped her hair back and yelled, “Outta my way gators!” then pushed off.


     Last night’s episode of Drag Race was, yet again, phenomenal. Everything from the role reversal marriages to Joslyn Fox getting eliminated, I couldn’t have asked for more. Adore and BenDeLaCreme should go next, leaving the top three to deserving queens Ms. Lake, Ms. Act, and Ms. Del Rio. Without a doubt, though, Bianca should win, by a landslide. Like Bruce Vilanch said in the previous episode, “she’s the real deal.” There is nothing unpolished about this queen. In and out of drag she’s professional, witty, gorgeous, and most of all human!  


     Last night I got sloppy all right and this morning I was completely wrecked. I rolled over around noon with a splitting headache and checked my phone. I had a notification from my travel agent saying to contact her immediately with passport information because she might be able to get me a free room in Dubai during my layover. My head was throbbing and body ached, which kept me paralyzed under the covers, but the anxiety of not responding A.S.A.P. started swirling in my chest. I haven’t experienced this in about a month, since the last time I got wasted, and remembered why I CAN’T drink like that anymore. It’s just not worth it. 
     I threw the covers off and angrily stomped to the drawer where I rummaged through it for my passport. I can’t believe it’s been ten years since I got it! Ten years since I went to Spain! I love my passport. I’m not too picky when it comes to criteria for dating men: they can eat at Chick-fil-A, be on the board of directors at Exxon, like pussy on the side, but if they don’t have a passport then there’s no chance of me dating you longer than a ride to the airport.

     Last night I got sloppy all right and this morning I was completely wrecked. I rolled over around noon with a splitting headache and checked my phone. I had a notification from my travel agent saying to contact her immediately with passport information because she might be able to get me a free room in Dubai during my layover. My head was throbbing and body ached, which kept me paralyzed under the covers, but the anxiety of not responding A.S.A.P. started swirling in my chest. I haven’t experienced this in about a month, since the last time I got wasted, and remembered why I CAN’T drink like that anymore. It’s just not worth it. 

     I threw the covers off and angrily stomped to the drawer where I rummaged through it for my passport. I can’t believe it’s been ten years since I got it! Ten years since I went to Spain! I love my passport. I’m not too picky when it comes to criteria for dating men: they can eat at Chick-fil-A, be on the board of directors at Exxon, like pussy on the side, but if they don’t have a passport then there’s no chance of me dating you longer than a ride to the airport.


      I was counting how many days I’ve worked straight and today was #29! Twenty-nine god damn days.  I’ve hit a point now where I’m just numb to it, although there are a few instances where I’m walking up to a table and all I wanna do is step around it and continue walking out the door, down the escalator, to the parking garage, get in my car, lock the doors and scream, but then I think about all the moola I’m making and how it’d be nice to maybe buy something flashy, like a piece of gold, at the airport in Dubai while I’m on my 16 hour layover to Tunisia. Something flashy, yeah, that sounds nice. 
     Well, by the divine grace of God I have my first day off tomorrow and I’m celebrating by getting sloppy! Ron Ron invited me to a house party in the HIlls. Apparently the host’s boyfriend is out of town, hence no tagging, so he’s throwing a little gathering. I don’t give a shit, just show me to the bar! 

      I was counting how many days I’ve worked straight and today was #29! Twenty-nine god damn days.  I’ve hit a point now where I’m just numb to it, although there are a few instances where I’m walking up to a table and all I wanna do is step around it and continue walking out the door, down the escalator, to the parking garage, get in my car, lock the doors and scream, but then I think about all the moola I’m making and how it’d be nice to maybe buy something flashy, like a piece of gold, at the airport in Dubai while I’m on my 16 hour layover to Tunisia. Something flashy, yeah, that sounds nice. 

     Well, by the divine grace of God I have my first day off tomorrow and I’m celebrating by getting sloppy! Ron Ron invited me to a house party in the HIlls. Apparently the host’s boyfriend is out of town, hence no tagging, so he’s throwing a little gathering. I don’t give a shit, just show me to the bar!