April 26th, 1981

It is 12:30 Sunday afternoon. Allan is still sleeping. The apartment is quiet. Jim just called and I am about to get in the shower and get ready for what should be a full afternoon and evening. At 3:00 I’m meeting him and another man from the Saturday night meeting to go through a tour of a mansion uptown. It’s an annual event. Each room in the mansion has been decorated by a different designer. After that, there’s a beginner’s meeting uptown. Then the concert at Lincoln Center.

Today is very odd. I am actually experiencing a hangover– and I haven’t had anything to drink. Allan went with me to the dance last night– and it was much fun. We danced like crazy for hours. Several hundred people. Beautiful men everywhere. We cruised ourselves to the point of blindness– but nothing materialized. Jim was there, and for reasons that disturb and baffle me, I avoided him as much as I could throughout the night. Why? I don’t know, but it is a bad feeling– a feeling of remorse today. After the dance, Allan and I went to Ty’s. The scene of the crime. Crowded. Cruisy. I order my coke and spot Jerry across the room. He is not drinking and seems all alone in the crowd. He is glad to see me and asked where my “friend” was.

I told him I was no longer with my “friend”. He starts kissing me. God, it feels so good to get kissed and held. Within minutes we have left for his apartment. It is comfortable and reassuring to be with him. We do enjoy each other sexually. Sex is good. This morning I woke up exhausted, feeling like shit (the clocks were turned forward last night to daylight savings time). I left Jerry’s after only a few hours sleep walking back to the East Village feeling gritty and spacey and mildly depressed. Hungover. Our departure was just like all the others back in January when I was wildly in love with Jerry. See ‘ya later. No mention of a next time. Now it doesn’t seem to matter to me. I got what I wanted last night– which was Jerry’s body. He does not offer, and I really do not want anything more. So what is this crazy feeling of impending depression today? Am I chiding myself for having fun? For tricking? Perhaps I am experiencing conditioned reflex. For so many years of my life, the “morning after” usually was cause for remorse. Got too drunk, spent too much money, made a fool of myself, had some ridiculous painful sexual encounter. Last night none of that happened. I had a sober fun night and shared sex with a man who I like very much and who likes me. And this morning I am trying to feel bad– guilty– depressed. And it just will not work. I am sober now and do not have to have a hangover. I feel better now. I am going to shower, dress and meet Jim uptown and have a marvelous day. Fuck you, alcohol. I am not living in your clutches anymore. I don’t have to feel bad.