State of the Union

     I’m on Geary Street now, and there are women everywhere.  I’m not sure why.  I think it’s a feminist rally.  Read:  hairy bush galore.  But some of these chics are lookin’ good.  I take a seat on a bench and take in the sights, scanning the perimeter like a soldier preparing an assault.  Sector 5 holds enemy threat with a butch dyke and a pocket rocket. 

            Pull Out!

I secure the area and continue my campaign for potential friendly fire. 

            Prepare the mortar!  Fire in the hole!

            As I’m no shake ‘n baker, I bunker in with a keen eye.  Every movement of brass and breast is noted. 

Brown nipples at Oh-three hundred! Call the alpha boat!  We may be taking a hostage up the blue line for some boom boom.

 The search and clear continues. 

Hairy bush sighted out of cut-off shorts!  It’s getting’ real hot down here.  I think we’re gonna’ hump the grease gun up the ridge and call it a day.  

            Suddenly all the women gather into a big, entangled mons pubis and march up Stockton Street toward the tunnel.  I’m in the shit if I don’t do something fast.  I see one straggler collecting her sign.  Amongst all the hard-core feminist signs, this chic has gone for the old-school, ‘Don’t Call Me Girl’ slogan, which makes me think she’s not beyond a pick me up with Captain Morgan for a bit of deck swabbin’. 

Must play it carefully.                        

            I approach her in a round-about manner to avoid startling her and getting a swing kick to the side of the head. “You gals are doing a great job out here.”  I say     Gals?

            “Did you call us girls?”  She asks defensively, as she wedges her sign between belt and corduroy waistband.

            “No, no,” I quickly reply.  “I said gals.  Sounds like girls, but no, you’re clearly not girls.”

            I’ve got her attention.  Her pierced belly button is staring at me along with her green eyes.

            “So how long has the march been going?” 

            Keep it going, she’s listening.

            “We started in the Castro,” she says.  “This’ll be the final leg.  Why, you want to join in?”

            Shit, the Castro?  Is she a carpet-muncher too?  She’s not the least bit butch and she seems straight.  I really shouldn’t.

            “Definitely,” I say.  “Where to next?”

            “We’re going up to the Marina for a big bar-b-que.  The magazine I work for is sponsoring a ‘Save the Planet’ benefit up there.” 

 She’s trickling information to me, baiting me to ask questions, distracting me so that she can lure me through the city with her serpentine mob of dykes and lesbians to the sacrificial bonfire in the Marina where I’ll be lynched and burned at the stake while they gnaw on my seared penis and I die desperately trying to get her phone number for just one night together in hopes of deep conversation and deeper sex, maybe a long-term relationship; the kind where she’ll stay out with me all night/every night drinking and all day sleeping.  The kind where she doesn’t care if I disappear for days without calling and our orgasms don’t happen simultaneously but mine first, and she’ll finish herself up later while I crash before ordering a meat-lovers pizza with extra veal, because she’s not a veggie or vegan or animal rights advocate.  But as I gasp for air through the smoke and flames all I can see and hear are scores of shaven pussies slapping against one another like applause for the death of a man and his dick.  How did I let her trick me like that?  It was just some friendly banter and a protest.  It wasn’t supposed to end this way

Are you keen?  Are you keen? What is this?  Leave me alone!

“Hey, man. “  She says, prodding me with a red-hot fire poker.  “Are you Green?”

I’m swatting at her finger when I snap out of it and realise I’m still alive, intact and not a charred mummy.

 “Oh, shit.”  I say, exhaling through puffed cheeks.   She’s staring at me like I’m a fucking pot roast when she says, “What’s up with you? “  I shake my brain around to get it sitting nicely back in its allocated cavity and pull out a smoke.  I offer her one, and she accepts.  I light mine first, thinking it would be sexist of me to light hers.  When mine is lit she plucks it from my parched lips and sucks deeply from it, then hands me the unlit one.  She smiles at me with her eyes and a tilted head.

She’s thrown in her ante.  She’s no lizzie after all.

I figure if she’s playing the game, I’ll buy into her fishing expedition.  “So, what’s this magazine you work for?”  We’re walking through the Stockton tunnel now, holding up the one-way traffic from the other end. The chants are getting so loud that I can hardly hear myself speak.  Since I know she can hardly hear me either, I try some subliminal bravado. 

“You have great tits,” I say, trying hard not to enunciate too much.  “I want to sleep with you.”  Just as I finish the last word, the chanting stops and is replaced by the chirping of cop car sirens.  Not the full-fledged high-speed-pursuit sirens, just the little blips they do to warn you there are some bad-boy mother fuckers keepin’ their eyes on you and ready to smash your face on the hood of their car if you look at them wrong or make fun of their bushy moustaches.

“Oh, fuck!”  says green-eyes, swinging her backpack around.  She hastily unzips it and starts excavating can after can of spray paint, handing them to me one after the other.  “Hide these!”  She orders.  The two cops have already begun walking through the crowd of fuzz-bumpers trying to disperse the unauthorised procession. 

“The fuck am I supposed to do with these?”  I ask her.  “There’s nowhere to hide them.  Just leave ‘em in there!”  I try to grab the pack to stuff the cans back in, but she pulls it away from me, zips it up and puts it back on.  I’m dropping cans all over the place, and before I can gather them up, she’s walking away into the bulk of the crowd.  I can see the blue caps of the cops bobbing in the crowd as they get closer to me.  They’re heading for a large gap in the crowd.  It’s the butch dyke.  They see her as the leader and stop to question her--my perfect opportunity.  With three cans already fallen, I’m still holding four more which I silently place on the ground.  One of them starts to roll, so I grab it and shove it down my pants. 

            I’ve got to get the fuck outta’ here

The cops are still questioning the butcher and she’s getting angry.

            Perfect.  Roust those fucking pigs.  Give ‘em hell, Butch.

            I turn on my heels and stroll back out the tunnel toward Union Square.  I’m just toodlin’ outta’ there like Huckleberry Finn on his way to the lake for some fishin’; only difference is that he had a rod and some bait and I’ve got some speed and paint. 

            Fuckin’ Mark Twainhad no imagination.    

            I make it to the end of the tunnel without looking back and turn right until I’m out of view—then I dart.  I run past the dilapidated massage parlours until I hit Sutter Street and juke off my left foot—Walter Payton style—and continue until I reach Powell Street where I’m able to blend in with the tourists waiting for the Cable Cars.  I slow down and finally take a glance over my shoulder—all clear.  The can of paint is crushing my cock from the run.  With my balls crammed into the concave base of the can, I have to stop and readjust or get rid of it.  I walk into a Mega Bookstore with a limp (dick?) and my hand on my crotch and ride the elevator up to the top floor café where I use the bathroom to dump the can.  At the sink, I rinse my face and laugh at my reflection.

            Ole’ green eyes sold me out!  I can’t believe it.  And here I thought I was doing so well with her.

            I’m still analysing my face when my crotch starts vibrating.  It’s my pager.  Case’s number appears with 415 after it which means he wants the low-down on my location.   Read: If you don’t come help me drink this bottle and go to the bar with me, I’ll end up dead or in jail tonight.  He’s gotta have my moral support and buy-in on the bottle if he’s going tobag this chic tonight and I’m not one to let down my ace deuce, so I go downstairs to the pay phone a give him a buzz.  I tell him I’m on my way and that I just met this chic who dogged me. 

“Dude, what are you doing chasing tail when we got this bottle to finish?”  He asks.  “I’m a quarter of the way through it already, man.  The pool comp starts at six-thirty and it’s a quarter to five now.  Get your ass up here.”

The thing with Case is that he can never leave a bottle unfinished.  To him it’s bad luck to leave anything in the bottle.  He also believes it has some affect on the chemical make-up to keep opening and closing the cap.  He says the oxygen weakens the intensity and flavour of the drink.  He’s convinced me on countless occasions to finish bottles at five in the morning after drinking all night.  Who am I to call him a liar?  I don’t’ need anymore bad luck in my life.  That’s for sure.  I can’t even keep a woman for more than thirteen days—that’s my record.  Case’s is three years, but she fucked off to New York with his heart and his credit cards and had herself a grand old time with her new beau.  Can’t say that outcome makes me want to pack in for the long haul, but there’s got to be an in-between. 

“I’m on my way, chief.”  I say.  “Don’t trip.  I’m just on Powell, so I’ll hop the express and be there in thirteen minutes.”  This makes him feel better.  Case loves numbers, they sooth him somehow, and exact times calm him even more.

With the can out of my crotch and a schedule, I feel back on track.  As I stand on the corner adhering my headphones back to my dome, I peer down Post Street for any activity, and I see her.  Ole’ green eyes is standing on the corner with her hand shading her eyes.  She’s scanning the Square for something or someone, but I aint playin’, so Ithrow my hood over my head and ease on down the road.