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Tuesday, 30 June 2009 (cato as a pun) 9:45am I'd used Marta's bathroom a few times before, but it wasn't until early on Pink Saturday afternoon that I realized you could see Corona Heights through the window, a seriously perfect Our Lady of Darkness sort of view. I mentioned that to her, and she suggested that maybe we could climb it. As we headed out from her apartment, I made a decision: the slip was coming off. I was wearing a black negligee which just barely made it my thighs (it was probably knee-length on the body type it was intended for, surely not mine), my boots, sheer thigh-high stockings which I'd bought the day before in the Haight at New York Apparel, and a garter belt attached to the stockings. That last was largely because Marta had mentioned before that she found garter belts sexy, and I very much wanted to be sexy for her, especially on Pink Saturday when the streets would soon be packed with all manner of sexiness. I'd been wearing my black half-slip underneath the negligee to cover my legs down to my knees, since I am generally self-conscious about the length of my legs But it was a warm, beautiful day in addition to being Pink Saturday, so the slip came off. It wasn't public nudity by any means—the bottom of the negligee still went down past my panties and most of the tops of the stockings—but more than I'm generally comfortable exposing. I was determined to move past my comfort zone. A little bit past it, anyway. Our first major stop was the World Wide Vegan Bakesale in front of Ike's Place. Marta and I sat on the sidewalk and messily ate messy but seriously yummy cupcakes, occasionally licking excess frosting off of the other's fingers and lips. We're selfless like that Then we continued the rest of the way through The Castro and up to Corona Heights. As we climbed higher and the wind grew accordingly, I put the slip back on, as well as the sweater I'd been carrying in my bag. We more than made up for this bit of modesty by getting comfy at the top, then making out for a good long while, in the rocks and under the sunlight. I do nature! We've never been shy with each other, but it felt like take the publicness of our displays of affection to a whole new level. Granted, we couldn't have been more than silhouettes to anyone who was looking, but still, there we were. We eventually headed back down and into Dolores Park, which was growing more populated by the minute. Sadie (who had been dying to meet Marta, having heard so much about her from me) met up with us, and we sat in the grass for a few hours with some of Marta's folks, including her best friend Alicia. Marta and I buggered off around five to have dinner at Ali Baba, then returned to find Dolores Park starting to reach its usual Pink Saturday density. It was also getting close to Dykes on Bikes time. Originally marta's passenger was going to be her friend Alicia, but when someone else's passenger fell through, Alicia suggested that she could ride with them and I could ride with Marta. It went something like that, anyway. I wasn't entirely sure what the machinations were, and I had nothing whatsoever to do with it. I wanted to ride with Marta, sure, but I also felt very strongly about not disrupting any of her existing traditions, one of which was that Alicia was her Dykes on Bikes passenger. I was completely prepared to either simply accompany Sadie in the Dyke March with her pro-whore contingent, or, more likely, just head straight up 18th into the Castro and avoid the March altogether, hooking up with Marta after she was done. Sure, it would make me a little sad, but only because I like her and I'm greedy and want to be with her all the time. But I also know that Marta likes me too, and an important way to keep her like of me alive is to acknoweldge and respect her boundaries. Not doing so is a great way to kill a promising relationship before its time, which is why Ripley and I didn't last. But now, thanks to Alicia (I got the distinct impression it was her idea), I was being asked if I wanted to ride with Marta. After confirming that it was okay with Marta—she seemed only slightly less surprised by it than I was, and for all I knew she had a policy against her passenger being a lover, but she was all for it—I said yes. So it was that we proceeded down the hill to 18th where her scooter Meg was parked, amongst all the (mostly larger) bikes, their owners and passengers climbing on, revving, and most importantly, posing for the many, many pictures being taken. As I climbed onto Meg, Marta asked me how much experience I had with two-wheeled motor vehicles, and I replied: you mean before today? um, none at all. Nonplussed, she said: okay. just remain centered and still. As we waited for the March actually start moving (which would be when the trolley in front of the Dolores Park Cafe started moving), I futzed with my iPhone trying to get a signal so I could send out the all-important as-it-happens Tweet. I also let out the occasional long sigh. Marta asked if I was okay, knowing that it was my first time on a scooter and that I might be nervous, but in fact, I wasn't. Quite the opposite. Even as we just sat there, waiting to start, it was blissful, the best place I could possibly be, and I soaked it all in as best as I could: the noise, the crowd, the improbable fact that I was there on Marta's scooter with my arms around her waist and happily conscious of how much leg and stocking and garter and thigh I was showing and that holy shit we were about to ride in Dykes on Bikes, which is something she's done before but which I'd never, ever expected to be part of myself. Not that it had ever been a dream of mine or anything. It was always so far out of my experience and realm that I just didn't give it much thought, and doing it now wouldn't have meant nearly as much if not for who I was with. Finally, motion: down 18th toward Valencia, slowly at first, then picking up speed, more speed than I expected, especially as the crowds on either side of the street seemed to move in closer and closer to us as we sped toward the bottleneck. It was exhilarating, really. Some people put out their hands, but Marta had told me to remain centered and still, and we were traveling at twenty or thirty miles an hour without helmets (or maybe it was only ten miles an hour? I couldn't see the speedometer and had no frame of reference), so I kept my hands on her, no longer locked around her waist but instead at her sides, my index fingers through her beltloops, and all the while trying to remember to smile for the crowds and the many many flashing cameras. I was smiling anyway, the big goofy grin I get when I'm just marveling at how wonderfully weird and weirdly wonderful my life can get. Sometimes it's feast and sometimes it's famine, I've had enough of both to be able to tell the difference, you must worship in sadness as you worship in bliss, and at that moment my cup was overflowing, splashing all over the onlookers as turned left onto Valencia (lean with me, Marta said) and left again onto 16th. And then we hit Noe, and it was over. I'd expected it would last longer and that we wouldn't go so fast, though I also realized that I was basing that on Pride Parade, in which the Dykes on Bikes contingent that leads the Parade chugs along slowly, and I'd never actually watched the Dyke March go by, instead participating in it when I made it out there at all. Marta confirmed that, yes, the pace was much faster than she'd expected as well. But it was wonderful while it lasted. From there it was to the Lexington for a drink (I drank a whole Anchor Steam, the first time in recent memory that I've actually finished a beer) and dancing, then hanging out at a nearby friend's house to dish while I played with their cat, then to Marta's apartment to pick up the stuff we'd left there earlier, and then back to Phoebe. It was still warmish and beautiful in spite of the sun having gone down, but we'd both already had a long day and were hankering for a little privacy, so we returned to the Black Light District and continued what we'd started at Corona Heights. After a modest brunch on Sunday morning at The Sea Biscuit, we decided to venture into the Marin Headlands. (Telling Leni about it later that evening, she commented that two years in a row, I'd gone hiking on Pride Sunday. Weird but true, almost as weird as the fact that Leni remembered what I did for Pride Sunday last year.) Marta and I went to Rodeo Cove, the Point Bonita Lighthouse, and almost but didn't quite make it to the Black Sand Beach. We got close enough to see it, hiking down a less-than-pristine path (and encountering a pair of drunken Japanese fisherman who may have been frakking with us when they said there was a snake nearby), but we approached from the wrong direction, a mile or two away form the nude-beach portion of it. Marta and I discussed whether we'd be interested and going to a nude beach and doing the actual nude thing, and decided that yes, we would. There's always Baker Beach, which doesn't have black sand but is much easier to get to. We drove back into The City (the traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge being much better than usual for a Sunday afternoon), I dropped her off at home, then headed to The Dark Room. As a rule I don't schedule myself for Bad Movie Night on Pride Sunday, but I had nothing better to do, and I'm kinda codependent with my show. Heaven forbid it go one week without me. So I was standing in the lobby, looking through the doorway leading to the theater itself, when I heard her voice: it's fun to watch you when you don't know i'm here. It was Marta, who said she'd been in the neighborhood running errands and decided to stop by, since she'd be able to get me before the movie started. I assured her (not for the first time) that it would be more than okay for her to interrupt me during the movie. In any event, she was here now, and even though I'd just dropped her off a couple hours earlier (and we'd spent a good twenty-eight hours together), it still excited me to see her. this girl is catlike, with no sense of the passage of time, and every time she returns it's like she's been gone forever. She stayed with me for a few minutes, then left. I'll be seeing her again on Wednesday night, and I'm sure that by then it'll feel like forever, too. 3:22pm Sent off another book proposal today. Like so many other things, this is the only way it works. 6:11pm I guess I've got to go to the lonesome valley alone. Nobody else can go for me. So I'm told, anyway. 7:15pm If I avoid eye contact, that means I win. 9:01pm Things I've never claimed to be: brave, noble, virtuous, mature, positive, forthright, moral, a saint, or even a generally good person. 10:03pm Dancing to the jukebox at Shotwell's. I put in five bucks—seventeen songs—and nobody else is dancing, though a few people are looking at me oddly. Whatever. I'm used to it. I'm sure a lot of them are thinking that they're not drunk enough to dance yet. I never will understand that. Me, I don't like dancing when I'm drunk, since it throws off my rhythm. I'm nursing a weak beer Rhiannon bought for me, and that's plenty. | ||
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Monday, 29 June 2009 (sink the seine) 12:52pm The editor rejected the book proposal. She said she liked it a lot, but that they're scaling back their acquisitions of queer books and publishing far fewer books in general. You win again, Global Financial Apocalypse! (Plus the whole "print is dead" thing.) But she gave me some excellent feedback and leads for other publishers, and rejection-wise, I'm in good company—specifically, every other writer in the history of the universe. It just means I'm right on track. | ||
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Sunday, 28 June 2009 (on par with lethargy) sometime after midnight The happiest Pride Weekend I've ever had (thanks to being with Marta) ended with Firewalker, a very bad movie. But that's the point of Bad Movie Night. | ||
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Saturday, 27 June 2009 (suffer for fashion) 7:22pm Riding in Dykes on Bikes with Marta on her scooter: best Pink Saturday ever. | ||
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Friday, 26 June 2009 (two humans being) 5:11pm Raphaela continues to be shocked by the carnage on my chest and shoulders. When she saw me this morning, she almost looked like she was going to cry, which is a reasonable reaction to what at first glance could be considered abuse. I reassured her that it's all completely consensual, and it's not like Marta gets drunk at the bar then comes home and hits me, and in fact there's no actual hitting involved. (Not to mention she's not really a drinker and we don't live together, though she does have her own towel and toothbrush in my bathroom.) She insisted on my showing my battle damage to the other trainers, one of whom smiled and said: wow. that girl likes you a lot. I replied: i think so, yeah. The reading last night went well overall. I wasn't so great, but I don't always have to be, and it wasn't about me anyway. Marta and I returned to the Black Light District afterward, this time keeping the white lights on. I'm finally really getting to know her face. It always takes a while, to be able to picture her in my mind when she's not around, based on how she looks in real life rather than in pictures. We had to get out of bed earlier this morning than we would have liked because of my appointment with Raphaela, though we took advantage of the small window of time we had upon awakening. I think I've figured out why it's that much better in the morning (though it's great at night, too): the body has pretty much spent the past several hours stewing in its own juices, so to speak. We do both make a point of brushing our teeth before having at each other, but the body's natural smell has had time to build up, and like I've said before, I'm a pheromone junkie. Marta once again went to a nearby cafe during my appointment with Raphaela, and rejoined me afterward. We went into the Haight and shopped (well, browsed) for a couple hours, then I drove her back home. I'll be seeing her again tomorrow, joining her early in the afternoon for the Pink Saturday festivities, but the longing kicked in the moment she got out of the car. It's the best kind, though: when the other person feels it, too. 7:59pm My history with Michael Jackson, sorta. | ||
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Thursday, 25 June 2009 (alien hand) 3:39pm I did make it to the gym today, at least, and tonight Marta is joining me for a Femmethology reading at the Center for Sex and Culture. Then Pride Weekend officially begins. There'd been some talk of her and I skipping town on Sunday to visit c0g and m0 in Bolinas, but the timing's no good for any of us. One of these days, though. Her and I will be together on Pink Saturday, however—minus the hour or so that she's participating in Dykes on Bikes—and I'm still looking forward to this one more than I have in years. | ||
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Wednesday, 24 June 2009 (exterior drone cycle) 7:09pm Kristen and I saw George Kuchar's Thundercrack! at the Victoria Theatre last night as part of the San Francisco Gay and Lesbian Film Festival. As we stood in line outside, it felt like the whole damn City walked by sooner or later. That's Pride Month for you. No gym this morning. I didn't get much sleep last night, not because I was out particularly late with Kristen (the movie didn't get out until midnight, but I took her straight home after that) but because I was up for a couple more hours working with my friend Orin online trying to get some bits of software running properly. I just didn't have the energy this morning, and when I strongly considered going this evening, once again I realized that my body wasn't quite up for it. Haven't gotten much writing or anything else done, etiher. Some days are busts. | ||
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Tuesday, 23 June 2009 (angels breaking) 11:12am I hit the gym yesterday evening. Marta met me there when I was done, and we returned to the Black Light District, where it didn't take too long for us to fall into bed together. I took my socks off, and kept them off, even we finally went to sleep a few hours later. It's been a long time since I've been able to sleep (or do much of anything) with bare feet, but with her, I can. sometime after midnight This, at long last, is what moving on looks like. | ||
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Monday, 22 June 2009 (standing offers) 9:42am Excellent Bad Movie Night last night, with a big, energetic crowd composed mostly of newbies, and the movie itself (Lara Croft Tomb Raider: The Cradle of Life) was perfect for us. For me, though, the best part of the night was Marta swinging by The Dark Room beforehand to give me a hug and few kisses. Unfortunately, I missed out on a return trip later in the evening because the crappy reception in The Dark Room prevented me from getting her text until it was too late. Alas. We'll be spending tonight together, though. According to the post office's Delivery Confirmation website, the proposal still hasn't been delivered. Evidently it takes a week for a Priority Mail package to travel twenty miles. Who knew? I figure I'll wait until this afternoon, and if the status hasn't changed, I'll email the editor to doublecheck. Hopefully, their system is just glitchy and she received it last week like she was supposed to. In any event, the whole "paper proposal instead of electronic" thing isn't seeming quite as romantic as it did before. Of course, when the agent back in March asked me to email her the manuscript, I never heard back from her after I sent it, and she went on medical leave shortly thereafter. If the universe is trying to tell me something, I refuse to listen. 10:40am I emailed the editor, who says she did in fact receive the proposal, and that they generally respond within a few weeks. In the meantime, life goes on. sometime after midnight With her, I can sleep with my socks off. | ||
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Sunday, 21 June 2009 (too little too soon) 3:20pm I went to my first Sunday food bank this afternoon in a few weeks. I played hooky (inasmuch as you can play hooky from something which isn't an obligation) from the last two because Marta and I were together, and, well, to me that makes perfect sense. Today, I went straight to the local girl's house and hung out with her there, since we could see the garage of the food bank from her window. I'm glad I did, since it was an hour and half late in opening. She said that she's also missed the last couple food banks as well, which makes me feel like not quite so much of a flake. (Again, though, who I'm flaking on is uncertain.) Meanwhile, she's has offered to come over this week to help me get started on gardening in the backyard. She's been doing it for years and knows what works and what doesn't, which is a huge relief, because I have no idea where to start. So I didn't get Marta last night like the past couple Saturdays, but we did have Thursday night and much of Friday. She took me to dinner on Thursday at Cha-Ya, followed by dessert at Bi-Rite. Then back home for more dessert, which is of course a thoroughly cliched way of saying "sex." Amazing sex, at that, as we're in the phase where the more we do it the more we learn about each other, and the more possibilities it opens up. As it should be. Marta was kind enough to wait for me at a cafe on Friday morning during my appointment with Raphaela, which has been moved from Monday nights to Friday morning, at least until I start working again. For her part, Raphaela was a bit shocked by the marks and bruises on my upper chest and arms, which to me always resemble astronomical stuff, galaxies and nebulae and such. I couldn't hide them, since I wear just a sports bra and bicycle shorts when working out. Genuinely concerned, Raphaela asked: are you all right? is she hitting you? I replied: i couldn't be better, and no, she's not hitting me. it's mostly from biting, and i assure you it's all completely consensual. Still seeming a little skeptical, she moved on to something even more important: how are the conversations? are you talking to each a other lot? are your emotional needs being met? I told her they were, because they are. Since it was a beautiful day (and I wanted to show Marta that I "do nature"), after my appointment we went to Golden Gate Park and walked through the Botanical Garden. As much of it as we could, anyway, since there's some sort of renovation going on. Thankfully, the Redwood Trail was still accessible. It's one of my favorite places in San Francisco, since it doesn't feel like San Francisco, and, hey, redwoods! It was pushing one in the afternoon, still a beautiful day and I had her until half past five, so I decided to get adventurous: lunch at Alice's Restaurant in Woodside. It wasn't great food, but they had vegetarian options, and it's a lovely environment. Getting there was fine (except for that first wrong turn I took at the 92 offramp, a harbinger), but I made a big tactical error on the return trip: instead of just returning back the way we came, I decided to follow Skyline down through Pescadero to Highway 1 and taking that back up to San Francisco. All fine and good, except I trusted my memory and instincts too much, and I missed the turnoff. In a nutshell, we ended up driving farther than to nowhere in particular than we should have, and when I finally had the good sense to turn us around, I kept making navigational goofs (should have just stayed on Skyline back to 92, should have gotten off at Alemany rather than the Potrero exit off 101), and by the end of it all Marta was looking a bit green, the poor thing. A long, winding car trip together was not a good use of our time, not at all. Sometimes experiments fail. But all was not lost, either. We still had an hour to kill as I parked in The Mission, and much to my relief, she wasn't tired of me yet: i just need a little time away from phoebe, that's all. It was half past four and the day hadn't quite begun to dim, so she suggested Dolores Park. We found a shady spot on a hill next to some friends of hers (it was pretty much a given that we'd run into someone either her or I knew, just like how the night before in line at Bi-Rite we encountered a friend of hers who was often at Pirate Cat Radio when I used to visit Bunny there last year, and in fact had been Marta's roommate at the time), and after they left, engaged in PDA which was shameless even by our exhibitionistic standards. Granted, to an observer it probably just looked like making out, but in some ways for us it wasn't too far off from fucking in the park. As I say, I do nature. Removing my sunglasses, she said: your eyes. i like to see your eyes. Eventually (and with no small difficulty) we pulled away from each other and picked ourselves up off the ground, because it was nearly five-thirty and she needed to get home. I walked her there, and she invited me upstairs. It was her weekly date night with her boyfriend, but I also needed to piddle, and I'd been wanting to meet him anyway. I always picture myself saying something like i'd just like you to know i have nothing but noble intentions toward your girlfriend, which would be kind of stupid and not work as well as a joke as I'd hope. Fortunately, I didn't say that when I met him, though I probably did babble on a bit too much about the original when he mentioned that he'd just come from seeing the remake of The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3, especially since I mistakenly referred to it as being directed by John Frankenheimer when it was in fact directed by Joseph Sargent. (But it feels like it could have been a Frankenheimer movie, right? Right.) Anyway, no harm done, and Marta says he thought I seemed really cool, so, yay. I'm glad that's over with, as it just makes life easier all around. | ||
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