Larkin, My Friend

December 15, 2014

11 December 2014

Larkin, My Friend:

You’re looking rather dumpy and haggard in your old age. I don’t think you’ll be able to hustle much longer…I’d give you six more months at the most. Especially with the rotten condition of your teeth. But you shall always remain a wonderful and beautiful man to me, no matter how fat and homely you become.

So please do not despair. If you ever feel so downtrodden and lost on life, please don’t consider ending it. Please come to me; I will always love you no matter what. You have a true friend in me, more than (I’m sure) Zachary or anyone else.

I’ve been through this with Randolph, who wound up dead or disappeared, instead of contacting me. The last time I’ve heard from him was way back in 1992.

I’ve been treated like shit since the day I was born, starting with a cold family life which I was more than happy to run away from once I turned 17. Rare moments they have been, that I have known sweet friendship, and sometimes even lovers. Otherwise, people treat me like crap, including here in the Castro…which I’m sure you have witnessed.

You are the only person in my life who has shown great compassion, albeit sporadic. You’ve even hugged me numerous times, and put hope and joy in my heart over many encounters. And those moments have been so glorious, they give me great motivation to keep reaching out to you. In spite of your recent maliciousness, which I can’t help but believe are tribulations you’ve imparted, that I grow stronger and wiser.

For the Buddha hath said, “We have no enemies, only teachers.” And of course, Jesus’ wise proclamation: “Love your enemy.”

My love for you is sincere, and I am greatly concerned for your well being in the long run. Please know that it gives me great honor and pride, to be here for you no matter what. Do not ever think your life is over, because of some changes or downturns that may put you in crisis.

My life is hell without you, so I think it’s time you find it in your heart to renew our friendship. And I promise:

I will make you really happy forever, and always be the most loyal friend you’ll ever know.

All my love,

Zeke (a.k.a. Eugene)

P.S.: As long you need to hustle to survive, we can work together…such that I’ll be an asset who’ll greatly increase your customer base. I can even be a good friend to Zachary, if that will help.

The Little Match Boy

December 8, 2014

It was terribly chill with a thick Pacific fog. Rain pelted like bullets, and the sky was almost pitch. Nighttime approached, the last dark shade of the year. In the Stygian dank a poor young man, in a soaked-through hoodie and wet denims and ragged old running shoes he found on a doorstep, was meandering the streets of The Castro. Of course when he had departed from Martin de Porres’ free oatmeal breakfast, he had Zorries on, but what good did they serve? They had a very large footprint, way too awkward for him, for they were procured from an old, drunk Mexican lying in the gutter. The lonely young fellow had lost them running across Mission Street, where a MUNI bus had rumbled by in great haste. One Zorrie he failed to regain, and a mongrel had scooted away with the other, for a chew toy.

And so the handsome waif plodded on with bare feet, which were freezing crimson until he found those sneakers. In his left coat pocket he carried two spare books of matches sealed in a baggie, along with one stashed in his shirt that he used to offer a light to anyone rummaging for his Bic. This was his way of striking up a conversation, and hopefully finding a warm place and body for the night. But no one had accepted a light all day long, and no one had given him solace.

Trembling with cold and loneliness, he wandered throughout The Castro, an image of destitution, a sad young man! The raindrops fell on his scraggly black hair, which cascaded in matted locks over his neck. In all the homes Christmas tree lights glittered through windows, and there was a delightful scent of homemade meals and dessert, for it was New Year’s Eve. Yes, he longed for a full belly and companionship!

On Collingwood Street across from the park, he sat down on a doorstep and drew up his rain-drenched legs. He grew colder and colder, but did not dare move on, for he had found not a single kind soul to take him in that day, and despair sank into his bones like an old, dying man.

His hands were numb with cold. Oh, how much one kind hug from a gentle man might warm his soul! If he could only meet a friendly gay comrade to offer a match, and be swept up in his arms and taken home to a hot meal and a warm bed! He grew feverish and began to hallucinate. A ghostly male of kind and sweet demeanor approached him and asked for a light. The stranded boy’s heart leapt for joy, and he withdrew a matchbook and lit the Winston.

The match sputtered like a Roman candle, to imbue his sudden companion’s face like an angel. Had he finally found His One True Love, who would heal his every wound, and keep him safe and happy forevermore? The man’s gray eyes sparkled, and his smile warmed the wanderer’s grieving soul like a gas-flame hearth!

(I must mention here, that the young straggler’s name was Seth, and he was just seventeen. Quite the gorgeous dude, though barely 5-foot-4. He was a very good man, though a refugee from a broken family out of Montana. He never messed with hard drugs or alcohol, though nonetheless could never find another homeless friend here in San Francisco, who could fulfill his desperate need for camaraderie and trust. He often wished he were straight, to increase those odds.)

The kind man’s face glowed with compassion, as Seth held the match to his cigarette. But it gave off a weird flame! It really appeared to the lost boy as if he were sitting before God’s Judgment, and was deemed innocent. How wonderful Seth felt in the warmth of This Man’s Smile! His heart beat with fulfillment! The young man gazed up at his companion with reverence, as a warm rush of happiness brushed away the last vestige of cold from every cell in his body. But then the match snuffed out, the man vanished, and Seth found himself once more shivering in the icy wet as he sat alone, on a doorstep with no destiny.

He struck another match, hoping to restore that vision. It shimmered intensely, and when the light fell upon the wall behind him, it became transparent like glass, and he could look beyond and into the dining room. On the table a holiday linen was spread, and on it rested a bountiful array of roasted vegetables, turkey, ham, loin pork and lasagna. The dishes seemed to glow with a supernatural luminosity, as they tempted Seth to reach through the windows to enjoy a feast beyond any he has ever known.

But the match blew out, and only the thick, cold wall loomed before him. He ignited a second match. Whence he found himself seated beneath a glimmering Christmas tree radiant with gold and silver ornaments. It was much more grand and lovely than the one he had viewed last Christmas through the doorway of Grace Cathedral. Myriad LEDs lit the pine branches, and miniature gilt icons like those in Ukrainian art museums danced like sprites before his wondering eyes. Seth extended both arms in their direction. Then the second match went out. But the Christmas lights grew more intense. He now viewed them as bright stars in the heavenly vault. One of them descended like a shooting star, and left behind a trail of sparks.

“Now someone has died,” thought the forgotten boy, for his kindly grandmother, the only person who ever loved him (and accepted him unconditionally the moment he confessed his gay desires), but who passed away two years ago, had taught him that whenever a star descends to earth, a soul goes up to God.

He struck yet a third match against the Edwardian structure. And in the flaming light his grandmother appeared in a pale cerulean gown, and with wings that touched the sky.

“Grandma!” cried the child. “Bring me home! I fear you will vanish when the match burns out. You will disappear like the sweet man who asked me for a light, and the ginormous New Year’s dinner, and that amazing Christmas tree!”

He desperately extracted the two other matchbooks and struck the whole bundle, for he yearned to keep his grandmother in his sight. The matches flamed with such intensity, they surpassed daylight. His beloved grandmother had never before appeared so gracious. She embraced Seth warmly in her arms, and they flew as one beyond this troubled world, to where there was neither hatred, loneliness, starvation, nor a God without compassion.

But on that Collingwood doorstep, rested the young man Seth with a peaceful visage and calm repose, dead from pneumonia…and the heartless reception of gay homeowners who’ve never known the blight of alienation, nor its consequent outcome. The New Year’s sun shone upon a good man who never knew love, homeless and rejected. He sat there, numb and frozen, holding the matchbooks, of which not a single match remained unlit.

“He wanted to warm himself,” Castro residents declared, to appease their own guilt. Not a one gave any thought to this man’s compassionate dreams of love and friendship, and how gladly his soul departed, at last, to find peace in the shade of his grandmother’s wings.

Just How Dark A Day?

October 24, 2014

What kind of Guardian Dragon are you, Larkin? You say our friendship is an incredible godsend (with beloved enthusiasm, I might add), yet you otherwise ignore me, avoid me, tell me to get the fuk outta your face…and in many other ways, humiliate me in public, and bully me! I published a novel to honor your sweet friendship, and continue to write many tales which you inspire. I send them to you via snail-mail, yet not once have you ever said “thank you” for my kind letters and postcards. Nor have you sent me (via the USPS or other delivery option) any expression of friendship or appreciation of my steadfast devotion. But I admit:

You have also done and said many nice things for me, in addition to your “godsend” praise, over these same many months during which you’ve broken my heart so often I’ve lost count. I choose to respond for the most part, with patience, compassion and humor. Yet sometimes I deem it necessary to retaliate (as I did with those postcards sent to various gay bars), because I just don’t let anyone defame my character…and because I doubt you’d respect me if I did not take action now and then.

Yet I remain in complete faith that your egregious behavior serves a compassionate purpose in the long run. And which I believe is thus:

You are My Most Adored Soulmate, above and beyond even Randolph Louis Taylor. Which is nothing short of a miracle; thus your acknowledgment that our being brought together is a godsend. I thank you so much for speaking those divine words, which put wings to my troubled heart.

There are (or were, I hope with great pleading to Our Higher Self) certain end trials I must go through, before we are brought together for eternity. Some of which require you, My Exhilarating Zilla, to open old sores and rub salt in them, that they may finally heal in a proper fashion. Hence, you drop a hint now and then via a kind gesture or declaration, in between all the hurtful episodes.

And I love you for that. (More than words can truly tell, I assure you Luscious, Lovely Larkin!)

These trials are also part of a long term initiation that I foolishly presumed would end after three or four months from its inception…or at the most, five months. Boy was I in for disappointment…seeing as This Trial Of Love’s Labor has continued unto 22 months with no end in sight!

Yet I grasp your noble desire to drag me over this bed of nails as long as possible. For that is the only way to ensure eternal bliss with your chosen partner. You are My Guardian Dragon, who would not hesitate even one nanosecond to bring havoc and misery upon me, should Goddess inform you that is precisely what I need to experience in order for my soul to expand. And if you make things too easy, I’d never learn what important lessons are required to forge The Greatest Friendship Ever. A friendship that will expand well beyond our personal horizons, and eventually touch every sentient being on this wobbly little planet.

Which outcome, of course, will likewise expand respect and reverence for sexual minorities everywhere. Our tale is the greatest romance ever, and it is not between a male and a female (like Romeo & Juliet), but between two 100% gay men! And a real-live detective story to boot! So allow me to shower you now, with tremendous affection, and this promise:

I will always be here for you, Larkin, for that is Goddess’s blessing to us both. Our friendship, our being brought together, is indeed an incredible godsend!

So I saw you today, Oct. 21, approach Duboce Park around 2:30 PM as usual, walking that sweet smallish doggie that is mostly black, with a white tipped tail and one or two paws just as white. I was already awaiting you for more than 20 minutes, strutting up and down Duboce and scoring the occasional snipe. Just when I was about to give up on you, there you are with a red haversack that mimics mine, and canine in tow.

You seemed not disturbed over my presence as you crossed the street and entered the park. As for myself, I followed obliquely and settled on the grassy mound that occupied the “dogs-on-leash” section. You stood around 22 yards away, flinging the tennis ball to give your charge some exercise…and camaraderie I guess (which you’re very good at, and which I miss like a bear misses berries).

After several minutes had passed, I knew you were about to leave. Thus I stood up, brushed the newly cut grass off my Levi’s, and marched to the top of the mound. Whence I stood a distance, facing you and waiting for your sweet face to glance in my direction. And when it did, I spread my arms in a wide air hug, sending you rays of gratitude.

I did this two more times, after moving each time further away. Till I was situated at the inbound side of the Muni Metro stop.

Then the downtown-bound N Judah careened out of the tunnel to block any view of Duboce Park for a half minute or so before rumbling off. By that time, you were no longer present anywhere in the quadrangle…and which result I anticipated, knowing how clever you are in timing your disappearance from my passionate visions. You are a frustration-and-a-half, yet I comprehend the purpose of your tease, as described seven paragraphs above.

I am begging you, Larkin:

Please don’t leave me struggling alone on Christmas Day, thinking once more about Randolph, and how you don’t care enough to give me comfort on This Most Holy of Days. Bad enough that I must pass through Halloween and Thanksgiving without Your Gracious Presence!

Must Christmas also be just as dark a day?

How Often?

October 17, 2014


If you are underage, or in any way forbidden by your government or religious laws from viewing X-rated subject matter, please do not go there. If, however, you are not restricted by any laws in your geographical location, by all means click on the image above, to read my spicy tale.

Vagina & Boobs

September 28, 2014


If you are underage, or in any way forbidden by your government or religious laws from viewing X-rated subject matter, please do not go there. If, however, you are not restricted by any laws in your geographical location, by all means click on the image above, to read my spicy tale.


September 23, 2014

The following three postcards are an extension of the previous and recent postcards I sent to Larkin, including those snail-mailed to the gay bars he attends. If he is angered by this, I can only bow my head in misery. But I have a hunch he will be greatly pleased. Delivered to his personal PO box on September 20th (showing the front first, then the reverse side), notice that I handprinted or wrote everything out, since I exhausted my printer ink and can’t afford to purchase another cartridge. (Not an easy task, for I suffer RSI in both hands, and CTS in each forearm.) Please enjoy:

Postcard Showdown

September 20, 2014

I just can’t stop with the postcards to Larkin! It all started when his patsy of a roommate, Zachary, informed me back in late May, that Larkin doesn’t even open my mail, let alone read it. (See “Letter to Zachary.”) While I believe his intent was to plant a seed of doubt in my cabeza, it still had an impact on This Scapegoated Little Soul. Even though I figure Zachary lied, just to fuk with me. Thus began what I call “my postcard flurry” that continues more or less to this day. I figured Larkin would be more likely to at least read a postcard before tossing it into the trash.

[ FYI, Grimaculous Reader: after recovering from the blow that Zachary so deftly delivered, I resumed sending letters to Larkin, along with these postcards. In good faith that My Bodacious Basilisk does indeed read everything I send. Though not necessarily right away, I’m sure he gets around to each and every one. ]

The original message taped on the front was an excoriating condemnation of Larkin’s mean behavior toward Yours Truly. And it said: “The sin you have committed upon me is unforgivable. You force me to take up arms, but you surely shall fall.” I never mailed it, but just let it linger in a cubbyhole, along with eight other angry postcards. All of which I have converted to loving missives and mailed off (though it sure wasn’t easy). I sent this one out September 10th.

In light of recent revelations regarding our incredible association of almost nine years at this point, I overlaid the diatribe with a poem of compassion. And taped it down several times over and at different angles, that Dragon Squarepants may never discover the original intent. Now, enjoy the reverse side:

Now here is the second postcard (front and back) mailed September 15th. Self explanatory.

[ Jambulorious Reader: please note that from hereon in, I must use generic tourist postcards since I’ve finally run out of my special “Free Me From This Bond” promotionals. I just loved blotting out Randoph Taylor’s face with missives to My Larkin…as one kind gesture of devotion. ]

Now, three days ago (it is the evening of September 19th as I compose this section) Larkin pissed me off once more, so much so that I could no longer hold off what I should’ve done several months back. Pray, what did he do? you may ask. He totally ignored me as our paths crossed on Market Street near my building. I followed him up the sidewalk on the other side, on his way to The Cafe (I presume). Simply in my longing to gaze upon him before he disappeared up the stairs. But he looked back, saw me, so instead of a friendly greeting of any sort, he meandered quickly across the busy thoroughfare to slip into Tacos Club, a hole-in-the-wall eatery. (It is an insult and a heartbreak that he continues to treat me like a pestilence. Especially since he approached me some months back and declared that our friendship is an incredible godsend.) Will he actually read this letter? I can only hope.

September 16, 2014


Enclosed is a copy of the official police report I will file with the SFPD tomorrow. I’ve put off filing it, in hopes you’d make things up by now. But so much time has passed, and you clearly avoided me today, that I cannot take your bullshit any longer.

By the time you get this letter, the report will have already been filed. Processing takes 2-3 weeks, by which time I will have a docket number. Which number I will send you via snail-mail, when it comes in.

I am so sorry you’ve decided to play things out this way, for it will only result in your demise, and my victory. Yet such a victory will only cause me further grief.

Most sincerely,


P.S.: When you exited Lookout, you crossed the street but switched back when you saw me approach. Then you slipped into the taqueria below my residence. You never came out. I presume then, that you exited via their back door which enters the basement of my apartment building. Then you exited the 16th Street side of 2306, marched up 16th, down Castro and crossed Market to enter the Cafe. NEWS FLASH: you illegally trespassed my building.

[ It is most frustrating to inform you, Jeladvective Reader, that the SFPD refused to accept this report, claiming that “Larkin’s calling you his stalker is an opinion, not a fact,” and “some of your claims are subjective and not grounded in actual events,” and “you should just avoid him, this is a civil suit, maybe place a restraining order on him.” I think their rejection is absurd and patently unprofessional. They also suggested I contact a mental health agency on the grounds that Larkin may be a danger to himself. How bad does this get for me, I thought I’d already hit bottom some months back? No matter which way I turn to gain even a smidgeon of justice, Larkin always seems to have the luck of the Irish on his side. Damn me for being a Scot! ]

Still PO’d like an alley cat with a bucket of ice water dumped on it, I took one further step, and sent four postcards to him the next day, care of the several bars I know he frequents. On the front I taped the same printout to each card. Then handwrote something different on the address side of each one. I chose the Alcatraz theme for extra impact.

These last two postcards were sent on the same day, September 18th, as an afterthought…an important afterthought:


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