Duffel Bag Swagger

September 21, 2015

September 15:

About one week after my latest face-off with My Duplicitous Diplodocus, I stepped out by 9:30 PM to discover him exiting Twin Peaks Tavern with a dark blue duffel bag slung over his back, and so enormous it was more than half his size. And Larkin is a large dude by anyone’s standards: 6-foot-4 and tremendously strong. (He is also most handsome: thick shocks of wavy auburn hair, irises of fiercely red-gold, and a skinny frame so nicely sculpted you’d think he was one of Queen Boadicea’s Own Mighty Warriors!)

He hobbled a bit–the rucksack was that heavy–as he stepped onto the sidewalk and saw my approaching form. He looked like he just got off a turnip truck, considering his overall, sloppy appearance (dirty white shirt stuck out over the waist and flapping in the breeze, and light brown floodwater pants that have seen better days). I grew alarmed:

“Larkin! Are you homeless? Did that idiot Zachary kick you out?”

He looked towards me and heaved a sigh.

“Do you need a place to crash, no funny stuff?” I pleaded with utmost sincerity as I stood just ten feet from him with imploring arms. (I couldn’t imagine how we’d ever get along, what with bed bugs still infesting my building one day before the exterminator’s subjugation, sleeping on the hard floor with barely any cushion…and my darling Louisiana boy, Zach–same moniker as Larkin’s housemate, no relation–who always showed up whenever, for our next torrid tryst. But Larkin is my dawg, no two ways about it.)

“Fuk you, Zeke,” he hollered, glaring at me like I was The Potato Famine Banshee Herself. “Get outta my face!”

[ I didn’t buy it for a moment, Perineal Reader, but remained in stolid grace before His Stunning Visage. I am hopelessly entangled in the DNA of that dude’s soul, and there is nothing I can do about it even if I so desire unto my very last breath. ]

He then rushed back into the tavern to implore the bartender while pointing in my direction: “That’s my stalker, right over there!” I stood calmly outside and lit a Fortuna as if I were a stranger to The Castro. “Sure, Larkin. You have a good night,” assuaged the barkeep.

And so Larkin reemerged in defeat while I stood nearby, relishing the Schadenfreude of tables turned. I heckled:

“Your get-outta-my-life rant last Tuesday was hilarious! One thing I can say about you, Larkin,” I paused for a satisfying puff, “is you sure know how to put on a good show!”

Well that did it. He came right up to me and shoved This Good Gay Soul; not so hard as to be a real danger, but firm enough to tic me off.

“Cut that out, Larkin!” I ordered in no soft voice.

“Yeah, that’s the way to go,” he declared, and pushed me once more, eyes glazed over like Charles Manson.

I could’ve easily run behind and pushed him over with my pinky, he was that burdened by the duffel bag (and probably a little more than slightly drunk). Instead, I reached for the pepper spray usually located in my right-side pocket, only to discover I left it home! So I hurried to the small triangle of potted shrubs on Market & Castro, which 3-foot high concrete wall kept me safe from his attack, so long as I kept on maneuvering to my left or right. We played This Musical Chairs Parody (Larkin doddering from the rucksack’s weight), twenty or so seconds before a large and obese gay fellow with a ponytail stepped up to Larkin and stated:

“You can just walk away, you know!”

I looked at his bloated jowls as if to say: “No pudgy geek’s gonna be my hero!” Instead, I addressed:

“It’s okay, he’s my boyfriend. He just loves a good brawl.” (Consider his true nature: a fighting Irishman.)

Larkin gently opposed: “I’m not his boyfriend.” (As if it hurt to say that.)

“Yeah, goofball, just walk away like the man says. I will not harm you then,” said Yours Truly with bravado.

The Wannabe Knight In Shining Armor summed up the situation, blushed and disappeared down 17th (thank gawd), seeing as he was nothing more than a pawn in Our Divine Chess Game.

Larkin then wobbled across Market towards Noe, boisterously greeting anyone walking towards him, embracing each receptive male or female with the darling hugs that are his trademark. But which he’s denied me since January 2013. I knew he was intentionally fukking with my head by this display of affection toward strangers, while I followed just 11 yards back, unrequited. So I taunted in booming words:

“That’s it, Larkin! Be nice to everyone but Zeke!”

This Inestimable Excuse Of A Delinquent Guardian Angel turned his ruddy head in my direction and groused:

“Get outta my life, you idiot!”

But I would not leave my orbit encircling him, like the moon to earth. So he stepped onto Market Street itself, where the cars veered away so as not to cause an accident. And I followed right behind, safe in the wake of His Resolute Gravity. Of course he kept hollering, “Leave me alone!” which did not influence me one whit.

As we both meandered down The Asphalt Paved Byway of Life–each screaming epithets at the other–I finally arrived near my apartment building. At which point I realized I could dash to my room, grab that pepper spray, and catch up with him. So as I unlocked the gate, I called back:

“Good night, Larkin!” to which he cussed:

“Fuk you, Zeke!” and swaggered off into the arms of Nyx.

With urgency I entered my hovel, snatched the pepper spray canister from the second drawer of Desk #1, then snagged my keychain on the doorknob upon exit. (Actually not a chain at all, but a long, pink shoelace purchased at Muhamet’s Dollar Store where everything’s no less than two GW’s and some items higher than five.) Thus losing 10 seconds as I gathered up the scattered keys and ran back downstairs to give him a piece of my mind.

So PO’d was I, that I was ready to spray him like a cornered polecat. I ran up Market all the way to Church Street, but nowhere could I find The Bastard Behemoth. Thus with a feeling of loss, I returned to my SRO and spent another sleepless night atop a plastic tarp softened with nothing more than two yoga mats gifted me by Laundromat Lady Linda.

The next night I saw my houseless friend, Hollywood, and asked: “Have you seen Larkin lately?” He said no, he had not. So I described my recent encounter, and added: “That may have been the last time I get to see him.”

I could not bear the thought of his disappearance, thus prayed for mercy in a drunken stupor that granted me the respite of a solid sleep (finally). The horror of such an outcome would shatter my soul into many irrecoverable pieces: a jigsaw puzzle of diabolical intent.

Upon awakening, these new thoughts brightened my heart: “No, he has not left the city, or even this neighborhood. He did not catch public transit: he just walked down the sidewalk instead, as if he only had a short way to go. Larkin has a fastpass, so if he were to leave, he would’ve proceeded to the underground, instead of remaining above.” More revelations quickly followed:

“The reason you couldn’t catch up with him on Market Street, was because he turned down 16th and onto that alleyway where there’s an apartment building which houses that little white doggie he walks every day. That’s where he moved to! And why you saw him with a large duffel bag filled with his meager possessions.”

Greatly relieved at this insight, I sent him a postcard, on which front I stated (in a hand printed missive taped to it):

Of course that was a joke, as he is highly intelligent and got his masters years ago in Forensic Science, being the superb private investigator that he is…and I his unconscious (though willing) assistant.

I want so badly to relieve Hollywood of his concerns over me, but I don’t know when I’ll see him again. For I have learned an important lesson of “hope” as a result of this latest crisis:

[ Hope is a lack of total faith in God’s Good Blessings. I garnered this from street artist Julia who sells her extraordinary mini-paintings at the Embarcadero, where I go every morning for breakfast at The Posh Bagel. For when I told her my story, and that Larkin most likely just moved to another rental in The Castro, she interjected: “You hope!” So I thought upon this, and concluded: “No, to have hope for one’s wishes is to grant God less than His ability to answer all good prayers with absolute finality.” I don’t “hope” that Larkin has not left my world, I “know” that he hasn’t, or ever will! With such faith in God’s kind remission, there is no way He would not answer such a heartfelt plea. Else She could never live with Herself. ]

So two nights later (Sept. 17) I espy Larkin seated at Twin Peaks Tavern, shooting the bull with his former roommate Zachary. All seemed quiet on the western front as I lit a cigarette by the tavern’s Castro Street window, in such a position that Larkin could clearly see me. Zachary turned his face in my direction for a moment, indicating to Larkin that I was nearby. (Interesting that he did not glare menacingly, but retained a calm demeanor.)

My Loverly Lizard did not gush any sort of emotion, yet did not angle his view away from me either. So I backed up into the bus stop’s glass partition where he could still view me without any snoop’s pretension. I looked back at him with a kind face: neither angry nor pleading…allowing his gentle aura to wash over me. And these thoughts flowed from my cerebral cortex:

“I thought maybe you were homeless and had to leave town. So happy that is not the case. I could never suffer your vanishing from my world. I love you that much, Larkin Kelsey.”

I stayed looking at him long enough to inhale my Fortuna cancer stick down to the stub, then moseyed on to Walgreens to purchase a box of kitchen-size garbage bags. After accomplishing this goal, I returned to that bus stop in order to smoke another cigarette and gaze upon Larkin’s 3/4 profile. Again, he did not signal any recognition of my presence, nor did he turn away. (But I knew that he was comforting me, after such a trial that made me fear I’d never see him again…thus made his appearance at the tavern so I could enjoy gazing upon That Beauteous Face, and be reassured.)

Done compromising my lungs with nicotine, I tossed the butt and wandered on hovel. Hoping he would step out and call me to his side for whatever badinage (whether hostile or friendly) before I crossed Market Street.

But he did not.


I now refer you, Drupaceous Reader, to Chapter 9 of my online novel, “Free Me From This Bond,” which is entitled “Dragon Fire in the Hole.” And in which I conclude that the SF LGBT community harbors a secret organization that selects potential future leaders (such as myself), and grooms them for a great destiny. By creating various scenarios throughout their lives–some sweet, most challenging–without their intended subjects knowing anything about this group or their shenanigans.

Of course, part of this game is kinda like an IQ test…in that the subject will eventually conclude something strange is going on (and has been for many years now). Surmising that these amazing scenarios piled up over a decade or more are no coincidence, but form a deliberate pattern that can only be constructed by the conscious will of a large group of people who operate behind the scenes. As more time passes, the subject will also reason that his life is being shaped towards an incredible outcome, by others he doesn’t even know.

Once the subject attains this level of awareness, this hidden cabal starts to make itself known, bit by intriguing little bit. And the real fun takes off! But first, The Initiation:

A shamanic tradition of ancient origin, whereby the subject is dumped upon with all sorts of misery and impossible odds…to the point where he is convinced that all hope is lost, and his visions of an amazing future are dashed like the Titanic.

And this is why My Objet d’Amour plays such a tough game that makes me out to be a fool who shall never find happiness. This secret cabal attempts in every way possible to strip me of all hope…yet since I now comprehend The Game, there is no way they could ever trick me into Ultimate Destitution. For no matter Their Dark Curses, I will never succumb to anything worse than long suffering with a Heart Of Pure Liberation. I just know too much, at this point. Including that Larkin Kelsey is chief commander of This Clandestine Camarilla.

Now: after the initiation (which for me has lingered on for two months shy of three bone-crushing years) comes infinite joy and manifestation of all my sweetest dreams. Which includes of course, secession of Northern California to form the world’s first LGBT nation with myself its first president (or despot; I don’t give a damn). Among other good things.

So today (Sept. 19) I mailed him another touristy postcard, upon which I scrawled:

On the front I taped a rectangular snippet of looseleaf paper (over a glamorous photo of Chinatown at night) that declared in my own hand:

(Referring here to an article in the S.F. Examiner six weeks ago, that the San Francisco USPS will soon shut down their Hyde Street branch. Please forgive me for not showing the actual postcard, since my old flatbed scanner does not function on Windoze 10.)

It is also possible that Larkin remains shacked up with Zachary, and thus His Duffel Bag Scenario was orchestrated solely for This Queer Acolyte’s benefit. That I may sample the idea of his vanquishment like a draught of bitter treacle…and my appreciation of his dedicated guardianship be renewed. And taste more dulcet (like a rare truffle), as a result. There is no overestimating this clever man’s strategies, I assure you.

And there you have it, Plutonic Reader: my latest Station of the Cross which burden is Larkin himself. I am astoundingly blessed.

Oh, one more thing: on 22 September I sent him yet another postcard, with these words taped to the front:

And on the address side I wrote:

Hopelessly Entwined

September 18, 2015

Around 6-7 days ago I decided to sport my “I am not Larkin’s stalker, I’m his boyfriend” sign once more, in hopes of finding him at his usual Castro dive (Twin Peaks Tavern), and stirring up some more shit. Well whaddya know, he was there, and the fur flew before I knew it.

He stepped out like a disgruntled troll from under the bridge and demanded: “Get that sign off right now!”

“No, I won’t,” I countered. “If you want it removed, ya gotta do it yourself.”

So he grabbed that sign, releasing it from its fragile attachment to the cheap twine about my neck. But when he saw the cord still hanging there, he gingerly removed that, too.

I watched as he rent the sign in two, then tore it once more with with both halves together. Then he combined the additional pieces into a layer of four, and tore once again as if they were tissue.

“My god, that dude is powerful!” I declared to no one but myself.

“Your tearing it up into teensy bits instead of just tossing it into the trash tells me something interesting,” I voiced my observation. (Of course what that means is: he loves me bunches, else would’ve not bothered to tediously mutilate the sign with such dramatic flair.)

“No, I’m doing it for me!” he blithely declared, then tossed the debris into my face, where it fell to the sidewalk like so much jigsaw scatter. I was quite charmed.

I can’t recall now, what other dialog ensued (save that for the upcoming blockbuster Indie film, I suppose, recorded by God’s Own Angels…and Larkin screeching “Get out of my life!” sporadically throughout our present get-together). I stepped back several yards while Larkin reentered TPT. Which allowed me time to fish through my pack to procure an identical sign, and fling it about this person. Like a featherweight albatross.

As I returned to the plate glass where Larkin could see me jiggling the duplicate sign with a mischievous hand, he stepped back out again to confront me.

“How many more ya got in your pack?” he queried, with a hand ready to unzip the bag and paw through it.

“Oh, just this one,” I replied with deft alacrity. “But I got seven more at home.”

He grabbed the sign betwixt forefinger and thumb, to declare: “Why are you wearing it?”

“Because it’s the truth!” I retorted. “So long as you keep telling people I’m your stalker, I shall wear this sign and do anything else required to defend my honor.”

“Go ahead, tear it off,” I finished. “If that makes you happy, so be it.”

Instead, Larkin let it fall back upon my chest, where it rested like a reverse Scarlet Letter.

“Stop sending postcards to the bars,” he demanded. “They’re ready to call the cops on you.”

“I know that’s not true, Larkin. If they didn’t really want my mail, they would’ve sent them back with ‘return to sender’ marked on them. And that hasn’t happened.”

[ To be honest, Impish Reader, two postcards were returned from a recent batch. But since the post office stuck a label over the addresses, I could not discern which bars they were. And nothing more has come of that…thus all 10 rules went through as planned. ]

I awaited his rebuttal, but it never came, so I embellished:

“Therefore I know I did the right thing. You, the bartenders–and god knows who else–are pranking me. You’re all pranking me. Maybe ‘prank’ isn’t the best word; perhaps ‘initiation’ is better.”

Larkin remained silent to my declaration…then proceeded to the streetcar island, and I to the corner nearby and just across. Thus we were separated by about 20 feet. And the badinage resumed:

“Take it off!” Larkin yelled at me from a civilized distance, indicating the little placard dangling from my neck.

“Take it all off!” I countermanded (with a sly grin).

“Take it off!” he insisted.

“Take it all off!” I declared once more.

Yet again he told me to take it off, and I replied once more by demanding that he take it all off. By which time he finally got it, and struck a striptease pose, both arms outstretched at a clock angle of 10:15, and one leg raised up like a stork:

“Oh, you mean like this?” he parried.

I released a guffaw, then watched as he (concluding no streetcar was due to arrive soon) departed to take the underground Metro, trotting across Castro Street and down the steps. I suddenly realized I could heckle him further if I ran down those same stairs and onto the other side. So I did just that. Standing on the opposing platform where he didn’t yet see me, I hollered:

“I love you, Larkin Kelsey. Love, love, love!”

From across the recessed tracks Larkin did his best to ignore me, while other stranded riders looked about to see who I was calling to. Some caught on and giggled. Just before his train pulled up, I hollered the same words once more, then turned about to return hovel. Where, in my own private SRO, I wept.

The bastard sure knows how to press my buttons.

How You Can Save My Life

September 7, 2015

[ Spacefaring Reader: by “save my life” I mean that my living and financial situation is quite precarious at this point. See my piece, “Obamacare Defecates On The Poor” to understand. Has to do with Medicaid now demanding I pay $518 monthly share of cost on a sparse income of just $1,243; which will (possibly) make me homeless or starving in short shrift. Not to mention going blind because I can no longer afford checkups and treatment for my eyes. In addition, my living arrangement is on the line, due two extreme prejudice against Yours Truly for being a homeless advocate. Which includes having some of my street pals visit my SRO in a large apt. building filled with antagonistic residents. These selfish occupants have nothing better to do than scapegoat me, while enjoying their affluence often provided by coddling mommies and daddies with 6-digit incomes and up.

I recommend that everyone who supports My Noble Mission distribute far and wide, the following visual jokes which originally were posted to Twitter and Facebook. (Please keep in mind that every time you point a person to my achievements–no matter how humble–you make a major strike on behalf of LGBT Rights.) For these catchy memes include my name, and the URL to my gay-bible.org site. Which is one of my promotional tactics to get more folks to visit my home page, where they will see the image of my bookcover for “Free Me From This Bond.” Click on that image, and you will be taken to the online version, with links to purchase the book in paperback, hardcover, or ebook. One must be particularly innovative when one is barely a step above dirt-poor, and on the verge of passing on to The Other Realm, thanks to President Obama’s (and the Democratic Party’s) unprecedented betrayal of the poor and disenfranchised.

Necessity is the mother of subliminal advertising.

I certainly encourage you to share my joke memes as often as possible…for in so doing you are saving a life, literally. MINE! To download an image, right-click over it and select “Save picture as”…or equivalent command for whatever browser used. 16 jokes in all; there will be another batch comin’ down the pike in due time: ]

Gay Zombie Jesus Forever

September 5, 2015

This is the sixth “Gay Zombie Jesus” feature I have created, and it follows right after “Gay Zombie Jesus Never Quits.” You may consider me possessed by a demon who has nothing better to do in hell, than torture my gifted imagination into submission. He must be terribly bored. I wish Satan would assign him some real mission ASAP ’cause I’m at wit’s end. Notice that in most cases, inclusion of the tweet immediately prior my own is necessary for the sake of context. 40 heretical Twitter jokes in all:

Due to image width limitation for this particular WordPress layout, these tweets are truncated at the right margin, so just click for a full version. Apologies for this dilemma…but I know I’m so dammed funny that you’ll thank me for it later, when you’re sober.

[ Or you can simply click here to view them all at once without the hassle! ]

9 & 10

September 1, 2015

[ Transdevotional Reader: these are the last two of “Zeke’s 10 New Rules,” as declared through the humble medium of the postcard. Sent, as usual, via the USPS to Larkin and six bars in the Castro that he frequents. Or did frequent, seeing as this is also a game to try to get him 86’d from one or more of these boozy venues…in retaliation for his successful maneuver to get me kicked out of those very same locales. Which he succeeded in doing since his initial salvo back in January of 2013. Use your browser “zoom” command to more easily view the printouts taped to these gay-history-in-the-making cards. ]

Mailed on 28 August:

Mailed on 31 August:


I desperately needed a new backpack by early August, as my previous one was stolen by a handsome minx whose identity shall not be revealed herein. And my red satchel that served as a backup, was almost frayed to the point of inutility. Finances were scant, and my homeless pals never got around to finding me a decent pack for which I offered $10. So I hoofed it on down to Ross Dress For Less in order to see what they had in the way of such a need. Cost me a few pennies under $35, but it was a great deal.

So in their lobby, I transferred the contents of my satchel (including most importantly my HP Elite Book and its AC adaptor) into the new backpack, and marched off with a purchase well satisfied. I then boarded the underground Metro to enjoy my daily breakfast at The Posh Bagel located downtown. A couple hours later I boarded the L Taraval to return to my neighborhood, The Castro.

Just before I arose to disembark, my new pack’s yellow strap caught itself under the plastic seat, yanking me back down. A Latino matron was parked right beside me, so I could not crouch down to resolve this problem without looking up her chunky thighs. In order to avoid such embarrassment, I had to figure out how to free the strap without thrusting my nose between her knees.

Instead of politely moving aside (and there were many seats to do so), she just remained on spot, chuckling at my dilemma.

“That’s okay,” I declared while jiggling the strap in hopes of freeing it from a more awkward position (and sighed in resignation), “I’ll just have to get off at a later stop. No sweat.”

I continued to fuss with the unyielding backpack, accepting my fate of being coerced to travel well beyond The Castro and through the tunnel that would take me to Taraval Street and perhaps beyond.

But while struggling to achieve My Gordian-Knotted Goal, I wondered why the train did not move on, but remained stationary well beyond its usual wont. I paid that observation no further mind, and focused with Zen-like attention upon the liberation of My Beloved New Purchase that I had only acquired earlier that day.

In a sudden release, the strap was freed and I stood erect once more, and rushed to the door…expecting to exit at Taraval Station. Instead, I discovered this radiant and young Af-American lady holding back the sliding door in order to allow my exit at the correct stop. She had long, smokey-golden hair, a lovely blouse and rippling skirt both colored reddish-lavender…and a most kind demeanor spread across her enlightened visage. Clearly, she was an intelligent and brave-hearted soul.

As I passed through the train’s doorway and stepped onto the platform, I turned to her and said: “Thank you!”

More than that: before the doors shut I called, “You’re an angel! You’re an absolute angel!”

Were her skin lighter toned, she would’ve blushed like a radish. Her smile back at me was more glorious than an April mist. As the N Judah huffed forward, that Latino matron smiled at me in laughter. I looked right back, shrugged my shoulders and guffawed in full realization of God’s Little Joke.

I love my new backpack, for the sweet story that formed around it the very first day I flung it over my scapulae.


Just got this lovely card from my illustrator, Sid Rohan. The “Cosmic Cookies” on the back of this card refer to (of course) my “Misfortune Cookies” tale that I printed out and sent her (she doesn’t do Internet). I’m sure it happened without any conscious intent on her part…which makes it so much more magical.

7 & 8

August 26, 2015

[ Flocculent Reader: these are postcards 7 & 8, with only two more to go, to complete my “10 New Rules.” Mailed off to six bars in The Castro that Larkin frequents…or frequented, seeing as their execution any time after Rule #1 may have already 86’d him from one or more of these gay dives. Then again, maybe they had no effect whatsoever, in my desire to retaliate against him kicking me out of these same bars by unkindly accusing me of being his stalker. Either way, enjoy my latest “Frenemy Volley.” ]

NEW RULE #7 (posted 20 August 2015):

NEW RULE #8 (posted 24 August 2015):


(Tuesday, August 25th around 8:15 PM) I saw Larkin once more at Twin Peaks Tavern. He was buddying up with the typical old fart while I stood outside within clear view of his sight. My heart broke, yet I was joyful at the same time.

Minutes came and went before he finally stuck a Camel 99 between those lovely lips; thus I realized he was about to step out. So I positioned myself catty-corner to the tavern in order to behold him from any direction. Yet instead of standing outside and sucking on that stick, he marched down Castro towards 18th.

I ran across the street in order to stride parallel to My Darling Demon. About halfway down the block, he started to cut diagonally across the traffic. But he paused before a car and did His Little Victory Dance while the driver remained a captive audience. Then continued across to suddenly see me standing there, and naturally threw me an angry glance and rushed back to the opposite side of Castro Street. So I hollered:

“That’s what I like so much about you: always the kind smile and good cheer!”

He waved a dismissive hand in my direction, treating me like The Ultimate Nuisance Of All Mankind that he has since January 2013. I was not about to be silenced:

“You love anyone with a fat wallet. Otherwise, forget it!”

Once he turned the corner east up 18th Street, I hurried back to 17th & Market, where I was sure he’d return to Twin Peaks, figuring I would give up and walk home by then. Sure enough, a short time later he strode around the corner of Hartford Street and onto 17th, where I waited nearby. His fists were balled up in fury, and he pounded them together as he passed by. I did not flinch; instead I hollered:

“It all comes down to anger management, Larkin! It’s no big deal, really.” I wanted so badly to hold him in my arms and tell him how much he means to me. But he has denied me that honor for more than 2-1/2 years at this point.

“Get away from me,” he hollered from a distance. “Get out of my life, goddam fukker!”

“I can’t!” I called back, ready to burst into tears; for I could never imagine abandoning him. “I’m your friend.”


His cold rejection didn’t fool me for a moment, so I admonished: “Don’t take any wooden colostomy bags, Larkin!”

Yet he still ignored me, so I queried: “Where’s your sense of humor, buddy?”

Just before he reentered the tavern, I declared: “Get back into The Glass Coffin, where you belong!”

(Twin Peaks Tavern is nicknamed The Glass Coffin, because that is the one bar in The Castro where the elderly set hangs out…more so than any other dive in the ‘hood. I find it hilarious, especially now that I have recently turned 65, yet feel no older than 32. So be it: I have a youthful spirit. And a great love for Larkin, who must be 53 by now; though is so glorious in appearance, he appears 27 on a good hair day.)

So I stood outside another 11 minutes or so, during which time His Pea-Brained Housemate, Zachary, showed up. Therefore I had to position myself where the idiot wouldn’t see me, yet Larkin would. My Sweet Soulmate did not angle his face away from This Displaced Soul–as was his usual wont–but remained facing in my direction while chatting up a Methusalah queer. After smoking another Fortuna, I decided it’s time to return hovel and fill my belly with nourishment.

(Which these days was long-grain brown rice dabbed with Rosarita’s vegetarian refried pinto beans, steamed bits of green, yellow, orange or red bell pepper, chopped green onion, mild green or red salsa, vine ripened tomato cubes, marinated and grilled artichoke hearts…and topped with grated sharp cheddar once all the other ingredients are nuked for three minutes. Sometimes I’ll include a side dish of sour cream and onion CVS potato chips. A chill glass of diet Pepsi or Dr. Pepper completed the meal.)

Halfway towards Market Street I turned back one last time to gaze upon My Beloved through the plate glass window. Wherewith he smiled boldly and waved his arms with much enthusiasm. I gestured back with blown kisses and hand signals to indicate: “It’s okay. I will always love you, and thank you for the affirmation. Asshole.”

Thus I arrived hovel with a lightened heart. Nonetheless, once seated at Desk #2 I broke down and sobbed. I am such a wreck.

PS: As of a few days ago, a brown, carotenoid lump appeared on my right hand, between thumb and forefinger. Several weeks before then, it was just a flat, white mar. Melanoma? God only knows, ’cause I certainly can’t afford to see a doctor. FUK PRESIDENT OBAMA and his “Unaffordable Care Act.” I have only The Great Spirit to trust at this point, that I shall not be taken away from those I love…and even be victorious in my struggles for Gay Righteousness. Stupid drama.

A Native Breakfast

August 19, 2015


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 salty tale.


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