Three: Moved On

Last week was an upheaval of sorts.

My business as an amateur masseur has fallen flat.  I haven't received a phone call in over a week.  My last client was a remarkable young man from San Francisco.  San Francisco is the city of my dreams.  I have been two times.  The second time I spent about three weeks with a man I met at a bar in the Castro.  He was so kind.  I was in graduate school and after having a two month courtship via the telephone, I charged a plane ticket on a credit card I wasn't supposed to be using and flew out to my land where dreams are made.  Oz, minus the wonderful Wizard.  He met me at the airport and off I went.  I told no one I was going.  Not my best friend.  Not my mother.  Which was huge for me.  Even to this day, I still can't go a full day without some kind of dialogue between my beloved/tragically enmeshed blue eyed, blond haired raptor of a a care giver.  And I mean that with all the love.  She is a hard woman wrapped into the body of a barbie doll, but without all the unnatural Barbie boobs, mascara, and dolled up outfits with frills and whistles.  She likes a hoodie and lately has been wearing a Northface T-Shirt at least three days per week.  "Ma, what gives?  What's with the shirt?"  It was on sale.  3 for $10.00"  I then look down at my "obsession with Theory" $75 dollar T-Shirt and feel rotten.  Rotten to the core.  Rotten like when you bite into a pear and it is almost so sour you spit it out into the dirt of a lemon tree and then feel nauseous from the minute quantity of pear juice dripping down your throat.

So I couldn't make my rent.  All my best laid plans have once again collapsed.  I had such a fruitful December and was really honing my craft and even thinking of taking it to the more professional, legit side, which basically means no happy endings and I don't have to wear a sock on my Johnson like The Red Hot Chili Peppers.

God I love Flea so much.

And Anthony.  If you could hear me, I need help.  I need your help.  Sometimes I feel like you are the only the one that could possibly understand what is going on my head.

So I moved out.  Everything is scattered around, up in the attic, in the guest bedroom of my parent's house, in this pantry and that pantry, and I'm back at hotels.

The Sam Houston is by far my favorite.  The Club Quarters on the other hand, treated me like I used to treat people who intimidated me... with disdain, arrogance, and an attitude of complete and utter intolerance.  Its like I had a "WHORE" written all over my face when I walked in.

Well, that's right motherfuckers.  The whore has arrived, but could you please give the whore a little break and save your judgmental attitude for the real masterminds of injustice and intolerance in the world.  Now who that is, I still haven't figured out, but everyday I get a little bit closer.

Thank you blip foto.  You are keeping me alive.  The money is running low.  The court case and the thought of jail is looming.  "I'm innocent, I tell ya!"  (I've come to realize, I think that joke that everyone in jail says they are innocent is actually, tragically a total truth.  The men I met in jail in the HIV quarantine belonged in so many other wonderful places.  I wish I could take all of them on a private jet to a tropical island and have margaritas by the sea mamasita.

Don't know where I will be tonight.  Although I got crazy, weird, good, flabbergasting news from my HIV specialist last week, my body is killing me.  I can't help but feel like something inside of me is dying.  Maybe its all the years of drugs.  Maybe its a broken heart.  Maybe my mother is poisoning me. LOL.

Dear God, whoever the hell you are? What is going on with me and the world and the universe?  I can't help but follow this damn yellow brick road, but I'm all alone, no Toto, no Scarecrow, no Tin Man, no Lion.  Perhaps, its true what they say, those characters were all representations of the sides of Dorothy that she didn't want to fully believe that she possessed.  I wish I could see it in myself.  Maybe tomorrow?