From The Ashes ...

Last night at the bar.

Things had begun to skid out of control. Nothing too bad, really, for a busy night. A pair of shoes spotted under the bathroom stall, somebody obviously sitting on the toilet. Trouble was another pair of shoes were clearly visible in that same stall pointing in the opposite direction. A blowjob had broken out. Security was hastily called. Too mundane for my talents. Time was, people were summarily ejected for this transgression. I put a stop to that though. While I don't and legally can't encourage bathroom suckjobs (except to treat snakebite) how worked up can you get about such things. They're gay, we sell alcohol to them, dicks come out. (Don't they, Dan?) Zip up and separate, go forth, and suck no more. As penance, you must buy a Grey Goose and tonic. The only other issue is who is sucking who and why. If it's a couple of liquored up fifty-year-olds, blessed be. If I get the sense this was a paid for transaction then a hooker just called undue attention to herself. Those that provide their services with a fee face many tedious nights (for both of us) of me playing "Let's fuck with the hooker" as that kind of behavior is a big NOT.

Some sort of a shoving match had broken out in the back bar. It seems there was a jostling for bar space between a patron (gay) and another patron (straight woman) I have no idea if gay had the right of space or straight woman did. I do know that gay allegedly shoved straight woman and said something along the lines of "fuck you, what are you doing here anyway this is a men's bar." And while I don't agree with this whole our bar your bar mentality when it comes to gays and straights trying to coexist, many of our clientele remember when we had no choice when it came to the precious few places we were allowed to congregate, and so a little vestigial territorial behavior is understandable. Straight people: what a pain in my ass. (Yawn)

On one of my trips through the front bar I pass E----, away from the door and holding on to someone. As I'm preparing to pass E---- reaches out with his free hand and gives me the "help a sistah out, signal." Either that, or maybe it was the death grip he had on my wrist. Finally someone deserving of my attention. I look to see who E---- is holding on to, actually, look down is a better description. It was then I spot the South Carolina Sistah. Missy Girl is 5'4 and 180 if she's a pound. 40 something years old. I'd say more something than not. She's been breezing into town a few times a year from S.C. causing a drunken havoc every time. Mostly she's southern, boisterous, drunken, loud, southern, and occasionally a scream. She will freely admit to being a huge bottom, to have inherited all her money, to work just for something to do and any other outrageous fact that nobody in their right minds reveals in public. In short, a short, loud, wealthy fag. Sussing the situation right quick I figure Sistah Missy Girl has had enough and E---- is having problems getting her that all important last mile to the front door. Her free hand has a death grip on the back of a barstool. Grabbing on to the furniture to keep from getting ejected. Yeah, that always works.

*click* I switch it on...

"Girl! What the hell are you up to now?"

SMG: "I'm jus' havin a little fun, is awll."

" A little fun? We started the party kind of early didn't we sugar?"

SMG: "Well you know me ..."

"Only too well you drunken little mess (you had to be there, I was smiling and hugging him).

Then he says something unexpected.

SMG: "Oh well, it doesn't matter I'm HIV I'll be gone soon."

Wow (I thought), but said:
"Oh no, girl, I expect you're gonna be around to terrorize us for a long time."

SMG: "He's puttin me out."

"Just for the night, kitten. It's OK. You can come back tomorrow, OK? Now cooperate with E----, please?"

She let's go of the barstool and E---- begins to slowly move her towards the front door. As he passes me he touches my hand softly. That's the signal for "thanks, nice job."

I retreat to my office, but that one thought haunts me. I'm HIV I'll be gone soon. Not I have a virus. I am one. It reminds me of an HX article I read recently. I meant to save it but forgot. The pointiest point I remember from it was the author's recollection to one dates (over coffee) reaction to the revelation of the author's status. "You're HIV?" And a hastily ended date. His point, and I guess mine, is how many others of us are defining our lives outside, (or allowing others to do so) by the virus we carry within. How many of us believe death is lurking around the corner even when the evidence points to the contrary? Let me tell you, some serious physical wasting would have to take place for Sistah Missy Girl before a dangerous level was reached. She's practically round. And while I hardly feel the hot breath of death breathing down my neck, what does it say about me that I totally reject the notion that HIV+ = Death. Is it false bravado masking fear? Or am I the voice of reason not being heard? I'm aware that many people can and do seroconvert, get very ill and die quickly. But many people is not most people. And it seems that it's also not me. So if I'm going to experience "statistically typical" HIV infection I'm looking to live in excess of 20 years at least, certainly more is extremely possible. Now factor in 20 more years of medical advances. I like my chances at achieving Dirty Old Queen status. And that, above everything else, is the future I find extremely scary. I'm HIV+. And I'm gonna be here a while.

Give It To Me Till It Hurts...

If I may be so bold as to ask for your help. Even after experiencing it, as I called it last year, "more like the death march to Battan." I am once again pushing my stilletos to the back of the closet and dragging out my Nike power walkers and taking part in this year's AIDSWalk NY held every May right here in Central Park. I anticipate a much more pleasant experience this year as I'll be traveling much lighter and getting to bed the night before much earlier. But seeing as how I don't like to bother my customers, OK I don't like to speak to them, and also because I let the rest of my staff shake those rich wrinkled bitches down, I'm appealing to you, my loyal readers. All 50 of you. I've set a modest $100.00 fundraising goal so how hard can this be?

You can follow the link: Sponsor a Walker on the AIDSWalk menu bar or just click here.
Participant's First Name: Tom ... Last Name T. I'll probably remind you every day this week so I apologize in advance.