July 28th, 1980

What a wicked queen I am. Rob does not call me today– a total break in the dailiness we have established with one another– so I know that he has indeed “dumped” me as a friend. I recoil in hauteur. Imagine. I have merely allowed him in my life as a desultory past time– someone to stand beside me in bars– a makeshift replacement for Allan. A faggot to fill the space that Allan left. I have in my wake provided him with countless acquaintances, contacts, tricks, social invitations. He has the audacity to suppose that this has somehow been an equal friendship. No, darling, I have allowed him to tag along in my shadow. I may be in the throes of an exit from DC, but my permanence as a faggot of some prominence in town is untarnished. I had one last bit of use for Rob. The chorus singer from New York City Opera– I had not gotten his last name or number. Tonight, after knowing all day that Rob was due for the full Laredo treatment, I called with sugar dripping from my tongue. After a few moments of cit chat, I said that I had a little card I had brought to send to Louis and could I have his number. The lamb gave it to me. Bye bye Rob. That’s all I wanted. From here on out you are an outcast in Washington faggotry. I will see to that.