Another night at home. Today I finally started Scarsdale again. I’m back up to nearly 170, which is where I was last year before I dieted. I remember how good I felt about myself after losing 20 pounds. I remember being at The Eagle with Allan one night, looking hot and knowing it in my tight little Calvin Klein t-shirt. Allan paid me such a compliment, he said “you’re really getting quite a little body there.” Yes, Aunt Doris, hidden beneath this beer belly is the tight little stomach of a hunky number. I am constantly aware that underneath my shirt is a paunchy middle. And being uptight about my body makes sex a nervous affair for me. Hoping they won’t notice. Hoping they won’t care. Hating myself when I see my reflection in a mirror. Oh, here we go again. The reclamation of self-confidence.

THERE: I just called Jerry and made a date for Thursday night. I told him I was horny and needed to see him this week (you see, Aunt Doris, In New York we faggots keep things on a causal sexual level and pretend not to care). He suggested that I go to Ty’s. I told him that was not what I needed (be careful, you’re getting close to an admission that you might feel something for this person). So, a good humored date is set. Momentary chat about work. He seems not interested in staying on the phone. Is SOMEONE there? Saturday night’s trick perhaps. I feel in competition with some nameless person from last Saturday night. Oh, Shirley Bassey, pulease, honey, go take a sleeping pill!