My sister sent me an e-mail saying, “Please call me, I’d like to talk to you.” So, of course, I start to think of all the negative things she could want to ask me. I figured she read my website www.theroosterstail.com and found it completely offensive and she was gonna tell me that I couldn’t write about her. Shit, what do I do? Do I compromise my artistic freedom and not write about her? Do I change how I’d really talk about her to something more appropriate? I don’t like to do that. So all day I dread the call and finally, 20 minutes before work, I call her. She picks up and is in a meeting. “Hold on, I’ve been waiting for this call all day. Let me tell everyone that the meeting is over and I’ll call you right back. Be sure to pick up!” So we hang op and I light my cigarette as I stand outside The Cupcake Factory. One of the cute Latinos walks up. I saw hello. He asks to bum a cig. I love Latinos who smoke, because not many do of them do. They drink and do a shit load of coke, but none of them smoke. Just then I get a call from my sister. So we catch up real quickly and she tells me that she’s been reading my website. She likes it! I breathe a sigh of relief. Then she is quiet for a minute. “O.K.,” she says, “I don’t know how to put this…. I’m just gonna come out with it…. Uh…. Were you molested as a child?” I laugh and say no. I wasn’t. I tell her that there were many times I fantasized about getting molested by the male police officer who lived down the street from us. But no, I wasn’t molested. Sweet little thing for caring about me…. But then it makes me think, is my writing that dark and twisted that it looks like I’ve been molested? Maybe my core audience is at the offices of Children’s Services (in the reception room, not behind the desk).
I knew this one was a lezzie the day she was old enough to wear Crocs.
You can call a gay out at a very early age. When you’re 5 you don’t give a fuck what anybody thinks. You do what you want without fearing people’s opinions. I used to dress up in Mom’s clothes all the time and was as happy as a clam on high tide.
One time I made my younger brother dress up as Dad and I dressed up as Mom. My older brothers had gone to the store and I thought it’d be funny if when they returned we were having a tea party as Mom and Dad. I remember hearing the car come up the drive way and telling my brother to “get in character.” We pretended to be having an adult conversation as my brothers came in the house. When my older brother saw us he said, “That’s sick! Get out of those clothes! Jesus!” I just laughed and carried on with the conversation. I thought I was so funny—but I knew that something was different by his tone and harsh words. I continued dressing in Mom’s clothes for a little longer after that but stopped when I was 6 or 7, when I learned that only faggots dressed in their mom’s clothes and faggot was something bad. Boys weren’t supposed to be faggots.
It’s unfortunate that I was taught at an early age that dressing up as a girl was not a good thing, but there was a brief time, The Shiloh Years, when I was happy and comfortable. I treasure those years.
I still steal. I don’t know why I do it. It’s never for the thrill. It’s normally because I don’t want to spend money on the thing I’m stealing. Like the tiny light bulbs that go in the ceiling fan. They’re expensive and they burn out quickly. Waste of money. So I steal them. The latest thing I put in my pocket was a stick of butter. A fucking stick of butter! If I were to go to jail for stealing a stick of butter… I’d use it to lube up my churro maker to ease the friction.
I was waiting in line at the M Bar. I was wishing that I that had worn some kind of mink or raccoon tail or anything with an animals tail, as many of the cool girls had some sort of rat hanging from their purse or ear. It’s the style and I don’t have it. Anyways, this lawyer walks up and we meet. He’s good looking. He has a five o’clock shadow, blonde hair and he’s in good shape (his arms have definition). He opens his mouth and is a douche. But a charming douche, like any lawyer can be… He begins, “So I just parked in two spots, so that nobody could block me in.” I smile and think “asshole,” but then think “I’d like to lick your asshole.” When we sit down, he goes and gets a drink. He comes back and says, “So I ordered this really expensive bourbon, and the bar tender only fills it this much. So I call him over and tell him, ‘Dude, come on, this is a nice bourbon, fill it up a bit more.’ The guy walks away and then the other bar tender comes over and says, ‘Man, that’s a weak pour, lemme fill it up a little more,’ and he fills it up more. I was thinking ‘that’s more like it.’ But on my way over I tripped and half of it spilt on my crotch. So it wasn’t even worth all the trouble.” He laughs. I secretly want to throw my drink in his face, but I really want to crawl under the table and give him a blow job.
I remember watching it with my brothers when we were little. I’d watch it admiring how graceful the models were. Their hand slowly and delicately moving across a shiny new Chrysler. I’d often imitate their movement when I was alone. I’d run my hand over the edges of the fridge. With my pinky bent, I’d open the fridge door and pretend that the camera did a close up of the milk carton. I’d run my hands over the handle of the jug and then smile and close the door. My brothers, on the other hand, watched the show strictly for the “Bouncing Broncos.” A “Bouncing Bronco” was a woman who had large tits that jiggled when she ran down the isle. They’d hoot and holler and say, “Yeah, look at that Bronco. Look at ‘er go!” I never really found the Broncos interesting. Although I remember thinking what it would be like to have breasts.
I lived super close to Whistler Mt. My senior year of college some friends and I took a weekend trip up there (I lived in Seattle). We rented a cabin for the weekend. The drive upt here was really pretty. My firend and I blasted James Brown as we drove the windy road around the crystal lake that reflected the full moon… Everyone raved about B.C. bud, so I had high expectations. We roamed the village streets for about an hour until we found some guy that was selling it. It was shit! It was dry and the high was about as enjoyable as underwater basket weaving. However, I did enjoy it one day, but that was because I was alone. I had spent 3 hours trying to get down the hill (it was my first run) when I decided to call it a day and head back to the cabin. I smoked some pot and listend to Bjork and sat on the balcony looking at the snow covered hills and lake. It was really pretty. I wished I had a boyfriend to fuck at the time. The rest of the gang came rolling in a few hours later and we drank ourselves silly. I kissed a boy for the first time— in a game of truth or dare. It was only a peck, but it was my first. I have fond memories of Whistler.
While having a cig, I locked myself out on the patio. I learned two things: 1) always check the door before you go out and 2) it pays to be skinny enough to fit through your tiny bathroom window (and always leave the seat DOWN so that your foot doesn’t fall in the toilet).