Broken Down

I have come undone. I have watched for the last year as my colleagues have packed their bags and said goodbye. And I was the grim reaper as I set the date and signed and sealed their fate. Friday I sat in the bathroom of my office as my best friend reminded me how to breathe. I watched as my hands tightened into these perfect right angles and yet I couldn’t shed a tear even as my heart pounded against my chest. I could have sworn I could see the pulse through my sweater. And as I lay in my panic stricken state, my colleague and friend questioned his relevance and began the process of ending his life.

I have sat through meeting after meeting all week long fully composed. The only difference is my usual attire of jeans and boots was replaced with blouses and heels. I think I thought I could mask my own inner turmoil in Donna Karan. Even under the brim of my vintage fedora I felt blinded by the weeks events. While I had planned to say goodbye to the latest round of casualties, I had no room for more.

I couldn’t seem to utilize my usual escape of total distraction through the company of friends’ as I stayed holed up in my home. It seems almost impossible that I came home each night after work. I reached out too in my usual way through cryptic emails asking for company yet never really saying what I really want. And as quickly as I made plans, I found excuses to negate them.

I am running. It’s in my dream and it’s the same street. Every night I am running down Market Street. It’s early morning and there are the suits and the cars and the buses and the cabs and I am just running by everyone. I don’t know where I am running to and I never seem to stop until the buzz of my alarm reminds me I am still in bed. And as I actually walk down Market each morning on my way to work, I can feel my legs burning. Begging me to just run. I look at the faces and begin to wonder what it would look like to just see me run in all my work clothes and my backpack bouncing up and down against my back.

In reality, I know exactly where I would go and how long it would take me to get there. It’s the same walk I used to take when I lived in San Francisco years before. I remember the first day it happened. I left work in the Tenderloin and hours later found myself on Ocean Beach. By the time I got there I felt calm and at ease. The day was behind me and I could finally breath.

The Naughty Drawer

Aww the naughty drawer…. Doesn’t everyone have one?

While having dinner with a friend she mentioned to me that she always hides the contents of her “naughty drawer” before bringing a “date” over. It kind of perplexed me that she would choose to hide anything. After all, don’t you want your date to know what’s available bedside? The last guy to see the contents of my naughty drawer simply smiled and said, “you got to love a girl who keeps her naughty drawer well stocked with batteries and condoms”. And as I was blushing, I couldn’t help but think I hadn’t even realized what someone else would see when that drawer was open wide.

I began to think about what make up the key ingredients of a well-stocked naughty drawer. Certainly sex and the singleton requires that every basic bedside cabinetry have condoms and lube. I think I first began the mantra that “lube is everyone’s best friend” back in college when I did presentations to other students on making safer sex fun. I remember once having a paramour who seemed nearly upset over the suggestion of lube and literally refused to entertain the incorporation of lube in the bedroom. I also remember leaving shortly after he made his opinion known.

I suspect that most women also have some sort of battery-operated device if not more than one. I remember the day the Sex and the City episode aired regarding the “rabbit”. I remember having dinner with friends and talking about the device and underlying all our thoughts was do any of us have one. Sure enough one of my friends did and the next bottle of wine was spent asking each other about our favorite toys and why we loved them. And having dated my share of douche bags, I also recall a conversation in which my date let me know in no uncertain terms, toys were tantamount to cheating. That was another short lasting meal.

I also would guess that most men and women have some sort of “porn”. Well I guess it’s called porn when it’s in the form of pictures and “erotica” when it’s some overtly descriptive book or anthology of stories. The internet may have changed this though. Most guys I know will freely discuss their favorite sites and have even been kind enough to share links with me with images and comments. This of course opens the Pandora’s box in the naughty drawer and can even become the “deal breaker” in dating.

Then there are the contents that don’t fit inside of the drawer. Suitcases of rope, a closet with handcuffs and a ball gag, the wall of whips and my personal fav, only due to the shock value, was the couple that had the metal-spiked gloves on their wall above their bed. Bless them for letting their entire birthday party know as we set our jackets down and noticed their wall o-fun, that this was one kinky couple.

Ghost

I am realizing that I am actually nervous. I am leaving for Los Angeles in just 2 days. It’s strange; it used to be home. Seems like a lifetime ago. And for the first time since I left, I am going to spend time with the people who were part of my everyday life. I left that life in 2000 and never looked back.

They knew me as a “we”. They never knew me outside of this definition. And when I lived in Los Angeles, I was a grad student; buried in books and working a full-time job. And on the surface, it all looked fine. I kept everyone at an arm’s length because just like the proverbial impressionist painting, my life looked fine from afar. But if you got really close you would see how fucked up it really was.

I guess the most difficult part of seeing these guys is that they did really know. They really saw all of it. And just like me, they were powerless. We all watched him slowly killing himself. Well, they watched. As for me; this was my life. I think I spent much of it with my eyes closed, hoping that when I opened them I would see a different picture. It was my sick secret. As long as I never spoke about it, it wasn’t real.

I remember the day I left. I just walked out the door, got in my car and drove. I knew then I would not be coming back. I was done with Los Angeles. I never told anyone I was leaving. I just left. I remember the ride up the Grapevine. I remember pulling over because I was crying so hard I could barely breath. And I remember going down into the central valley as the music was blaring on my stereo and thinking I had escaped.

Quote of the Day...

Thank you random homeless guy for screaming this. I still can't figure out what it means.

"He's a muffdiver driving a single bed on a double wide"

X-mas Tales from a Tenderloin Stripclub

So it's that time of year again when you start thinking about how you will be spending your holidays. I couldn't help but think about how I spent last Christmas...

Jim Beam, St. Ides and I had a wonderful time slipping ones down the g-strings of toothless "exotic dancers" in my favorite neck of the woods. Now, my intention was to have an evening of x-mas cheer visiting friends. And my night even began that way. An old friend and I decided to bust out the skateboards and toodle door to door and say hello to friends bearing gifts of home-made marmelade and lemon bars. And while back in the day i was a pretty good boarder, I was now equipped with a helmet and pads. I felt at home with the comforting smells of x-mas, St. Ides and weed. Now bear in mind I had not celebrated the holidays with Jim before and I am not sure I will again. He turned out to be not such a good influence. Or perhaps it was the rush of the oh so "cheerful memories" that shifted the tides for me.

Either way, happy holidays to the Aborigine who played pool worse than me and remembered me from a bar brawl in Indonesia and happy holidays to my new friend from Chicago who told me that she was looking forward to living in SF so she could have an ass as tight as mine. And happy holidays to my favorite heavy-metal skater for kickin' it with me in between screamin' calls with his ex. I was thrilled to be a part of your holiday love for one another last year. And I am sure she was thrilled to know we ran out of ones. I hope this holiday brings lots of love and throat lozenges.

And thank you to Peaches, Cheri, and Loqueesha (sorry if mispelled). I truly appreciated the pole dancing lesson and dating advice. I truly hoped you ladies had a wonderful holiday. And while at the moment I am not planning to make it down to the club, if I do, I know you will let me take a turn on the pole in my bike helmet and knee pads.

Free

The knock came earlier than I expected. I could hear my coffee pot gurgle as the last of the coffee brewed into its carafe. The two of them stood out on my doorstep dressed in mostly black. The slight peak of their badges became apparent to me as I opened the door. As I let them in I noticed the unmarked vehicle in front of my house. I had expected them last week.

The last time they had showed at my doorstep was in 1997. I was living in San Francisco then with my first love. It was my birthday and we were late to meet my parents for dinner. It was to be the first time he met my family. I naively told the men in black I had to go, that people were waiting for me. To which they let me know I was detained. The last time I had heard the word detention was in high school and similarly, I had no rights. I had to stay. I remember excusing myself to call the restaurant. My parents were waiting. This was before cell phones when you had to rely on the kindness of a stranger on the other end of the phone. I spoke slowly to my father telling him I would not be able to make the meal. I asked him not to come: I had no rights to an attorney. I had no rights at all. The taller man in black stood over me as I explained to my father who the men in black were and what they wanted. I was instructed to hang up.

I remember sitting on my bed since I lived in a studio as small as a closet. I reached for my partner’s hand as the questions began. Hours went by. I grew hungry and tired yet my answers remained the same. I couldn’t help them. The questions turned into accusations and I still couldn’t help them. Then came the threats; loss of home and freedom. I was numb. They grew tired. I remember their last words as they left, that I would be watched and that my world was no longer my own.

The next day on the news they caught the man in the dress in a Denny’s in San Diego. It was barely daylight as he stole a restaurants’ sense of security. He did not survive the arrest. I noticed the unmarked car go away, only to return now, 12 years later. My answers remained the same, I couldn’t help them. This time was different though. There is no one to hold my hand. There is no one waiting for me and there is no delusion of rights. I began to wonder if I were to be taken in, who would know I was gone and how long would I be gone for? They paced through my home as I sat on my couch. They asked me about my painting by a man who had achieved freedom after 40 years. The one with the darker eyes reached out to pet my cat. I did not reveal her name as she lay like a puddle on the couch.

After several hours of questions came an offer to drive me to work, I was late. I declined. I closed the door behind them as they made their way to the black car out front. This time I wasn’t numb. I waited at the window watching the car slowly pull away. I knew that this would be the last time I would see the men in mostly black. I also knew that for the first time in 20 years, I was truly free.

Something in between

I couldn’t help but think about the bitter man who ran away. I was never sure what he thought he’d find in a town as cold as the one he left so many years ago. As I walked on the beach in Boipeba over a month ago, I came upon a dachshund playing in the sand. I couldn’t help but think that I had never seen a happy wiener dog before. I watched as he buried his snout in the sand trying to capture the elusive crabs. The sideways walkers teased the pup by darting in and out of their homes and all the while the dachshund let out little barks. I called for the dog as he came running to me with sand on his nose. I giggled as I watched the skip in his step. As he came closer, the wave lightly licked at the shore and the dog was distracted as he chased the sea.

I remembered my days on the train in the same dark town. Sent away in the hopes I would change. And I did. As I sipped red wine and coke in darkened bars with the boys with the long hair, I learned that the beauty of the night was caught in the naked trees as the seasons began to change. I heard it in the whispers of the wind as the branches gently swayed. I no longer knew where I was after late night train rides to stone cities on the outskirts of that same cold town. I changed. As I sat on cobblestone walls and looked out into the night, I cherished the in between time. It was summer turning to fall, as the moon grew tired and color started to return to the sky. And I was in between, still a girl. I was too tired to sleep. My mind awake with thoughts like puzzle pieces, waiting to find their place.

I wondered if it was me as I read the words on the screen and blushed with uncertainty. Perhaps I simply wished they were. Or maybe I just wanted to believe like the sun warming the little dachshund running in the sand, memories of me would sweeten the taste of a sour town.