May 23rd, 1976
Back in my apartment— cool sunny morning. Remembering last night. Another guy. Another night and morning of flesh and personality.
I realize how preposterous my efforts at multiple relationships are. When I realize that this one is, for whatever vague neurotic reason, NOT THE ONE, I stop and begin to resist. Was it the way he just laughed, or some hint at mediocrity? Last night’s name was Clark. Quick pick-up at the bar. Am beginning not to enjoy Allen’s company so much. Perhaps it’s knowing that in a week Tom will be here and Allen will be forming a new life. A new role. Do I feel betrayed? I am not sure. His constant dialogue of his feelings about Tom fray at my patience. Everyone at the bar thinks we are lovers. Both of us cruising the same guy last night. Not knowing which of us is being cruised by him. Like good sisters, we give each other a chance. I walk around the bar. No action. Allen decides maybe he was cruising me. Allen walks around the bar. I stand nearer to him. We are both coy. I do not know what to do. He has not given me enough excitement to provoke action. But, then, neither have I. We are stalemated. I move to the bar for another beer. I don’t want to imply that I am running away. I turn for deep glance over shoulder. He has followed. On way to bar himself. He looks at me. Everything vague. No hard line cruising yet. Allen is back. I go to the bathroom. By the time I return Allen and he are talking. Exchanging names. I hear him say his name is Charles. I am defeated. I resent Allen and know that is irrational. Suddenly Clark is next to me. Close. He is touching, getting close into my territory. Easy— he begins to talk. He is too glib.
I criticize him. He talks like Johnny Carson. How hard to be real in bars though. I look at him again. He is tall with a nice body and sharp dark mustache with full pretty lips. Thick eyebrows. Maybe I sound like Johnny Carson too, God knows. I hate being so critical of people. Such bizarre demands. I continue to talk to him. He is from Denver. Works in a bank. Strike number two. I go on. He is touching my leg. I yield further. Maybe he’s okay. Maybe he will excite me. If I can just get past my typical judgments of people I can find something in him. His hand begins to rub mine. I imagine us naked together, squirming hot and moist in bed. I look at him again. There is an intelligence about him. Yes, he is ok. This may be nice. Yes, I will try this. We leave the bar. As we pass Allen and Charles I pray fervently that they think I have scored with a hot number.
Out on the street.
His apartment. Immaculate setting. Everything clean, net, in place. I see nothing artistic or desperate. I am leery. We get stoned. I stop trying to ascertain what he is really like and surrender to experiencing him the way I want him to be. Faceless, I devour his body. We are careful of each other. I have already decided that he is not an artist. I do no know how smart he is but I see no intellectual misery. His body is marvelous. Thick curly hair all over. Hairy ass. Just my type. His face keeps changing. First I see him older than me— collegiate face, young professional— well-spoken. Suddenly his face has an element of stupidity to it. I stare at him for a moment. He sees me doing this. His nose is red and oily and his mouth is awkwardly too big. He looks like a lout, a dumb Bronx jew. Then I am fucking him. He asks me to fuck him. I try to come on strong. He sucks my cock. Obvious that he enjoys being aggressive. We ignore his cock. I cannot come. Finally, he shoots hot and hard across my belly and onto my chest. Straining with visions of 25 cent porno flicks racing across my eyes— finally, I come. Quick, painful jabbing. Now we can sleep.