My Writing Stories A Typical San Francisco Night
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Wolfram My Writing Stories A Typical San Francisco Night
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Basically, there is nothing worth mentioning as far as guys go -- so Burp is bummin'. But she points out what appears to be a cute girl in a black fake fur half-top. Pissed and full of courage, I dance across the bar room floor -- right up to her -- just to get a closer look. Yikes, too much make-up! I hate that. But to save the situation I feel her fake fur and compliment her on it.
So I walk back to Burp -- square one -- when she slurs, "Judas ... we're going to find you a wife tonight." Then she turns me around so I could check out this girl in blue who is dancing next to the fake fur chick. Obviously, they are 'buddies.' I dance closer to them ... eureka ... solid gold. Little Blue is on fire! Very petite, blonde with blue eyes -- she is wearing a pair of sexy dancy pants. What else do ya need?
I introduce myself to them (again), and they introduce me to their Philippino queer friend who has tits. I reach over and grab them and, much to my drunken surprise, I don't grab a stuffed bra but get a hand full of real tit! By then Susie wants to leave, but I don't want her to go. I make her stay even though we're too tired and waisted. I grab the gay guy's tits again, but this time I compare his tits with the Little Blue girl's tits. The Little Blue girl's tits are better. Suddenly, this ugly girl behind the Little Blue girl said in a deep man's voice "Try these out, mate." The motherfucker is another transvestite and he is English to boot! So I spent some time feeling all three pairs of tits. This is how I grade them.
1. Blue girl
2. English transvestite
3. Queer Philippino.
So I get the fake fur off the fake fur chick by saying, "What are you wearing under that?" She says, "A bra." I end up trading my crappy t-shirt for her fake fur. Naked girl count -- one. So this black haired girl in a white angora half-top (Have you ever seen Ed Wood?) brings the gay guy who's wearing an old bowling shirt, and they start talking to me. I use the same line on the black haired girl and trade the fur girl's fur, for the white angora sweater. Naked girl count -- two.
I end up talking to the English transvestite for about an hour. He tells me that he's a "paid escort" and he shows me a US government work permit. Yikes! I tell him how much I like the Little Blue girl, so he whispers two words in her ear and comes back. Then Little Blue starts dancing right next to me. Sexy dancey-pants! She tries small talk, but I'm too drunk, so I say, "Would it be audacious of me to just lean over and kiss you?" She smiles, leans in, opens her mouth and takes over. We don't come up for a breather until the bar closes. Then we leave together for the safety of her mini van. Her name is Rebecca (There was hesitation on this point) and I have no idea what her phone number is.
This carefree night reminded me of when I was young and vain, and when we used to do stuff like this all the time. My old room mate, Rose, used to spend two hours getting ready to go out. He would try on twenty shirts, five pairs of pants; add the belts, socks, shoes, and jewelry -- all in all a thousand outfits. He would finish looking like he never started! The causal look, the "I didn't plan this outfit, I just threw it on" look, the art; it was refined by Rose. We we're rambunctious youth -- blind with enthusiasm. And Rose nurtured my latent conceit. I was impressionable and he taught me that it was okay to be vain.
We'd wander around Winnipeg in his Chevie truck; seeking weed, seeking women, seeking sandwiches. We'd learn that no self promotion was shameless. Our immodesty -- our boundless self praise -- allowed us to swagger. It allowed us to strut. He'd say to me, "I haven't decided if I'm going to be a great ballet dancer or a great base player." And I told him I was going to be the next John Lennon or something. We were cocky and young.
And we were greedy. It was as natural as breathing. Controlled by a selfish lustful greed, we'd wonder around Winnipeg on those long summer days. We'd smoke weed in the drive-in theater. We'd kiss women under the Northern lights.
When I asked Rose if he wanted some of my soda, he would drink it all. It was to be expected. When he asked if I wanted to party all night -- we did. We'd cheat on our girl friends. We'd lie to our bosses. We'd steel from each other. We'd eat huge buckets of ice cream. We'd sit around all day watching sports on TV while dishes became crusty and while cigarrette butts filled old pizza boxes.
Lazy, lustful, greedy, vain, selfish, sexy: We were all of these and more. People who where older then twenty two, were considered by us to be REALLY REALLY old. We would just look at them, and not say a word. All they'd get was our disrespectful stare.
At home, I'd sit on the couch pretending to watch TV, but I'd watch Rose out of the side of my eyes. He would vogue there like a super model, like something from Calvin Klein. He would look at his lips and pout. To this day, I don't think Rose has ever loved someone as much as he used to love himself. I had never seen such vanity. It was far more interesting then TV. Still I'd say, "Fuck it's been an hour already! Don't you know what to wear? How can I watch TV with you posing there all night?" Still I'd watch and learn.
And people hated us for being that vain, lusty, selfish, greedy, and free. But we figured it was because someone forced them to hate themselves. You know, like they hated in us what they first learned to hate in themselves. Maybe, when they looked at us they would hear their mother's scream, "Don't look at yourself in the mirror! Don't wack off in the closet! Don't squeeze every drop out of life!" That's what we'd laugh about, anyway, because deep down inside we knew that everyone was as lusty, greedy and vain as we were, they just didn't show it.
So this weekend reminded me of those times and Little Blue and reminded me of my first true love, God rest her soul. She's lost forever like Versachi, Heidi Gunther, Mother Terrisa and Princess Di. I remember the first time I saw her, lying on the bed, lips and eyes lost in time. We were young and love-blind. She once told me that she remembered the first time that she looked at me, too. Maybe we were connected. I still don't understand why she didn't come with me that night, the path she was supposed to follow. What she said didn't make sense at the time.
Driving across the North Dakota plains, I was looking for her. A thousand miles I drove, and then back again, trying to set fate right. She cried in the truck, and looked out the window. She asked me to take her away, to run away with her. But when I arrived after that long long drive, she had changed her mind again. I wrote her a fifty page letter that night, and when I delivered it in the morning, she was dead.
And to this day I keep hearing her voice and that horrible tone she had the night before she died. I keep hearing the parts I didn't understand, and it keeps stirring my gut like a moldy chicken soup that some stinky maid is flushing down a toilet. It's a voice that mocks a guy who can't forget his love -- a love that's lost and gone. It's a voice that keeps him up at night, after all these years, and keeps him grabbing at transvestite's tits and Little Blue whispers of her.
So I'm alive, and only a ghost remains. A Ghost and the haunting feeling that I'm on the wrong time line, that none of this should be happening. She was supposed to follow me that night, and not drive off in such a rage. Or maybe we both should have died together. Instead I wonder alone.