My friends and I find a pocket of love in the Castro district of San Francisco. We share an affinity with gay men because, like them, we openly wear the wounded mien of those afflicted by aggressive masculinity. Bubbles down my throat, and I disappear happily into the glitter of sweaty, bronzed skin and embellished costumery.
(I am that wonderful person you want nothing to do with.)
And on the third mile of your drunken trudge through an unfamiliar city in your cheap, designer knockoff shoes, you start to feel the night hanging from the folds of your skirt, the ends of your hair, the corners of your eyes. It cackles at you and snatches at your ankles as you wander through hordes of men without faces. Late night grease sits in your stomach like a small, swaddled Christ, and you can't help but fear the quarrel that is blossoming between your companions. Swish, vomit, pout.
No comments:
Post a Comment