The reading is an absolute treat, especially, I think, for those of us who shared Sycamore’s world then. She resists nostalgia, and yet there is something nostalgic about remembering queer dreams, even if they turned out to be fantasies for many of us. Sycamore has a glint in her eyes and a steady smirk that refuses easy interpretation. There’s a sense that she’s poking fun, at herself and the rest of us, as her carefully crafted prose layers meaning upon meaning. She tells the story of club life where all sorts of people reveled, breaking down social identities in a play of bodies and pleasures and possibilities. And then she needed a ride home: “No one would give me a ride,” Sycamore reads. “The club was called . . . Together.” And that is just it, the gap between what we say and what we do, what our words mean and what the world does with them in the messy play of desire with the rest of things: safety, solitude, independence, that part where we want a good bus system, but if we’ve got one, we still take the car.