Tuesday, December 04, 2012

Another place to march

Oh, the beach– yes, the beach, finally. Just the smell of that ocean and the feeling of the sand under my feet, sure it's rocky and windy and it's hard to walk but still. Sure I'm right by the highway but here it's just boulders and me and suddenly I feel childish and happy, the air blowing into my body and it’s warm so maybe I'll even take off my shirt, yes I'm teaching myself to love the sun although I definitely don't want to get tan. Or burnt, but there's not much risk of that at this time of the day, right, and I start twirling in the sand, running and jumping and I actually feel pretty right now, by myself on the beach in the sun with all this air. Maybe I should go to Provincetown for the summer, that's what I'm thinking, even if I'm also thinking I have to stay here and get ready to confront my father.

            But then it's the next day and I'm worse than I've been in a while, thinking what am I doing with my life, what the fuck am I doing with my life I mean why am I living in this horrible place in a city that I hate, and I haven't thought like this in a while. Then I realize I have a cold. So I’m at Downtown Crossing after acupuncture, found this guy in the yellow pages and he used electricity to zap away my cold while I used hypnosis techniques to float. I still have a bad headache, and my teeth ache too, but maybe I'll check out the bathrooms at Jordan Marsh while I'm waiting for Abby to page me. For now I'm sitting on a bench with all these wacky old people in baseball caps and sun hats, top 40 soul pumped in from somewhere and some guy says they always do it that way, why do they have to do it that way, and I'm not sure if he's talking about the music. I mean I know is talking about the music, but I'm not sure why. It's starting to get humid in that oppressive almost-summer way that I hate, but at least it's cloudy and there's a breeze.

            Then there's Avalon without drugs and I'm depressed as hell because I can never go up to the boys who I want and no one is friendly. Honey, I look too good for these pointless pompous prissy preps but when will I be able to have romantic sex or at least sex with boys who I think are hot, sex and a better anywhere with someone who I actually want like that boy in the red shirt and so many so many others who stare at me with that blank look. Or, when it's not blank, and I don't know what to do. Yes, I’m finally friends with fags for the first time in my life, but now that’s everyone I know, a bunch of apathetic club kids and everything is so gender-segregated in Boston.

For the first time, I'm just glad when the music ends and I can finally get home and get some rest. Then the next day I feel a little better, but for some reason Sean insists that we have to go to Moka. R can't believe I have to sit in that het-owned, het-run, het-overrun but gay gay gay chi-chi café with all these South Beach tanning salon casualties carrying Neiman Marcus makeup bags, hetero wannabe couples spouting a bunch of top/bottom bullshit, talking about couture and throwing shade shade shade. How many times do I have to hear someone say: I saw her on the block. On the block. On the block.

            Bitch, what were you doing on the block? Oh, right – you were just driving by, I'm sure, with a rainbow flag sticker on your VW convertible I mean Jeep Wrangler, of course I know you're butch, don't worry. Boston: a safe place to open your closet door to others who look and act and talk and walk just like you, honey, yes you, and then slam it shut for safety, propriety, exclusivity. But then the queer youth in Boston are the worst — assimilation nation, that's for sure, here we are in the heart of it all. Can you believe there's a Gay and Straight Youth March — are you kidding me? Do straight people really need another place to march?


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