Flashback Friday
Age Appropriate Attire (2013)
Age Appropriate Attire (2013)
Savoy Brown Signs
I had a couple of Savoy Brown cassettes that I bought at Radio Shack way back in the early 70’s. They had a store in the first mall in Sydney. I bought my first stereo there. They had racks of deleted cassettes by bands I’d never heard of. One was Savoy Brown. I have in an mp3 collection Blue Matter (1969); Raw Sienna (1970); Looking In (1970); Street Corner Talking (1971).
Similar, at that time, to Fleetwood Mac they were a good bar blues band that changed as they lost members. Raw, Looking & street where the first I had. Blue I added decades later when I upgraded cassettes to mp3. The guitar sound is wonderful. Raw is my favourite. Looking, Street see the first changes in members & changes in direction as they move in a more r’n’b direction & on Street they cover songs like Can’t Get Next To You & Wang Dang Doodle. Raw Sienna is an underrated masterpiece.
In the mp3 collection is also Canada’s Five Man Electrical Band: Good Byes & Butterflies (1970) they had a big hit with ‘Signs.’ The rest of the lp is solid, slightly political/ecological songs. Here too is another one-hit group: Status Quo: Picturesque Matchstickable Messages from the Status Quo (1968). Pictures of Matchstick Men was a huge psychedelic hit & the lp is full of similar period songs including a cover of Green Tamborine. Throughout their career, they never achieved the same level of success in the USA as they have in Britain.
Next is Jimmy Cliff: retitled for US: Wonderful World Wonderful People (1969). A great ska sound by this Jamaican superstar. Besides the title song this set included the often covered ‘Many Rivers To Cross.’ Uplifting songs & great ska music. Back to Canada with The Guess Who: Best Of (1971). It’s hard to believe that the band that did the ultra jazzy Undone also rocked out with American Woman. Musical diversity that made it hard to label this band. Finally Fat Mattress (1969). anchored by Noel Redding (of Hendrix fame). Fat Mattress probably would never had surfaced without his fame. The music is unexceptional folk rock in the Traffic vein. Something for completists like myself.
Spiller
Spiller
<>
I am a spiller
a little clumsy
I don’t fill glasses to the rim
I pour cream into my coffee
with my mug in the sink
I wipe the bottoms of cups
bowls
plates
before I put them down
just to be sure
<>
I try not to carry
a glass of water
from one room to the next
I place dishes
in the sink
so running water
doesn’t reflect up
I keep a towel handy
for drying splashes
around the bathroom sink
after I wash my face
<>
I miss you
There is lots of truth to this piece – I can’t wash my face & hands without splashing the counter, sometimes the floor, around the bathroom sink. I’ve tried to be careful but … well … it’s no use. I’d need some sort of splash guard around the sink, but a mop up towel is less cumbersome. The same holds true for washing dishes – splish splash time to wash the floor as well as thew dishes.
I’ve yet to find a Brita filter carafe that doesn’t drip. I’ve stopped ordering tea in restaurants because no one has engineered a teapot that doesn’t dribble, so that puddle on the table isn’t my fault, really. Don’t get me started on trying to fill my coffee maker or a travel mug.
More than once I’ve accidentally knocked over a glass of water, dropped a slippery bottle of ketchup, dribbled coffee all over myself from a takeout cup with a loose lid – warning contents may be wet – Oops there goes the cream filling in my donut all over my jacket. Some foods are not meant to be eaten walking down the street, at least not eaten by me.
Clumsy is another way of saying being so preoccupied you aren’t careful with what you are doing. So, what I like most about this piece, is that last line, which I hope rewrites everything you’ve just read. How steady are your hands?
an older piece about clumsy me:
City of Valleys 11
June
David
“Oh!! Miss Ing Thing?” A cackle came from the dark on one side. Tisu Trauma climbed on stage. She wore a distressed wig with beer cans for curlers and a tattered pink nylon robe thrown over a lime green flannel night dress.
“If it isn’t the darling, daring, Achoo Mama.”
“Good heels, Ing girl. We are almost eye-to-eye.”
“I know how you love getting down on your knees.”
“Good thing there was sale on knee pads at the Gardens.” Tisu lifted her nightgown to reveal goalie pads underneath.
“Oh my my!” Miss Ing feigned surprise. “How do you get grass stains off those?”
“The same way you get ass stains off your face, darling.”
“Evian water!!”
“The girls have all chipped in to buy you a little something to show our deep, deep esteem and respect for you, Miss Ing Thing. Bring the offering forward.”
“I’d say you shouldn’t have, but I’d be lying.”
“Not the first time. Strange though, nothing on you grows when you lie.”
“Unlike your gut, my pet.”
“Be a doll and close your eyes.”
“Anything for you, Blanch.”
Tisu leaned to her accomplice, flipped open the box she held, and took out a cream pie.
“Here you are, dear Thing!” she screamed. Tisu held the back of Robert’s head and rotated the pie in his face. “I’m sorry we didn’t have time to bake broken glass into it.”
The crowd roared, and Tisu Trauma and her henchmen made a fast escape from the bar.
“You fucking cow! I’ll get you for this!” Robert wiped pie from his face. He smiled to the audience. “So much for the improvised portion of our program. Luckily I have someone who will blot out this horrifying spectacle. I have for your delectation a new, recently discovered by me, talent. Kevin McLeod.”
Kevin got on the stage. He squinted in the lights.
“Okay Kevin. It’s your party.”
The music for “It’s My Party” started. As he sang it was Georgie, not Judy, who wore his ring. It was followed by the natural sequel “It’s Georgie’s Turn to Cry.”
David was caught off-guard by how comfortable Kevin was. No self-consciousness and complete sincerity in what he sang. He brought an urgency to the songs that made them genuine, not kitsch queer lampoons.
Kevin left the stage, and Miss Ing reappeared in his leather police woman persona. Extra pointy breasts, tight black skirt, lots of chains and platform shoes that had jail bars for heels.
“I hope this one is pie proof. If not,” his night-stick opened into an umbrella, “I’m ready.”
David followed Kevin as he left the bar, but by the time he’d made his own way through the crowd, he didn’t see Kevin anywhere.
Perhaps it’s just as well. When a dog catches the car, what can he do with it?
Mark detached himself from a group in front of Java Squared.
“David, you’re looking a little lost.”
“Nights like this I feel like one in many millions. Each year it gets bigger and bolder.”
“And drunker too. It’s sad to see so many equate gay pride with getting drunk and stoned. Such a waste.”
“I suppose getting ripped on extra slow espresso isn’t as morally bad?”
“At least in the morning I get to remember who I had sex with the night before.”
“Or the afternoon before?” David leapt at this chance for a casual mention of his conquest of Yves.
“Huh?”
“The ten year old … this afternoon.”
“Right.” Mark winced at the age crack. “I don’t go for chicken but this one was eager. I was sitting there and he almost jumped my bone in the park. You were with someone.”
“Yves.” David implied as much as he could. “How was he?”
“Young. Too young to be on the loose. Came as soon as I got his fly down and took off without so much as thank you ma’am.”
“How callow. Yves was a gentleman.”
“You and Yves?”
“Mais oui, mon cher. No eat and run there.”
“No wonder you are all aglow.”
“Yes, his accent is thicker than it appears.”
David wanted to confess the glow was from seeing Kevin, but couldn’t indulge in schoolgirl emotions. Although he and Mark had been friends for some time, he didn’t understand someone who was gay but didn’t drink. What was a life centered around draughty rooms in community centers?
“I suppose we’ll be seeing spectacular garments of yours in the parade tomorrow?”
“A couple.”
As they talked neither paid full attention to the other, but searched the crowd for that someone to unlock the night and maybe the future for them.
Yves
Yves exited a taxi on a side street behind the Community Center. Bare-chested in a black leather vest and a kilt with nothing under it, he wasn’t up to public transit.
He had no idea what clan his tartan represented, but the deep reds and greens meant it was a hunter tartan. Fresh polished black boots with green socks completed his look. Cell-phone tucked in the sporran.
The kilt was his one concession to fashion. He avoided anything that might stereotype his sexuality. Leather vests, once something rough and tumble, were now something every gay man had to own. Much like the deck shoes and smart sweater of the past.
It was also an easy nod to drag without the worry of the right wig and heels to match. Bare flesh allowed people to project on to him and not have to read anything from his t-shirt. He wanted people to see him as someone comfortable with his body.
He walked through the park behind the Community Centre to the AIDS memorial. Roses, ribbons or small teddy bears were wedged by various names.
Out of the park, he was in the thick of things. Differing cliques were faced off against each other. Each protected its territorial bar with attitude. There was “Bart’s” the leather bar that barred leather transies as too fem and pretty boys as too pretty. “The Brook” was the preppie bar that didn’t acknowledge anyone not in the right shoes.
“Big E’s,” famous for Miss Ing Thing and her drag shows, drew a cross-section but if you were too old, too obvious, or too extreme you were shunned. “Big E’s” was in a feud with “Papa Wiggie’s” where Tisu Trauma ruled. The feud was more p.r. than real enmity.
“Dream Catcher” was the one lesbian bar on the strip that had managed to last for a few years, despite its strict women only policy.
For a community there were a lot of enemy camps with land mines of taste to explode to leave the uninformed ignored and unaware of why. With so many out in one place, he was surprised at the civility that was maintained.
He stopped at Java Squared for a coffee. He would have gone farther to Tencity, but didn’t want to face any more of the factions without caffeine to gird his spirits.
Outside, he joined Mark and David. He had enjoyed David that afternoon but was tongue-tied now. This was the awkward social stuff that was never taught in school. He couldn’t write a Queer 101 book till he had finished the research.
“Nipples suit you.” Mark pinched Yves’ left nipple. “And what do we have here?” He flipped the kilt. “Oooh, an eyeful and a mouth full too, or so I hear.”
The way Mark directed this last remark at David told Yves that he knew about their encounter. Should he be amused, flattered or annoyed? David and Mark were friends, so it wasn’t out of line for David to talk about him, but Yves was uncomfortable that he had. Worse, Mark joked about it.
It was this sort of confusion that made him shy. How can you trust when you don’t know who or what to trust?
“Mark, shut your mouth, please. If you aren’t embarrassing Yves you are certainly making me blush.”
“David must have been saying good things because my ears weren’t burning.”
“It’s not your ears …”
“Mark, keep this up you’ll be making an amend to both of us.”
“Sorry David. Didn’t know I was stepping on your skirt.” He drew David aside and appeared to make a more sincere apology, then turned to Yves. “Too much coffee. I hope I didn’t say anything that would you know … between you two …”
“Don’t worry.” Yves replied.
“I gotta run. I’m manning the Gays and Lesbians in Recovery table tomorrow afternoon. I want to be fresh faced and cheerful to bug the shit out of these guys.” Mark waved in the direction of the bars. “There’s nothing like being proud without a hangover that makes you wish you were fucking dead at the same time. Bye.”
“Plans for tomorrow?”
“I’m looking after Jake. He’s made his own float for the parade.”
“You march in the parade before?”
“A few times. The first time was an amazing experience. All those people along Yonge street cheering you on. For a moment I was on top of the world and safe in it. You?”
“Not yet. It’s enough to see Robert parading my invention for him and … ” David broke off. “Hey Kevin!”
A young man stopped confused.
“Over here!” David waved.
The confused look lessened. “Uh … Hi.”
“David Walters? We met at Robert’s garden party.”
“Right. I didn’t expect anyone to call my name here.”
“Yves, meet Kevin. Kevin, Yves.”
“Your first pride day?” Yves asked.
“Can you tell?”
“Those eyes tell everyone.” Yves was amused by the eager awe in Kevin’s eyes as they went from one group of men to another. “Like a kid in a candy shop.”
“Wait till you hear him sing. He did some ancient Leslie Gore numbers at Big E’s and made them sound like … like … the emotional high points of Cats.”
“Paul helped.” Kevin blushed. “We ran over them a couple of times at the Inn. I never learned words so fast in my life.”
David gazed at Kevin in the way Yves recognized as a man smitten. Kevin was so full of the newness of gay life around him that he was unaware of any vibe that came from David.
Had he ever felt that way? Had anyone felt that way about him? Both trains of thought depressed him.
“Time to push on.”
“Sorry about Mark.” David kissed Yves quick on the mouth. “Call?”
“Sure.” Yves walked away from something he wanted to understand, but was afraid he’d never get the chance to experience.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License
Snowy Mount Hope
I was up to the Bayview/Eglinton E, area of Toronto, Monday March 13 & took a stroll through the Mount Hope Cemetery, which backs on to Bayview. I loved the snowcapped tombstones & statuary. As you can tell by the names it is a mix of Italian & Polish (?). From the number of crucifications & saints I guess it is Catholic. wiki confirms that
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Hope_Catholic_Cemetery
The road through the property was cleared but the cemetery proper was snow covered so I couldn’t get close to the gravestones or do a search for any of the more noted people buried there. Many of them had photos of the deceased imbedded which I have covered out of respect. Maybe if I’m there in the summer I might get a closer look.
sweet, eh? paypal.me/TOpoet
Piss-Bombed (2013)
Saturday Night Inferno
The Saturday Night Fever (1977) soundtrack is one of the best-selling albums in history, and remains the biggest-selling soundtrack of all time, selling over 45 million copies worldwide. It produced 4 #1 singles & became the catalyst for the ‘hate disco’ ‘disco sucks’ movement. The soundtrack & the movie both capture a time & place perfectly.
The Bee Gees were big stars & this propelled then briefly into superstardom. I don’t think anything they recorded after this was as ‘compelling’ or as catchy. I do have some of their early work before they went supernova but am not a fan. The songs here are well-crafted & engineered. For me the standout cut is Disco Inferno which really captures the power of disco but was too dangerous at the same time – the Bee Gees were safe & never dangerous.
It also features some Walter Murphy – his updated disco-fied classical spawned a trend for this type of cover work that quickly became pure kitsch with disco maulings of big band, tangos, Gregorian chant – who remembers the slamming version of Carmina Burana?
Another disco movie sound is Thank God It’s Friday (1978). Unlike Fever this has no real plot, no family dynamics just pretty people dancing at the disco. A more representative collection & more gritty than Fever plus Donna Summer – real disco star belting out Last Dance which went on to win her an Academy award for best song. Both soundtracks are worth having & well make you want to dance dance dance.
On Tap
On Tap
he was a table tapper
you know
finger tips drumming
a little beat on the table
fingernails on plate
darting along the edge
drumming along
with conversation
filling the silent spots
as if the clatter of cutlery
wasn’t enough
as if the chatter from tables
around us wasn’t enough
as if the restaurant music
wasn’t enough
as if our conversation
wasn’t enough
Often we unconsciously develop habits that we aren’t even aware of – nervous actions that become so automatic it’s nearly impossible to stop them. One of the challenging part of quitting smoking is to figure out what to do with your hands. Spoken-word writers frequently gesture with their hands as they perform, sometime to emphasize what there saying & when told to not do it, find it impossible not to do. You’d have to tie their hands down & even then their shoulders, their body language gets in the act.
Fidgeting fidgeting is another those hard-to-contain habits. constantly shaking one foot or the other, pulling at the ends of one’s hair, rocking back-and-forth while sitting in a chair. Some made worse when nervous. In high school there was a pen-clicker in one of my classes. One day a teacher grabbed the pen from his hand & threw it in the wastepaper basket. Thank God for Bic.
I read of a pencil chewer who contracted some sort of poisoning from the paint, or was it the preservative, in the wood of a pencil being chomped on – there was a of lawsuit which was lost because pencils weren’t sold to be eaten. I wonder if they had start printing that on them, like warnings on coffee cups ‘contents may be hot’ – ‘not for consumption.’ The things some people put in their mouths lol.
This piece is about all these ‘tics’ & also about a real person who was one of those ‘drummers’ – they would tap along with whatever music might be on in a restaurant. Once even with a spoon on the table. I once asked why they did this & they looked at me as if I said ‘stop breathing.’ Now, if they were actually in time with the music, it might not have so irritating but it was like mindless, tuneless humming. They stopped for a few minutes, then started up again & caught themselves.
“I didn’t even know I was doing that!”
I was cracking my knuckles to Beethoven’s Fifth and didn’t hear them.
What sort of ‘tics’ do you have or what sort bother you?
City Of Valleys – 10
June
Kevin
He finished his salad and went over to Philip for a couple of burgers.
“Thank God. None of these guys are willing to be seen eating fried food in public. The only meat they’d admit to eating is this.” He jabbed the flipper at Kevin’s crotch. “These are the ladies who lunch on laddies.”
Kevin returned to the porch rail to eat his burgers and observe. His anxiety disappeared as he ate. People arrived and departed, kissed, hugged. A few looked his way but none approached.
A young guy with tattoos that spilled out of his shorts and unbuttoned shirt, came over. “Paul,” he introduced himself. “And you are?”
“Kevin. Room 224.”
“Right. Robert booted out those pushy Yanks. I can see why he took you in. Talk is that you are my replacement.”
“What!”
“That’s all right. Robert has a wandering eye. Not usually for the innocent though.”
“Innocent? What do you mean?”
“Those cut-offs, that Leafs t-shirt, bare feet. Closest thing to an All-Canadian Tom Sawyer I’ve seen. Interesting bait.”
“Bait?”
“Christ! You are an innocent. Sorry. Be warned. Dress like a newspaper boy and people will treat you like one. What do you do?”
“I’m a singer.” Kevin was confident. “Looking for an agent. You think there’s one here?”
“Could be. Robert knows all sorts.”
They walked over to the sound system. Kevin began to flip through the various cds.
“You think Karaoke would go over here?”
“Now?”
“Why not?” Kevin handed Paul a cd.
“Born to Be Wild? Sure you want to do this?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“The party does need a break from Robert. I’ll intro and then it’s up to you.”
Paul popped in the cd & lined up the track. He nodded to Kevin.
“Ladies and … I guess there are no biological females here, but I digress. We have a fresh new talent to introduce. Enjoy.” He pressed play.
As the music started Kevin froze, on instinct alone sang in key, at the right point. The back of the house was a good sound board for his voice. As he sang, he got into the song. Once he surrendered to the music he didn’t worry about who watched him. With a hip swivel, he tore into the final chorus.
“Fuck man!” Paul shouted. “You can sing.”
“Evan sign him up for your you next musical.”
After a breath, Kevin started another song without music. A Gaelic sea shanty about a sailor who longed for home and then his joy to be back there. His voice soared skyward, propelled by his joy to be there.
Yves
The air-conditioner chill made Yves pull his blanket closer around him. Through half-opened open eyes, he saw Jake at the end of his bed. He wasn’t surprised to see him there.
He lifted the covers to invite Jake to enter the warmth of his bed and the comfort of his body. Jake didn’t move. He looked at the bed. His head moved while the rest of him was still.
“Don’t stand there,” Yves whispered. “It’s cold out there. Get in. What are you waiting for?”
Jake stepped from the bed to the window. He opened the blinds to allow moonlight and street sounds to roll into the room. He beckoned for Yves to see what he saw.
“Oh all right.” Yves went to the window. “What is it?”
Jake nodded out the window. In the yard Yves saw David Vance, Andrew Welch and his springer spaniel Skuller.
“How … Skuller was run over by that semi.”He muttered.
He turned to Jake but Jake was gone. Jake was in the yard. In the moonlight, he tossed a stick to Skuller. David and Andrew waved to him. They were two men at the hospice who had died the first year Yves worked there.
Skuller barked. The bark was in his left ear, and as the dog’s tongue tickled him, he reached to brush it away. The alarm went off.
Yves bolted awake. He was in his bed, not at the window. He tried to hold the dream. He recollected fragments – Jake, Skuller, but that was all.
When he got home after his unexpected tumble with David, he set the alarm for nine-fifteen p.m. and dropped into his bed. He’d need extra sleep to get through tonight.
Naked he went into his study and fumbled with the switch for his computer. E-mail was a part of his routine that he had missed to help Jake.
He logged on, and sure enough there was another response to his survey, along with an attachment. The responder had edited the questionnaire to suit his own needs.
Hi There Yves:
I hope this is what you were looking for, if not just ask & I’ll tell you all you want to know.
Age: 40/ occupation: constant companion & playmate
country: USA/ gay
CUT: have fantasized about foreskin restoration –
THICK: 2 inch diameter ring fits around the base, & a 1 3/4 inch ring slides along the shaft when erect –
LENGTH: from pubic bone to tip when erect: 8 inches –
NO BENDS: curves ever so slightly to the right, from wearing it down the right leg of my jeans –
MUSHROOM HEAD: flares nicely at the bottom –
SATINY SKIN: soft & pliant, lube for extended play –
ANGLE VARIABLE: depending on temperature & level of excitement – varies from 30 degrees up from vertical to 20 degrees down from vertical –
BAG VARIABLE: depending on temperature, etc – like to use a ball-stretcher on occasion, stretching the balls down as far as possible, love to have my balls tugged during sex –
No scars, tattoos or piercings, but at one time considered a frenum piercing with a ring just behind the head.
I think the most frequent term was ‘dick’ among my circle of playmates – became aware of it at an early age, and used to play show-me-yours-and-I’ll-show-you-mine games with the neighborhood boys at age 4 –
Emotional thoughts – opinions – judgments – fears – likes – dislikes
When I was first discovering the gay world, I wanted someone special – It seemed I would never find anyone, & when I would come home alone & lie awake in bed, I would think “Why isn’t there someone out there that would like to come home with me?” Since then I have become less cock-oriented, & am a little put off by people who treat me as just some guy with a dick – although I do like comments on its size during sex play –
I am an exhibitionist, & get a charge out of the possibility of being caught having sex or being naked where I shouldn’t be. I have to admit that I dress in jeans that show it off to its best advantage to attract attention – If you’ve got it, flaunt it – I hope people enjoy looking as much as I like the attention.
There have been a few times when I would suddenly think “Boy, I’d sure hate to lose my dick … what would I ever do without it?” I just can’t imagine what life would be like if I didn’t have it –
Thanks for asking: Biteabear
The signature meant it was from the on-line group for bears and admirers. What he wanted was there. The start with physical elements led the answerers into the emotional areas.
As he had written in the conclusion of the manuscript: “For the most part, even those men who were unhappy with their equipment were happy to have the opportunity to talk about their equipment. Although gay men were more articulate about their judgments, all men, gay and straight, had the same general view. Men who like to answer surveys may have different views than the general male population.”
In the attachment were two photos of Biteabear’s cock. From the angle of the first, Biteabear had taken the picture himself. Odd light cast deep shadows around a firm erection that thrust out of a solid nest of dark pubic hair. In the other picture, a bearded guy grinned in the woods with his jeans open to release his cock erect into the wilderness.
He shut down the computer and looked over the monitor into the night. Here he was, ready for what? He’d had a full afternoon with David that they both had promised to repeat. But that promise wasn’t an invitation to anything more than sex. Not that he wanted a soul mate, but he longed for something more than fuck buddy.
He had a few close friendships and some delightful sexual relationships, but had never meet a man who combined the two. That sexual-spiritual thing was so elusive he doubted it existed.
The Saturday night in Pride weekend meant things became louder, while more bad drag scampered around. The city blocked the streets in the gay ghetto to cars. It meant fewer heterosexual thrill seekers and less chance another poor drag queen would get a spike heel caught in a manhole and be crushed under the wheels of a car.
The greater number of available men didn’t translate into greater opportunities for spiritual connections. The more the opportunities, the more people held on to the hope that if this one was attractive the next one was a better.
“Ah, sweet mystery of love,” he sang as he opened his closet for bait to wear.
David
Near 11, David had been in a TV trance since he got back from Robert’s garden party. He flipped channels for anything to hold his attention. He muted the sound, and the din came from the street. A block away and fifteen stories up, the sounds of celebrations reached him. Did he want stay to here, safe and vegetative?
At the garden party he’d spoken with Evan Daniels about costumes for his new production. The chance to do almost normal clothes appealed to him. After the challenges of Miss Ing Thing and Tisu Trauma, ordinary was a snap.
The pad beside him had quick sketches that had come to him from Evan’s description of the plot, but a full script would arrive tomorrow. Once he’d read it, he would have a clear idea of what the characters wanted as opposed to what Evan wanted.
The heart-stopping boy was a shock. Kevin McLeod. A plain name and perfect. It was difficult to listen to Evan when Kevin was in view. The boy had talent and though David didn’t understand the words, Gaelic they were informed later, he felt the emotion Kevin brought to them. For the rest of the party his eyes wandered to Kevin. After the song, it wasn’t easy to get closer, as the kid now had a whole fan club.
Robert announced that Kevin would do a number that night at Big E’s. Even dedicated stage-whore queens like to squeeze in a fresh young butch boy to sing a number. Another song was reason enough to venture into the night.
Silk shirt, raw linen shorts, sandals, and he was set. He nodded to a few acquaintances as he walked to Church Street. The streets from the Community Center down to the Gardens had been blocked off and were full of people.
When he read the phrase “gay community,” his mind’s eye saw all types of men and women together, in the open and in front of each other. Drag queens, stone butch leather dykes, serious Marxist college queers, lipstick lesbians, clownish radical Faeries, gender-fuck bearded men in school girl pinafores – all shared the streets with each other. Conservative types like himself were the ones out of place.
He was drawn into the energy that surrounded him. If he wasn’t a part of any one faction, he was a part of the stream they were all a part of. This was his family, his gay community, and he was at home, at ease and at one amongst them.
The line up at Big E’s wasn’t too long. The smoke in the bar wasn’t bad, but the sound volume was a bone-crusher. He had to jot his drink order on a napkin.
Robert wore the ABBA outfit David had made a couple of years ago. Shimmery silvers with three extra heads on jet-wing spread shoulders made Robert into all of ABBA. He lip-synced Dancing Queen. In his left hand he squeezed a rubber ball that pumped the mouths of the three heads so they sang too.
David scanned the crowd for Kevin. Through the smoke and stage lights, it was difficult to make out much. Robert’s number came to a close.
“Thank you so little. Your applause doesn’t mean as much to me as your worship. Like the Titanic, not only does my heart go on but I look forward to going down on … I mean with several crewmen before the dawn.”
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License
Small Worlds
Front yard ‘installations’ seen on my morning strolls. Some rather haphazard others nicely curated. Painted rocks must be a way to keep the kids occupied.
sweet, eh? paypal.me/TOpoet
TOpoet 