Sexually Speaking, You Are On Zee Air!

Man, I used to listen to Dr. Ruth when I could...her little voice would crack me up and I was always so amazed at how this little old lady could sit back and talk about sex like it was a cake recipe and all you needed to do was add the butter. I don't know what made me think of her this morning (because I know my online friends on this blog are mostly just waking up except for maybe Kat, since she's out here now) except for the problem that I'm having...I have no sex drive. None. At all. All desire to be with anyone went out the window. My mother attributes it to the fact that I am always busy at the library; I have taken to staying there even when I am not on duty. I don't want to go home. I think I must be depressed, since being alone watching TV or reading makes me feel like a social misfit as of late.

I went to two different clubs this past month, one of them at least three or four times, where some of my old lovers frequent for drinks, and I often have to remind friends that I don't ski anymore...funny how they have the ability to remember if you owe them money or if you said you would get them tickets backstage to a certain performer, but you tell them that you don't do drugs anymore (or, at least, the hard ones) and they act as if its a revelation.

Last night:

Cory scoots into the booth with me and a few people we know, her tank top low and the Queen of Hearts tattoo on her shoulder looking ghostly and trippy in the lighting of the bar. I can smell bourbon on her breath and peppermint gum as she crams in closer to me, allowing room for at least five more people into the booth which is really meant for only four. I feel her hand between my thighs, and I look at her with a question, to which she only smiles and turns her head to talk to our friend Zack. Her ears are pierced in several places and she is 12 years younger than me. Her hand, and what it starts to do, would normally be enough to get me excited and eager to pull her with me out of the bar and back to my apartment...but I feel nothing tonight. I have a beer and gently run my hand across her back and rub her shoulder, in a spot I know she often has pain. I feel bad, if she is intending for us to hook up later, but I just want to hang out tonight with everyone so I don't have to be alone.

But I want to go home alone. I won't be into it if we leave together, and although I'd be happy to please her, my mind will be on a vacation. I want company, not sex, and she only wants sex. So...therein lies our problem.

After a while, she removes her hand playfully, and gets up to put quarters in the jukebox. Somebody has been playing Michael Jackson for over an hour, and she announces she will add to the Motown groove. We all say cheers to Pride, cheers to Michael Jackson, cheers to Farrah...She grabs my hand and drags me to the player, and asks what she should play. I give a few suggestions, and kiss her forehead, and tell her I am going home, pleading an early day today. She looks a bit hurt, and I tell her that I have not been well lately...but run my hand over her ass and let her know that she is lovely. She is, but sex is too much effort for me right now.

Then, I leave.

I try yoga, my body betraying me in ways that I had not foreseen; how does one truly foresee getting older? We all think we're 25 when we're approaching 50. I cry, quietly, wondering why my body is devoid of feeling when my heart is not, why I turned down a lovely woman yet again (and two lovely men during the month) when I could have had them, and sob. Then, after a while, I smile at the thought that I only had one beer at the bar. At least I am in control of some things now in my life.

What a Sad Day: RIP Farrah and Michael

Growing up born in the 70's, Farrah Fawcett made my youth so much fun thinking that I might get to be cool like her; like a Charlie's Angel.

Then, in the 80's, Thriller was the most awesome album, I played it over and over; every time I made a mixed tape off the radio, it always had something from either Michael Jackson or The Police on it.

Today was such a surreal day as I got ready for my Pride party for my theatre company and worked on reviews and various tasks for my theatre life. In the midst of it, came news reports of first one death...and then, as I was about to talk out the door to The Cubbyhole, came news about Michael Jackson.

At the club, people were sad, but the joy of the man's music turned what could have been a maudlin time into a celebration of Michael. Tunes from his whole life were played all night long, and the entire club would sing along. Gone were the talks of his problems with the law and alleged scandals and eccentric behavior. We just remembered him as the great musician he was.

Many of us were saddened that his death almost stole Fawcett's thunder away...but we knew she was going, it was just a matter of time. Nobody saw Jackson passing like this.

There are people that I remember when they died - and where I was when it happened. When Sam Kinnison died, I was sitting on a couch in my apartment in college in Oxford, MS, and was in the midst of trying to bum a smoke off of somebody, when the news hit and we were stunned. When Allen Ginsberg and Jerry Garcia and Jimmy Stewart and Miles Davis passed away...moments in time came to a brief halt...going in slow motion.

I'll remember today for the two passings, but also for the celebration of Pride and my theatre company; and I'll also look back on this day because all of it touched me.