May 27th, 1976
Pleasant early cool of an almost-summer evening.
Remembering grey dreams of these physically/mentally exhausting days at Capitol Hill Graphics. The slavery, the turmoil— refusing to buckle, to give in.
The crazy isolation of January. Woodies, more crazy tension. The craziness of drifting from week to week.
How perfect many parts of my life have become. Now— creative, happy high days at Garfinckel’s. Enchanted with working there. Home by 6:30— without fail every day.
The only loose end now is where I am living. Last night I went to see Pat Henry’s apartment. Available soon. I have first grabs.
Write more later. Ran home and straightened apartment. Now must shower and get ready— Armando— my swarthy married man is coming over for sex.
Now showered, tanned, good-smelling and ready.
Richard called early this morning. Wants to get back together. Says we can work out the details.
My life is wide open now. Open to the wildest possibility. I am only now after all these months beginning to regain the strength of my old self. Having a lover would cut off so many adventures, romances, intrigues. I remember writing in my journal when Richard and I were first together that monogamy was just not right for me— that I viewed it in terms of long-range unhappy commitments.
Armando walks in and beelines to my photo of me and Richard in Florida. “Do you know Richard Smith?” Oh Christ, not again. How many times has this happened? “Yes,” I say, deciding to be very honest— “He was my lover.” “Richard Smith was your lover?”
God did I love a whore…
It must mean, I think, that— although I may still love him, I am no longer in love with Richard. I used to be, but I’m not anymore. I do love him— but not in a romantic context.
Armando is from Key West— raised there. Giant cock. God, the infinite beauty of a male body— not vietmancorportationmulticonglomerateschmuck— but a gorgeous combining of gentle salt sweet male bodies. No oppression. Men fucking women is unnatural and oppressive.
At home in my apartment. Finally I can say that. The greenery quiet white suburban atmosphere of Glover Park. A part of Washington into itself. I could safely on a warm night go sleep in the parking lot. Big apartment. Spacious. Boring. Midrise.
My alternative, of course, is Pat Henry’s apartment on Dupont Circle. Nice, new, clever. Should I stay here? Can I deal with this? I am tired and drunk.
Sleeping all night on the sofa— passed out dead drunk amid beer cans. Calling Richard late last night. Snidely telling him that I had “one of his old loves.”
“Don’t call me to say things like that.”
And I am sorry I did. God how irrational I can be. How drunk and disgusting and emotional— just like my mother.