Men in tight tights

We end the trip in Dallas, where Jack lives these days. I’m trying to read “A million little pieces” (I know it isn’t real, ok!) but I’m distracted. The speaker stones that decorate the pool area are blasting techno music, and the hallways smell like perfume, and the tattooed lesbians walk around tan in string bikinis. And the waxed gay boys walk around in fluorescent Speedos, rolling their eyes at me, wishing they had hair to flip. Well I have hair, and I flip it at them, thinking “ Ha I’m more bitchy, cause I have a vag and long girly hair and you don’t. I win, even though you’re prettier and more groomed than me.” The elevators in his building talk with British accent and use a diamond shape for up-down arrow. Mardi Gras type beads line the walls, statues of rippled men do too. Circular peep hole windows allow passerbys to check out studs in the gym. I’m getting tired of hanging out in gay bars in Jack's gay neighborhood and at Jack’s gay apartment. It hurts my self-esteem. Being around so many gay guys is a little like this: Rejection, rejection, rejection, lesbo come on, escape, rejection, rejection, rejection.

Still Jack and I have plans to spend my last few days there by his pool. I have a pink swirly cup that is perfect for sipping while sitting poolside- it has a straw attached and a lid on top. I fill it with water from the door of his stainless steel fridge, and I decide last minute that I’d like a few ice cubes. Adding them causes the water in my cup to splash and fall to the pale paneled wood floor. And suddenly I'm somewhere else a long time ago, at my neighbors house, in their musky apartment, with their musky deep olive green carpets, and their wooden handrails, and dark dingy play room in the basement. The ice cubes crackle as the hit the ground.

“You idiot! Don’t you know you’re supposed to put the ice in first. Look what a mess you’ve made!” Back hand. Boy 12 or 13 with a frozen steak on his eye threatening to call the cops. “If you call the cops you will be in much more trouble, don’t even think about it!”The man bellows, hovering over the boy; Boy trying to be a man, but his voice is weak and squeeky, and he’s small and pudgy. I am begging Boy, tears welling, “Please don’t call the cops on Man.” Overpowered and outnumbered as usual Boy retreats. I don’t remember much else besides Man slamming the door, shutting me out, so he is alone in the room with Boy. Surely I went outside, sunlight, warmth, grass, air, breath, beauty, sky. I love front yards. I love sitting on the cracked cement stoop. I love breathing, not hearing, not knowing.

Now as I’m filling up my cup and cleaning up the mess I’ve made, I think about giving long lost friend Boy a call when I get down to the pool. The techno speakers would make it hard to hear him and I don’t know what we’d talk about. His voice has deepened, but he’s still barely audible on the phone, always answering with a mutter, “Hi howreyou?” What would I say?: “Your wife says you’ve been angry lately.” “She says you’re still getting high.” “What’s up?/What’s new?/How’s it going?” “I miss you. I love you. I worry about you. I’m scared you’re going to die. Please don’t die, I want you to be the Boy I know, 500 years before all this shit happened, a million years before Man hurt you, destroyed you.” I don’t bother calling. You know, techno speakers...