August 21st, 1982

Twilight: hair still wet from the shower. Sitting in the living room without a shirt. Traffic sounds and a cool breeze. Allan is playing an Olivia Newton-John album. In a moment I will put my newly ironed pink shirt on and go to Sheridan Square. How I’ve missed my Village meetings. I’ve only been to a couple of meetings in the past two weeks. Once in Providence. Such a strong feeling of happiness and security to know that in my neighborhood I can walk into noisy smokey rooms and be surrounded by people I have known and loved for so long— 17 months.

Joe and I went to a play last night— “If this isn’t love”— Then he spent the night— and today. This morning we went downtown in search of discount shoes at Syms. We went through Trinity Church and wandered among the tombstones. By midafternoon I was tired of his company and longed to be alone. My feelings for Joe are so moderate! I feel warmth and fondness for him— BUT NO PAIN. I want to feel desperately in love. There’s no desperation with Joe— just an easy simple fondness. My sexuality has been forged with pain and domination. It is difficult for me to relate sexually to Joe. To give myself whole-heartedly to him. The dark fantasy is of lurking power and passion. It’s hard to drum up sexual passion for such a nice, non-threatening man.

My meetings make it easy for me to get rid of him. All I have to do is say I need a meeting tonight. He totally understands.

So tonight I am alone— back in New York and feeling very frisky.