Another Larkin Update

November 17, 2016

Date: Tue, 15 Nov 2016 23:00:47
Subject:
Another Larkin Update
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: My Andromedan Cohort

I now know that Larkin hangs out at the booze den down the street, same side as my building, every Tuesday evening from around 6 PM to 9:20 or so. As luck would have it, that dive, too, has a large picture window facing the street. Just like Twin Peaks Tavern across the way. So it is now my habit to walk by there once I arrive hovel, walk slowly enough by the plate glass, to be sure he sees me…maybe even throw him a glance. Or a kiss, just to add a little spice to the grade B scenario.

So around 6:30 I approach “Beaux” (I know, stupid name for a bar); side door is open and I hear his stentorian, playful voice. But alas, his back is to the window and my mission fails. Returning on the same side of the street around ten minutes later, I do not see him anywhere; perhaps he is in the restroom. I light up a cig and hang out front several minutes, but no Larkin. Funny, though:

As I near the gate of 2306, lo and behold there’s his housemate Zachary, sitting at a taqueria table out front, perusing a magazine. He looks up as I pass within two feet: I look back and throw him a “your pathetic” chuckle. Other than a brief grimace, he does nothing. Now in front of my domicile, I lean against the bus stop shelter fifteen feet catty-corner. I watch to see if maybe Larkin will show up, but after three minutes or so, decide to enter Hotel California North, and watch some Youtube videos I downloaded this afternoon.

So time passes gazing at the LCD monitor and the various scenes that capture my attention. But not so much that I don’t wrestle with stepping out once more, to fulfill my Tuesday mission.

“No don’t bother,” my lazy self commands. “He’ll be ambling up the sidewalk soon enough, and you can either step out to greet him as he wanders by, or call out to him from your window.”

“True enough,” I ponder, “especially since His Goofiness always makes a point of acting boisterous as he crosses beneath my window. No doubt in hopes I’ll holler out, and I receive in return, the expected ‘fuk off’ remark that is, by now, his trademark greeting.”

But after watching episode six of “The Young Pope,” (very good BTW, though I don’t think Jude Law is so handsome as to play captivatingly gorgeous men, though he often does), my pixie side gets the better of me. So I don my sneakers once more, and my hoodie, and with a little tingle in my gut, step outside and walk towards Castro Street.

Nope, he’s not there at all. So I shrug my shoulders and continue my stroll until I reach the corner. Then something tells me to stop, turn around, and march back…I might get lucky this time. But I must admit: that was more my lazy half speaking, than it was the pixie.

As I near the bar once more, I see a tall, skinny man leaning against the lamppost, dressed in baggy shirt and pants, and sporting a crewcut. His back is turned to me, hunched over and diddling with a cell phone. There’s a large van parked beside him, offering to test anyone for HIV, bright light emitting from its windows and open door.

“Is that Larkin?” I wonder, though I can’t be sure.

I approach and pass, then look back. Yep, that’s the devil, alright! He is angled in such a way as to not notice me…or, I should say, to “pretend” to not notice me. Since we both know by now, he’s quite the game player and loves to trip me up. I call to him:

“Hello, Larkin!”

He looks up with a ready smile, but then when he realizes it’s his better half, scowls a bit.

“Go away, don’t bother me!” he gestures with a wave of that gangly arm.

My ambulation is slowed almost to a halt, though I continue to drift away as I speak once more:

“Well have a nice night anyway,”

He keeps gesturing those “get outta here” swipes as he replies:

“Yes, you too, have a beautiful night, just don’t bother me…aargh!”

“Thank you,” are my final words as I turn forward and leave his aura. Though I decide to pause further up the block, to have a smoke and watch him for a bit. As I do that, I think:

“I bet he was standing there all along, just out of my sight, watching me pause by the bar’s door and peek in. And I bet it was he who summoned me back, that I have the satisfaction of a mission accomplished. Once again, he tricks me into thinking I missed my chance, but at the last moment…voila!”

And he wasn’t particularly harsh, just like the last time our paths crossed (at the Castro Metro stairs), and since I had that dream of reconciliation with him and Zachary. In fact, he was gentle this time, though abrupt. But I’m concerned about Zachary, for when I saw him tonight, he looked haggard: hollow, dark bags under his eyes and way too skinny. Very elongated, drooping face, too. Like he has AIDS or something else equally serious. Cancer? Emphysema? Meth or alcohol abuse? I decided that, if I ever get the chance to speak to him, I’ll ask him if he’s alright, break through the wall of hostility Larkin created.

For my continuous reaching out to Larkin is because of all the truly /kind/ things he’s done for me, especially when he spoke these words to me in May of 2014:

“Our friendship, our being brought together, is a Godsend!”

And he spoke those words while crouched down to my level, face close to mine and one hand on my shoulder. Words full of passion and love. So he’s been fluctuating between icy hatred and sweet compassion towards me, these past four years. Forcing me to choose between the /mean/ Larkin and the /kind/ Larkin. Of course, I settled on the latter after pondering the situation for a long, long time. And I think he’s doing this intentionally, as a sort of test, or initiation, or a kind of Kung-Fu spiritual trial.

Okay, I’m gonna pause here ’cause I just noticed it’s 9:26 and I wanna step out to see if Larkin comes by. I don’t think he did yet, as he bellows and does a high karate kick on the metal sign sticking out of the curb. Which is in front of the taqueria. I’ll be back in a few…

[pause]

Okay, I’m back. You won’t believe this, here’s what happened:

Outside by the bus stop, having my smoke while gazing off towards where Larkin may be approaching, when someone startles me with a tap on my shoulder.

“Oh, sorry!”

I notice he’s a handsome, red bearded man in a funky, thick knitted light brown sweater that flows to the upper thighs. His pants look like pajama pants, with some sort of flags or rectangles in blue and yellow, on a black background and scattered about.

“No, you didn’t scare me,” I smile into those cool, gray irises. “I was lost in thought.”

He wants a light, so I hand him my Bic. He say thanks, hands it back. and saunters away. I call to him:

“That’s a wicked sweater ya got!”

He turns and says, “Thanks!” Then: “Check this out!”

I watch as he pulls up the sweater to reveal a yummy, tight torso girded in a pair of hip hugging, black boxer briefs. Sparse, light orange hairs, sweetly arranged.

“Is this what he wants to show me?” I question to myself. “Where’s this going?”

Then he yanks down a dark shirt hidden beneath that sweater, to reveal that it matches those silly pants.

“Oh, you’re wearing PJs!” I exclaim.

He smiles back, says “yeah,” then turns away to continue his march up Market Street.

No Larkin though, so I return upstairs to enjoy my dinner of thick, lentil-potato-onion-tomato soup garnished with kimchee, tamari sauce and a tablespoon of nutritional yeast sprinkled in. Well, no sooner had I consumed the sixth spoonful, than I hear a “whack” on that metal sign outside. Peering out the window, I see guess who?

Larkin.

Apparently, he had ordered a bite from the taqueria, as seems to be his wont these days, after exiting *cough* “Beaux” for the night…and is prancing some kind of terpsichore on the sidewalk, with complicated steps, waving of the arms, and a broad whirligig here and there. The arms of a large, fluffy off-white jacket are tied about his waist, giving the impression of a matador. He greets anyone who passes by and receptive to his handshakes, hugs and friendly greetings.

After he dances several more vigorous minutes, I call out to him:

“I’ve seen better dancing!” He doesn’t seem to hear me, so I repeat the line. He then looks up, hollers back:

“Leave me alone, stop bothering me!”

Then he loudly mutters other words which I can’t really hear, as he positions himself behind a lamppost so I can’t see his face. I retort:

“Yet you still speak to me!”

His public antics continue as he awaits his meal, chatting to other patrons. But then I hear his conversation with someone who is apparently an employee, laughing at Larkin’s humorous quips. As I listen, I realize he’s looking for a job there, questioning the employee about who to talk to, when to show up, stuff like that. Well, Eleanor, this is /most/ intriguing, for if he /does/ start working there, he’s even /closer/ to my residence than *hack* “Beaux” his newest watering hole!

I call out to him a coupla more times, something humorous. At one point he directs a finger at me, from the end of a lanky arm, and shouts:

“Stop stalking me!”

I just laugh back: “Ha! Whatever you say.”

Well, Larkin steps into the taqueria for maybe ten minutes, before stepping back out and walking towards, and beyond, my window. I call out:

“Thanks for the show, I really appreciate it. That was very nice.”

He says not a word, but continues down the sidewalk. So I bellow:

“I hope you get the job! God bless you, Larkin, God bless you!’

So here we have a new story, El, one that Larkin had already planned for me to write about, once the scenario ensued and played out. As My Dragon Guardian has been doing since…oh, I don’t know…since we first met, I suppose.

He /knew/ I wanted to see him tonight, so what does he do? He puts on a show!

And it makes perfect sense, his showing up more frequently in my world again…as the gay holocaust is close upon us, and my destiny about to be fulfilled as a global LGBT leader, with Larkin my guardian, advisor, teacher and BFF. Just like I’ve figured all along, and even described in my novel, published in July of 2013.

Guess I’m soon to be “freed from this bond.” Like releasing the bronco from its pen, kicking and snorting for victory.

– Zeke


A Dream of Reconciliation (in 2 parts)

August 27, 2016

Date: Fri, 26 Aug 2016 12:21:29
Subject:
A Dream of Reconciliation (in 2 parts)
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

Part 1:

Nighttime, relaxing in the kitchen by myself. Or a back room like a study or old-fashioned screened porch (2nd or 3rd story). Don’t know if that’s where I live, or just a friend’s place…but I’m quite soothed as I sit there beside a cupboard or bookshelf.

Then from about 15 feet ahead I glimpse someone’s shadow, accompanied by the sound of a broom sweeping the floor. He vanishes as quickly as he appears, so I couldn’t figure out who that was. Though he seems of slight build and height, like myself. At least that’s what the silhouette suggested.

I move to a larger chair to recline, and look up to see wispy clouds drifting overhead, against an electric deep blue, moonless sky… obviously, there is no roof in that part of the flat. I feel refreshed, calm, happy. Moments later two or three people show up, discussing some matter or other around a plain, wooden table. What it is, I don’t know, nor am I curious. They all seem like old friends anyway, and perhaps this is /their/ home, in which I’m always welcome. They don’t pay me any mind, and I just stand up to stretch, and yawn.

Part 2:

Larkin got me on call for a voiceover audition in an upcoming animated film. We are sitting at some sort of freestanding bar or kitchen counter, as he tells me this. The overhead lighting is very subdued, and serene. Obviously, our friendship is renewed…and now he’s making up for the difficult challenges he gave me in the recent past. Using his connections here and there to open doors for me.

There are two other friends nearby, seated on stools and diagonally to my left. They are part of the conversation but, at the moment, only smile. I don’t know who they are in real life; their actual visages are muddy. But I sense they are good people: one man, one woman.

Then Zachary, Larkin’s real-life housemate, shows up in an unexpectedly well-disposed manner. Unexpected because, apart from this dream, the rare times our paths have crossed in the past year or so, he screamed at me like a harpy in passing. Apparently, he’s made his peace with me…or, more likely, his hostility was a dupe all along.

I introduce Zachary to these two other people, claiming that they and Larkin are my very best friends. Zachary smiles and shrugs, before turning away to get something from the fridge, or the closet, or whatever. As he does that, I deliberate on Zachary’s purpose in my world, and decide it’s the latter of the two possibilities I covered in the paragraph above. So as he returns to our company, I declare:

“You will be my fourth good friend, but not yet. Friendship takes time.”

Zachary gestures “okay” in gentle acknowledgment, then takes a swig from the unknown concoction swirling in a glaucous bottle stuck to his palm. Seeing as he displays not one iota of antagonism towards me, but just wanly grins, I decide to couch my statement differently:

“Okay, Zachary, I consider you my newest best friend right now, because of all the good things you’ve done for Larkin, including keeping a roof over his head.”

Then I wake up, and, feeling refreshed from that (rather simple) dream couplet, I perform my morning ablution, exit 2306 on my way to Muni Metro’s Castro Station and The Posh Bagel downtown. As I descend the Metro steps (Harvey Milk Plaza), I look up to see Larkin boarding the escalator right beside me. So close I could touch his hand gripping the back of that gliding black python. Appearing somewhat harried, like he was going to a job he didn’t like (or pretending my existence is Revulsion of the Highest Order).

I call to him in a singsongy fashion as our faces eclipse, then part:

“Larkin loves me!”

He does not react in any way, just keeps rising to the sidewalk like a floating vampire. So I summon once again, though with different words:

“Yes he does!”

Now I’m here, typing at the Posh Bagel, this report. Only realizing after my second sip of Riviera French java, the sweet synchronicity of our near collision this cool, foggy morn, with the dream I had only hours before.


ADDENDUM

Date: Fri, 26 Aug 2016 12:45:57
Subject:
Re: A Dream of Reconciliation (in 2 parts)
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

On Fri, Aug 26, 2016 at 12:30 PM, Eleanor Cooney wrote:

{{ Literary gold. }}

I’ll settle for platinum.

Date: Fri, 26 Aug 2016 13:28:03
Subject:
Re: A Dream of Reconciliation (in 2 parts)
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

Another curious detail:

I have only seen Larkin two times since our scuffle last December; each time passing below my window. And in both instances, he made a point as he meandered down my side of the street, to bellow out whatever phrases or words occurred to him. Sometimes greeting others or just rattling to himself…but never calling up to me, or mentioning my name or any related subject.

He did this (being noisy instead of silent) I believe, to draw my attention so I’d poke my head out the window and cast some spicy retorts. But also to reassure me he’s still around, and cares about me, and doesn’t want me to continue living without his presence, even if I only glimpse him occasionally. Until this chapter closes and a new one begins, wherein we are no longer separated by Kismet’s Mandate.

Though the first time he passed beneath my room (about three weeks ago), I remained silent, observed him wander east towards (and beyond) Noe Street. The second time, however (one week later), I /did/ drown out his boisterous nonsense with the following insult:

“You’re walkin’ funny, Larkin…more hemorrhoid issues?”

To my surprise, he didn’t ignore me, but turned about, glared up at me and decried:

“I haven’t seen you in…in…months! You’re supposed to keep it that way!”

To which I countered:

“Then just stay outta the Castro or at least shut the fuk up when you walk near my apartment building! Is that too much to ask?”

But before I even completed the first sentence he swung forward to resume his gait, and cross the intersection. Though I’m sure he heard everything; I was formidably vocal. Then I saw him pause on Noe before he even reached the opposite curb, to talk to someone he knew. So I hollered one more time, my fierce words bounding up Market Street, the rumble of traffic muted by comparison:

“Get outta the Castro, dipwad!”

From that distance, he was diminutive as a toy soldier. But he heard, looked up, pointed a gangly arm in my direction, and hollered back:

“I’m not talking to you!”

Well, since then I wondered what line I could throw at him next time His Eminent Poobah decides to “inadvertently” swagger along my side of the street with pomp and circumstance, that my ears be polluted once more. I finally settled on (get this):

“Larkin loves me!”

With his inimitable trickster cleverness, Larkin gifted me just that opportunity this morning, though neither where, nor when, I expected. AND I ALMOST BLEW IT (but did not).

– Zeke


Red Light / Green Light

January 5, 2016

!!! WARNING. ADULT MATERIAL !!!

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.


Solstice Goes

January 1, 2016

!!! WARNING. ADULT MATERIAL !!!

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.


Solstice Comes

December 30, 2015

!!! WARNING. ADULT MATERIAL !!!

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.


Hope Springs Infernal

November 28, 2015

!!! WARNING. ADULT MATERIAL !!!

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.


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.


ADDENDUM

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:


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