From: an151170@anon.penet.fi (...Mercury....)
Reply-To: an151170@anon.penet.fi
Date: Sun, 18 Jun 1995 17:58:00 UTC
Subject: European Trip (M/M RL) 1/2
z Another erotic story extracted from the vast archives of
z
z ... /\/\ e r c u r y ...
z
z Proud Purveyor of Pornoverby!
z
z Notes :
z
z 1. I did not write this story;
z 2. I do not know the author;
z 3. If you like it, tell me so, but don't ask for sequels;
z 4. Why not post a story yourself?
z 5. Are you a biW/A m/f 18-24 looking for friends? Hmm? Write.
z 6. Vote in the next election and run the Coalition out!
z 7. Enjoy life while you can, because you're going to DIE!
THE CHRISTMAS TRIP
*
12/13/91
Waiting in the San Francisco Terminal for the bus to Santa Monica.
The ride will take twelve hours along the Pacific Coast Highway.
This station, unlike many I've seen, is kept clean condition.
The majority of the people here are black people of color. Some
are white people of color and some are students of no discernable
economic color at all. (Though being a student often makes one
white.)
I should mention the other queen in the crowd. He wears a knee
length overcoat, a jacket, silk blue shirt buttoned all the way up,
white sox, black penny loafers, blond hair done in a just so bang
and silver ear bob.
I wear a black leather jacket with little silver crosses pinned to
the lapel, black turtle neck sweater, grey sweatpants, jade socks
and well polished black Rockports.
The other queen examines me and winks.
***
Arrived Santa Monica 5:30 am. My favorite cheap motel: the Highway
Robber has burned down. Checked out prices at the Travelodge
(85.00 a night.) and decide to wait until seven when the hostel
opens (10.00 a night.)
In the meantime I was cruised by a chunky guy on a bicycle who
turned out to be a "clinical Psychologist"
"What are you doing?" he asked a lone man stumbling around in the
dark with a forty pound pack strapped to his back.
"Nothing." I replied.
"Whattaya doing in Santa Monica?" he continued.
"I'm here on business." I felt odd saying it and added: "though it
doesn't look like I am."
We crossed to the park and sat down together on a well lit bench;
I looked at him with exhaustion. "What kind of business?" he asked.
"No kind." I answered.
Dawn spread: Green and blue. He announced his profession which was
followed by even gloomier silence and rode away.
***
Santa Monica's Third Street Mall has been decked out with wreaths,
trees and a makeshift Santa.
As soon as I settled into the hostel I met one of my bunkmates,
Mark, a "chap" from South Africa.
Mark is a practicing Christian who thanks God he made this trip to
the U.S. He says: "America is too free--
"New york is the worst. Pornography everywhere. We'd be locked up
back home. And racism. Your blacks are more violent. They don't
seem to have any faith in your system."
I replied: "I've often felt that if I left my country I'd see how
rotten it is. Alas, I can only guess."
Mark's face grew red. "South Africa has apartheid, yes. But at
least we're honest--and call it that."
12/14/91
Purple smoke billows up from a wrought iron trash container. A hand
pushed espresso cart squeaks by. At 11:00 the shopping has just
begun. What appears to be a minor siege will become a full scale
invasion.
Santa Monica Place is a closed mall with doors that open onto the
Third Street Mall which is an open air mall. Wilshire Boulevard is
another stretch of boutiques and nailories from Santa Monica to
Downtown L.A..
One might ask why I haven't mentioned the beautiful beach. If I
mention the beach I will mention the rides and the boardwalk: and
the wonderful bike path from Santa Monica to Venice. I will also
mention the sheer joy of the young people who play on the beach or
within sight of the water. Wonders that stem from co-operation
between God and Man (persons.)
But if I mention the park in Santa Monica that overlooks beach: I
have to mention the homeless, the drug addicted, children who are
restlessly hungry: who cry as limousines speed by. Santa Monica is
beautiful because the land is beautiful. Perhaps this suffering
amidst beauty is what some mean when they refer to the human
condition.
***
The number 4 bus cuts down Santa Monica Boulevard through
Brentwood, Westwood and so on.
The riders are mostly Blacks and Hispanics (maids of color.)
A peek into the large plastic bag of the woman who sits next to me
provides me with a view of many cleaning agents: a can of Ajax
without its freshness peel; a ragged old rag. As the bus passes
through Brentwood & Westwood the hispanic women get older and the
plastic bags more numerous. By the time the bus reaches the
junction of Santa Monica and Sunset Boulevards the maids have
been replaced by gang members who are busy cutting graffiti into
the windows with sharp jewelers stones. Those of us who were too
old to participate were silenced by fear.
12/15/91 Third Street Promenade
Coffee at a table on the sidewalk provided by the Conga Cafe.
Jim Morrison, the real Jim Morrison and not the guy who played him,
has just declared His Generation insane (The End)
Judging by the impeccable dress worn by the men and women who pass,
who in fact look as if they've spent hours preparing to look casual
for their morning stroll, Morrison's Generation suffers from
Photogenic Disorder. A new disorder marked by Genetic Endowment
artificially primed to the maximum. The ugly become fair, the fair
pretty, the pretty beautiful--at which point one enters the
category reserved for the obsessively ravishing. Photogenic. Yes.
picture perfect. But not just in face. Blouses worn to reveal the
latest breast or chest implant. Slacks fit to a tee. And since
everyone is a sex object: equality between the sexes has been
achieved.
12/16/91 Los Angeles-El Paso
Was robbed last night at the Santa Monica Hostel: a simple theft
from my wallet. Called an ex-lover (there are so many) who works in
the Bunker Hill Complex and was granted a loan of $100.00.
Thus I slaved onward toward that smoggy heaven: three days growth
of beard, thick black leather jacket, sweating profusely under the
hot Noon Sun magnified by the shiny shit that hangs suspended in
the air. The harder I walked the further the skyscrapers seemed.
For the first mile of my walk I looked as if I fit in with the
homeless locals--however, as I neared Bunker Hill the people grew
pale; their complexions more refined: completely free of sweat and
debris. Unfortunately the phrase City of the Angels began to repeat
itself in my mind--and I was moved to stop in a local liquor store
to buy a comb. I neared the street with my ex-lover's tower perched
on it and discovered to my sweaty joy an escalator. That was when
I noticed that the Angels of Bunker Hill were staring at me as if
I'd been belched into their presence. I combed my hair.
My ex-lover, who is compulsively too busy, was too busy to give
me the money personally. An envelope with the money in it had been
left with his receptionist. I stood before her and perspired all
over the front of her desk while she sorted through various papers
before finding the obviously placed envelope. As she gave it to me
she pressed a button on her phone and demanded that someone from
housekeeping be sent to her desk immediately.
Going downhill is always easier than going uphill and I was soon
returned to the chaos of the bus station. The Muzak version of
Little Drummer Boy was infiltrating the station. A marvelous woman
in stiletto heels and rhinestone sunglasses, who was later
identified as a Customer Service Rep, managed to be everywhere I
looked.
***
The bus to El Paso was called and those of us who had been waiting
for an hour or more for a choice seat tore through the gate. I made
my way to the rear of the bus and took my usual: the last seat on
the left. This is where the sexy guys sit and since I suffer from
the usual sins of denial and vanity I assumed that this was the
place for me.
As the bus filled a community took shape and the laws of bus travel
went into effect.
1. There is always one blistering drunk who sits next to me and
threatens to vomit.
2. There is always one loud and miserable baby who is accompanied
by and ineffective Mother. This law is never broken.
3. Either an old person or a person who doesn't speak English will
lock himself in the bathroom. This law varies in certain states.
4. There is always one horny queen in the last seat on the left.
This law only applies when I travel.
***
The community shifted dramatically in Phoenix.
The line of forty or so people waiting to board bus #1732 appeared
to consist of psychopaths of all ages and sensibilities: screaming
toddlers clutching mangled dolls, two drag queen whose troubled
beauty had fallen on hard times, a desperate drunk who was
attempting to smuggle on a gallon of vodka. I giggled as the scene
presented itself. I heard a voice behind me:
"Then give me three Pepsis then!"
It was the drunk attempting to negotiate with the station guard who
was tugging the vodka from his hands.
"Passengers holding boarding pass 157--" those of us who had
boarded the bus in Los Angeles were called back on. I marvelled as
the drag queens and their entourage settled around me. One snapped
at one of her male-ish companions: "Don't start jacking off Jason!"
"That's what I brought your lips for, Theresa!" he answered. And
the bus chugged out of Phoenix.
***
Immediately the drag queens switched on their overhead lights and
began trading makeup. Jason announced that he had "free condoms for
three dollars." This caused waves of nervous titters to cascade up
the bus. Mothers clutched babies who screamed louder. One of two
boys sitting in front of me looked at the drag queens as if
assessing possibilities. In the meantime the drag queens babbled in
Spanish to each other.
"I get the Playboy channel on my Watchman!" announced Jason.
The drag queens applied blush.
"I'm in cocaine heaven." sighed Jason.
The boy in front of me leaned across the aisle and said: "Ma'am.
You shore are pretty."
His companion in the window seat buried his face in his arms and
produced what a kind person would take for sneezes.
12/17/91 El Paso
I received my first impression of El Paso from a dizzy queen with
a british accent who worked the front desk of the Gardener Hotel on
Franklin Street--who, though I was the only person checking in,
forgot why I was there.
This was serious business. After riding the bus all night with
coked up drag queens and insufferable infants I was in no shape to
do someone elses thinking.
"Right! Now you would like a room!"
"Now is right."
"For how many nights?"
"As many as it takes."
RING! RING!
"What's that?"
"It's the telephone--Hellow--uh--Gardener Hotel. Yes, we do. Three
nights? Fine. (click) Right. Now. Did you want a room?"
"Yes I did!" And so it went until I gratefully gave him 28.00 and
stumbled into the dormitory.
12/18/91
Woke up 12 hours later with the feeling I would never wake up.
After pissing around in the hotel's kitchen (guests are allowed to
cook their own meals) I decided I had see Downtown El Paso. El Paso
is more Mexico than America--but unlike the Mexico I've experienced
in L.A. or San Francisco. There are the shops, yes, running shoes:
$11.00--gold lame gowns: $29.00 (drag queens take note), but, the
streets were spotless and there was none of the feeling of
oppression such as I get from San Francisco's Mission or L.A.'s
Main Street. The few White People I saw (three actually) were women
wearing furs (the day was wet--not cold) stepping into and out of
large obtrusive cars.
I was so excited by what I saw that I felt compelled to shop: sweat
pants $5.00--six pairs of socks: $3.00. I couldn't account for it:
the hodge podge of prices and sounds: rock from Mejia's and Spanish
from Kress. And while one can experience these things in the
aforementioned districts of the aforementioned cities--one cannot
get them from people who seem in control of their lives. The
Mexicans of El Paso did not behave as if they had to defend
themselves. That said: I must confess that my enthusiasm was
excessive. As I was walking back to The Gardener all ga ga I ran
into the British Queen (named Mark). He stopped and I gushed:
"What a Wonderful city El Paso is!"
He replied: "Oh yes! Isn't it glamorous!"
I turned to see if he was addressing someone a few blocks behind
me.
"I can't believe I got running shoes for $11.00."
"Oh my yes!" he said again. "Actually, people come here for the
shoes!"
I was beginning to hate this queen as I realized he was a rock
solid bitch. "You've been here too long, haven't you?" I asked.
He began to move on. "I can tell you all about it at the hotel."
"Oh, by the way, I can't seem to find a Catholic Church."
Mark opened his umbrella. "Good." he said. And it started to pour.
12/20/91
I've been hit with the Bejing Flu--which I've heard is epidemic in
El Paso. I've been in bed for two days with the exception of a two
hour walk, taken yesterday, to the Venus Adult Theatre.
The Venus is located on the four thousand block of Montana Avenue.
One passes Churches, Madonna Shops and 7 Elevens along unending
blocks until one finally reaches 4812 Montana. Then one sees a
plastic sign indicating VENUS ADULTS and an arrow which points to
a blank facade and a door: "At last!" I coughed to myself, feeling
much like an explorer of the American sort. I opened the door and
staggered in and immediately felt like a fool. My head throbbed, I
was queasy and broke out in a feverish sweat. But such was my
desire for adventure that I thought like Lewis and Clark or
whoever, let me die on my quest.
The Venus was like every other porn shop I've visited: dicks, cunts
and faces in that order. There was an arcade, a movie theatre and
private viewing booths. I chose the theatre. Bad choice. It was
cold and damp. The screen was dark. And my head throbbed more. On
top of it all I was the only one there: a situation that continued.
I left abruptly and exited into drenching rain. This, I thought, is
a message. The bus came and shortly poured me back into the
Gardener Hotel. I went to bed.
12/19/91
I woke up feeling better and was certain that my horny fantasies
about Texans and Mexican boys would be realized. First I went to
Mass, stopping first in the Ave Maria, a religious shop, for a
Rosary.
The Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception is located on Kansas
Street. When I entered and saw the alter I felt as if I was
hallucinating. It consisted of a hundred shadow boxes. In the
center was a crucifix with the corpse of Jesus nailed to it. In
front of it was a statue of Mary: hands folded in prayer. Spreading
outward and upward were saints, angels, cupids, gold scrolls,
candles, incense, incense burners, wings--and what looked like a
menorah, and a huge painting of Mary ascending into Heaven. I fell
to my knees and wept from shock.
I had entered in the middle of a ceremony in which the body of
Christ (the Communion Wafer) had been placed in what looked like a
large golden eye called a Monstrance. It was being shown to the
congregation by the Archbishop of El Paso. I must confess that I
love ritual and was at full attention. After this the body was
returned to its place in the alter and the Archbishop left. Three
tolls of a bell signalled the beginning of Mass. The congregation
sang in reedy unison: He is the King.
After Mass I hopped the bus to the Venus, which I had begun to
think of as a fly trap.
One can easily see that the church and the porn shop are both
places of worship. People pop into both places during lunch,
fulfill some private need in public ritual, and leave.
I watched the Venus for awhile from the bus stop. Soldiers,
business men and construction workers stepped in and
within minutes were out. But some stayed. Where did they go?
I thought of the theatre. It was 4:00. I ran across the highway
and into the shop. "Theatre please."
I couldn't see a thing.
I didn't remember it being so dark and felt that maybe, because I'd
been to mass, I was struck blind. But soon my eyes adjusted and I
could see that I wasn't alone. I went to the john. On the wall was
written: 12/20/91--Back Row--show hard--love to suck and fuck and
wear women's panties.
This was impossible.
I stayed for a few minutes to get a look at the creature who'd
written this. From what I could see he was naked, except for a bra,
and a pair of blue nylons.
12/21/91
The latest guest of El Paso's Gardener Hotel is a young Aussie
named Peter Lapis: a 35 year old blond who talks a mile a minute.
For reasons of divine configuration or boredom he convinces me to
join the gang at the Ramada Inn for drinks. the gang consisted of
Peter, Martin--a dutchman who was nicknamed The Viking, a young
Cockney named Steven, Craig--a red headed Frenchman, and yours
truly--an American Queen in disguise.
The very thought of going to the Ramada Inn for anything struck
me as perverse; the thought of going in to cruise chicks and drink
brews was beyond the pale.
The feeling I had as we made our way through sleet and cold wind
was that of camaraderie. The fetters of gay identity and middle age
began to slip away.
We entered the lavishly orange lobby of the Ramada Inn and
commandeered an elevator to the 17th floor. It was Friday night and
this was El Paso's Top of the Sixes: a place for getting drunk and
feeling in control all at the same time. We lined up at the bar and
ordered our drinks. I had a Miller Lite. The dee-jay spun Sexual
Healing.
"I love these musics!" said Craig. He and Steven made a clump next
to me at one end of the bar; Peter and The Viking were passionately
cruising chicks at the other. "You like this?" Steven asked Craig.
Craig replied: "Oh yes! I love the American 50's: Elvis Presley,
Petula Clark. Do you ever hear The Platters?" Craig asked me.
I said: "I think I remember them from the Ed Sullivan Show. But
Petula Clark was not a singer from the American 50's."
Craig winked and sipped his beer. The dee-jay slid into Blue
Christmas.
"These is the best musics," Craig continued, "America's gift to the
World!" he turned to me, "Do you not think so?"
I sensed that something mean and lovely was going on. The beer was
making me extravagant: "There would be no musics without the
Beatles." I said.
"Ah!" Craig raised his glass, "America's greatest gift!"
The three of us laughed. Peter leaned down the bar toward
us:"Dudes! Lets go into Juarez."
I was game.
"Too cold." Steven said.
"I think there is no adventure in this group!" boomed Martin, "Den
we go to Tap."
Tap is a Mexican bar on San Antonio Street. We arrived at Midnight
to the sound of Linda Ronstadt pouring her heart out in Spanish:
"PORRRE UNE AMORRREEE!"
"PORRRE UNE AMORREEE!" sang the drunken crowd.
Martin chose our booth so he could see the waitress who worked the
table. "Nice ass." he said as she left to get our pitcher of beer.
I decided to see that what he said was true when she returned and
left with our money.
***
The following blur of events has been brought to you courtesy of a
three day drunken binge.
12/22/91 Peter confesses confusion--
Woke to the scent of stale beer and beans and Peter Lapis as my
bunkmate. "Don't drink much do ya." he said as I tried to lift what
remained of my head from my pillow and throbbing memories of the
previous evening played themselves out in my mind. Sancta Maria was
the name we had given our waitress. Sancta and I danced the Samba
until her drunken husband who had been passed out for most of the
night at the table across from ours woke and upon noticing that I
was an excellent dancer got huffy. A fight ensued which resulted in
much cursing in English, French, Dutch and Spanish. Sancta Maria
begged us to leave before the Police arrived. "PORRE UNE AMORRE!"
I sang until the cold winds of El Paso blew across my face. Peter
was responsible for getting me safely to bed. "Don't drink much, so
ya?" Peter asked.
12/23/91 The Viking offers his advice--
"Drinking takes practice like anything!"
10:00pm--We were back at Tap. Sancta Maria eyes us warily. She has
begged us not to sit in her station. I have eaten alot of macaroni.
The Vikings theory is that macaroni sops up booze which results in
more even handed drunkenness. By 12 I am necking with Sancta Maria
in the kitchen. Our group departs at two without incident.
12/24/91 Straight like Me--
9:30pm Everyone is leaving on Christmas. We decide to go out for a
small farewell drink which leads to tequila which leads to Kahlua
which leads to opening my eyes at 4:00am and finding Sancta Maria
asleep in my bunk. I wake up Peter who wakes up Sancta and explains
that she must leave. I can live with her, she says. Peter explains
that this is unsatisfactory. This is the first time I notice that
Peter speaks Spanish. Sancta brings her little feet to the floor
and makes a face. She moves a toe to reveal a used rubber.
12/25/91 Christmas Day El Paso-New Orleans
Bus left at 2:45pm and should pass through Houston at 3am. Light
snow alternates with rain. The sky is expansive and dark and grey.
Thunder strikes followed by lightning. The driver, quite out of
nowhere, announces that thunder is usually followed by lighting.
The drowsing passengers, of which there are only a few, seem not to
care.
8:30am Lake Charles, Louisiana--
Woke up after a miserable sleep. "Mighty long ride!" said my seat
companion, who had evidently crawled in next to me during the
night. Last stop I remember was Houston where we picked up three
passengers: a boy and a blind man who was leading his dizzy sighted
wife by the hand.
***
Viewing the sights out of Lake Charles I have the sense of coming
home. The Governor Duke signs still tacked to the trees reminds me
of the billboard I once saw as a child when we drove into Georgia:
NOW ENTERING KLAN COUNTRY.
Pine trees line the highway. Mud flats and squat rundown shacks,
some with boards nailed across the windows. At 8am the sky is pink
and flocks of migrating birds ripple overhead. One can smell the
wet Earth. Thick black clouds move in.
***
Crossed the brown and swollen Mississippi into New Orleans. Ran
around the city for thirty minutes trying to find a bank machine
that would take my ATM card. Dozens of little Savings & Loans; many
closed down and more with smashed windows. New Orleans reminds me
so much of Charleston S.C.--Wrought iron gates, French Colonial
houses painted pink and green, narrow one way streets--I prayed for
a Bank of America and found a Hibernia. The machine addressed me by
name and offered me a twenty. Picked up the cash and headed for a
taxi. Five dollars brought me to the Marquette House. Ten got me a
dormitory style room, much like the one at the Gardener, except for
a large low ceiling fan that made me nervous about decapitation.
There is no pleasure like removing ones shoes after 24 hours of bus
travel.
12/26/91 3:00pm
Miguel is a splendid forty. Thick black hair and olive complexion,
his Argentinean accent has been altered by six years of living in
Australia. I thought, at first, that he was gay because there was
so much sex in his gaze. I mumbled hallelujah and stuck my feet
under the blanket lest he think I harbored a new and distinctly
smelly fungus. He told me a sad story about losing his luggage (he
had made the mistake of checking it with Greyhound) and my heart
and wardrobe went out to him.
Miguel agreed with me when I said that Bourbon Street was best
explored with a buddy. So after showering and dressing we set out
on St. Charles Street. That was when MIguel told me the story of
the first time he lost his clothing.
"I was on the beach at Cancun and had met a pretty lady and we
became passionate and were stripping our clothes off and what the
hell--you don't notice other people when you are with a pretty lady
so some people were watching and when we went into the dunes
everything was gone!"
"Maybe you're meant to go naked." I said. Miguel laughed.
***
We decided to try a restaurant named Scarlettes. I had the Frankly
My Dear seafood salad and Miguel had Rhettes Hot Gumbo. We topped
it off with Chicory Blend Coffee and two slices of Miss Pitty Pats
Apple Pie. I laughed at the menu and Miguel gave me a puzzled
look.
"Don't you recognize the characters from Gone with the Wind."
I asked.
Miguel shook his head and I saw there was not much more to say. "It
was a big movie."
He replied: "All the movies in the United States are big. Americans
are like autistic children who are trapped in bad imaginations."
We took St. Charles Street and passed freshly painted Ante Bellum
houses or modern homes made to look Ante Bellum. When we hit Canal
Street we turned right and searched for Bourbon Street. We couldn't
find it and entered a rather stuffy Mariotte and asked directions.
"Bour-bon Street? Bour-bon Street?" Said the clerk behind the
information desk as if he'd never heard of it.
"I was told it was in New Orleans." said Miguel.
The clerk leaned across his desk and pointed North: "It's that
way."
As it turned out Bourbon Street was a mere two blocks from the
stuffy Mariotte. Juke joints, jazz clubs, blues clubs, strip shows,
French orgies, American orgies, topless and bottomless hookers,
voodoo shops, peep shows and laughing gas sold everywhere for two
bucks a hit. A red glow rose from the street and saturated what
looked like thousand of people milling about in confusion. We made
our way through the crowd until the party came to an abrupt end.
Ahead was more Bourbon Street, but darker. I entered a bar called
the Tool Box and realized we'd found the Gay Section. I entered the
bar and saw the straight people across the street peer down the
alley and turn around. There was Miguel: looking around for me. I
thought he'd followed me into the bar. I had the funny thought that
one had to bay Gay to cross through the invisible barrier between
these two slices of Bourbon Street. All around me were the usual
men in brightly colored caps and leather jackets. I could have been
on Castro Street. I left the bar and strolled back across the
street and announced to Miguel that I had found a Gay Bar. We stood
together for a moment and watched more men enter and leave the Tool
Box.
"Yes," he said, "They have their own culture."
12/27/91
This whole business of separate cultures based on sexual behavior
bored me. I don't think that the straight men I had been invited to
party with were free of doubt regarding my sexual preferences. What
happened was that my silence on the politics of the subject allowed
us to relate to each other without the defensive posturing
that straight men and gay men adopt with each other.
It was morning and I watched Miguel dress. First deodorant, then
cologne. Finally he put on silk tiger stripe underwear. I couldn't
help but laugh. "They look like panties." I said.
"But the ladies like them," he replied, "and I always do what the
ladies like."
***
The bunks of the Marquette Hotel remind me of what I've seen in the
media of prison bunks: Six to a room. The mattress of mine rises on
the sides and swallows me up. I sleep and dream that I'm back in
San Francisco looking for an apartment. I find one in the Mission
District already occupied by a lesbian. I can share her apartment
and have a room of my own. I can sleep in the room to see if I like
it. I'm about to fall asleep when I look up and see Liz Taylor
creeping up the foot of my bed. She's young and not at all
surgeried. Her violet eyes are full of lust.
I awaken to the sound of Miguel stumbling in. It's 2am. While I've
been asleep the other four bunks have been taken. There are either
bodies or backpacks sinking into the mattresses. Miguel switches on
the lights.
He says, "Man, you like to sleep, man."
I do not respond which seems to encourage a monologue. Miguel
continues: "I almost bought a whore tonight and I reckon I would
have at one of those strip joints on Bourbon Street. The first one
I entered was seedy and the girls looked like they needed to be in
hospital so I went into this other: Chez Paree, I think, and a
whore with a pretty face motioned to me to come over and started
rubbing her tits against me--I think to excite the audience. I
don't normally go for whores but she had such a pretty face I asked
how much it would cost to fuck her. She said, $150.00. If she had
said $50.00 maybe yes. But $150.00 is too much. I came home."
12/28/91 My walk with Miguel
Miguel and I were walking down Riverwalk along the Mississippi
River. We passed a homeless woman and Miguel, who'd been silent for
much of our walk, which had been down Canal Street and up St.
Charles, looked at the woman and stopped. "I suppose you know that
this year marks the Bi-Centennial of your Bill of Rights."
I had to confess that I was only dimly aware of it.
He continued: "You Americans think you are so free--but
homelessness is terrible bondage. Your Corporate Class says:
if you don't play our game we will render you homeless and starve
you to death. When I was in San Francisco my friends called them
Reagan's Children. But they really belong to all of the U.S.--don't
they."
We walked on. Miguel continued: "It's not like that in Australia.
Oh it's coming, and it terrifies me. I don't want to be one of
these calculating yuppies--but I don't want to starve. I came to
America to find a city I could live in--and I see that's
impossible. Your Bill of Rights is like a ring in which the diamond
has been replaced with glass. A country that allows it's citizens
to starve and roam homeless is not a country in which 'Freedom
Reigns'. Tell me, do you see it this way?"
"I think this is a bad time for Americans and I think we're
confused and I think that thinking about is heartbreaking."
Miguel asked: "It breaks your heart?"
"It hurts me deeply."
We were passing through the French Market and paused to hear a
streetband. Miguel smiled and bought a praline and broke off a
portion and gave it to me. We resumed our walk. Again he was
silent--until we reached the corner of St. Peter and Bourbon. On a
stopsign were posted two stickers. One read FAG and the other read
DYKE. Miguel turned to me:
"Tell me. You're a homosexual."
"Yes and no," I replied. "first I'm a creature on this planet."
"Ah, but that's avoiding the question. You are a creature of this
culture and therefore you have an identity."
"Go ahead." I said.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Maybe I thought I could seduce you."
Miguel laughed: "Maybe you did! But I'm much too fond of the
ladies!" Then he got serious, "The homosexuals are not free
in this country."
"Are they free in Australia?"
"No--but the Homosexuals of Sydney share the same delusion as the
homosexuals of San Francisco. They think that because they can have
a parade they're free."
***
9:00pm
Flores! Flores por la morte!
After feasting on fresh alligator and gumbo at the Cajun Commando
we walked up Bourbon Street. Was that Miguels hand on the small of
my back, guiding me through the crowd. I looked up at him and
smiled. We stopped to watch a street mime. I reached into my pocket
to fetch a cigarette, Miguel lit it--I took a puff and smiled.
We went to the World Beat for drinks. Miguel pulled my chair from
the table and invited me to sit down, he took his seat and, when
the waitress came, ordered.
I leaned across the table: "Miguel--are you looking for a job as my
personal valet or what?"
"You don't like my manners."
"These manners are meant for a woman!"
"In Argentina when a man likes a lady he does things for her."
"Well I ain't no lady," I said, "so cool it!"
Miguel sat back and grinned at me. There was so much sexual tension
at the table that I thought he'd ordered it from the waitress. We
were listening to a band that was in the middle of a set of Cajun
Waltzes. Several couples were up and dancing. One woman was so
graceful that, watching her, I felt taken to the 1800's. "She's
beautiful." I said to Miguel.
He answered: "Yes. If I'd had her twenty years ago."
This annoyed me.
"Watch her dance." I said.
"Yes," he replied, "she's beautiful."
The evening wore on and on. We left the Cajun Commando and strolled
up Bourbon to the gay section. Just as it had been two nights ago:
it was almost completely unintruded upon by the straights just a
few feet across the street. I said to Miguel, "C'mon." and entered
the Tool Box. Miguel came up the stairs, stopped, and said: "No!
No! I can't!" He was in a panic. I left the bar and led him back
across the street. "I think," I said, "that the reason the
straights don't cross over to the other side--is that they're
afraid they'll really cross over."
12/29/91--
Woke up this morning to the following note: Dear Rob, I have
decided to check out of the hostel and see the countryside: maybe
Northern Louisiana and beyond. Stay kind and insightful--Miguel.
***
Dan is a 24 year old blond who arrived from Mass. late last night
and was seen staggering around Bourbon Street at 3:00am. He took
the bunk above mine.
Peter also arrived last night. A blue eyed sharp featured 28 year
old from what used to be called West Germany.
Rob is a 25 year old from a small English town outside of
Liverpool. He insists that he' never heard anything written or sung
by the Beatles.
Once we were all properly introduced the New Years Eve celebrations
began. That night we went with a group of women from Argentina and
Lar, another German fellow, to the Club Brazil to hear a group
called the Squirming Snakes. The lead singer was a woman in the
mode of Janis Joplin: from the large paper magnolias in her thick
brown hair to her bright red satin dress. The crowd was ecstatic
and encouraged her every move.
"Are you ready for me?" she asked.
The crowd moaned: "Oh yes!"
The group from the hostel stood to the right of the stage. The band
struck up and we danced. This continued for over two hours. The
floor was slick with sweat and spilled drinks. The singer's voice
rose, she shimmied across the stage, tossed her hair, fell back on
her knees, then lifted a large palm leaf with which she fanned
herself.
"Any catholics out there?" she asked.
"Yeh!"
She continued to fan herself languidly: "I know how ya'all love
that dead meat!"
"Yeh!"
"How 'bout some live meat? Wanna little live meat?"
"Yeh!"
She did a little grind and hiked up the hem of her skirt. Peter,
Rob and I stood at the foot of the stage--transfixed. "I love you!"
Rob shouted.
She heard this and raised the hem of her skirt a few more inches.
"I love you!" shouted more of the crowd.
Crash of drums! She was off on another set.
***
Later--Rob, Lar, Peter and I gathered at Igors Bar, Grill and
Laundromat. We were exhausted but awake. Lar's blond hair was in
that extraordinary disarray only possible in youth. It rose like a
blond halo. He looked like a fallen angel. He got up to throw
quarters into the jukebox.
Fixing a Hole by the Beatles began to play.
Lar returned to the table and closed his eyes. A pitcher of beer
arrived. Peter poured and proposed a toast: "To travel and friends
from all over the World!"
"Cheers!" said Rob. I smiled and raised my glass and also offered
a silent cheer to old friends and spent youth. Suddenly Lar looked
at Peter and said: "And I offer another toast! To a strong and
victorious Germany!"
Rob raised his glass: "We could use another war."
Peter lowered his: "I do not toast such things."
Lar looked at me and mischief played in his eyes. Again he raised
his glass: "What we did not do militarily we will do economically."
Peter was horrified. "Du benimmster dich wie ein dumme esel!" (You
are behaving like a stupid bore.)
Lar smiled: "My friend does not like to hear such things."
"It is a bit of a drag--" Rob turned to me: "Is it time to exhume
Churchill? But then he might accidentally declare war on Bush."
"That's true, "I said, "Lar--if you want a Nazi Government--move to
the United States."
Peter had not stopped glaring at Lar. "I had hoped that such things
would never again be said by a German!"
This time Lar spoke in German. "Es ist keine shanda zu gewinnen."
(There is no shame in winning.)
12/31/91
The internationalism of our room amused us. We referred to each
other as delegates, with Dan the delegate from the East Coast and
I the delegate from the West.
The gag was that the bombing would commence on the 1st at Noon.
When this was said Dan would fire a pen or pencil at Peter, the
delegate from Germany.
We lay in our bunks until 1. Lar knocked on the door and invited us
to go to the swamps. Peter smiled: "He wants to make up." And it
was true. Lar was contrite. When we refused he offered us the use
of his car so we could go alone. He left and we discussed this
sudden change in temper. What was Lar up to? Was it an act of
friendship or gross seduction? What should the delegates do?
We decided to forego the swamps for sleep. We slept until 7 and
went again to the Club Brazil via Jackson Square and the French
Market. Fireworks went off in the air and at our feet. Again there
was a disagreement between Lar and Peter. Lar wanted to join the
line of overdressed Yuppies who were waiting to get into the MTV
party at the Hardrock Cafe. Peter insisted that we stick to our
plan and proceed to the Club Brazil. The group stood in embarrassed
silence as Lar and Peter argued in German.
Our Australian friend, Carl, was having trouble with Deanna, the
girl he was traveling with. Everyones first impression was that
they were a couple. That wasn't the case. It was Peter who observed
Carl's effeminacy and wondered if he was hiding.
On New years Eve Deanna squared off with Rob and two other guys
from the hostel. This set Carl off on a drunk that culminated in a
scene played out for everyone at the Club Brazil.
It started with Carl's teary collapse in the doorway. We moved Carl
under a streetlight where he began to sob quite loudly. He was
instantly surrounded by a group of Argentinean women who
collectively patted his face and hands. When this didn't work
Deanna was called.
She arrived, paused to correct her lipstick, and knelt beside Carl.
"Let me take you back to the hostel." she said.
"Carl shoved her back: "Get away from me you bitch! You don't care
about me!"
Peter and I stood watching from a police barricade. Peter looked at
me: "What do you think."
"I think he's punishing his identity."
Deanna tried three more times to make Carl stand and hail a taxi--
each time he shoved her away. When she tried a fourth time he rose
and shot in a zig-zag toward Bourbon Street.
Deanna followed him. Peter said: "I think maybe we should go with
them. I'm afraid he'll hurt her." I agreed but suggested that we
hang back.
Deanna and Carl fought with each other through the crowds, down the
one way streets and in front of the jazz clubs of the French
Quarter. Finally they entered the Gay Section. It was as if they'd
done it consciously. Deanna looked at Carl and cried: "I can't
cover for you anymore, besides, you hate me for it!"
Carl wept too. "Please, just go away."
Deanna walked toward us. "Take him home," she begged, "I'm afraid
he'll hurt himself!"
Up the street Carl had collapsed in front of the Tool Box. Peter
reached him first. he sat and gently lifted Carl's head and cradled
it in his lap.
1/1/92
For reasons that are probably obvious but confusing I have, over
the past twenty years, shut myself off from straight men and viewed
them as I imagine they view me: with hatred, suspicion and fear.
Last night when Peter lifted Carl's head to his lap I felt my love
for him and it was a love that transcended our sexual preferences
and future histories. I loved Peter because he had consoled another
man's pain, though that pain would never be his--and in so doing he
provided me with a vision that served as an antidote to the cruelty
I've witnessed on much of my travel in the United States.
The various delegates crept out of bed at noon. No one mentioned
Carl's scene. It was time for us to move on or go home. I gave
Peter my address with the sincere hope that he would let me know
something of how his life continues.
<c>1993 Robert Goldstein--1/1/92 7178 words