Hey Fitz, you thought you were sending me a wake up call, but I was totally onto you. Even before the two of you hopped between the sheets (again). You see, I don’t have any trouble staying awake. I’m not like you guys, on drugs and fast asleep in each other’s arms. I get my warmth from exercise. The burn in my gut and the ache in my triceps keeps me company. I leave my sports bra on from the time I get home in the evening until I go to bed, so whenever I feel like it I can jump right into an activity. It’s important for me to have something that fights the urges. You two should try it sometime.

Used to be I couldn’t even walk to the corner store without striking a lascivious pose. Fucked up, hopped up—my mind bucked and jacked up, as TRUE would rap. Now I let the girls pass, keeping my eyes on the sidewalk. Once at the store, I buy a Balance bar and a black tea and I’m good to go. OK, sometimes I still follow a little Polish girl for a few blocks, hands in pockets, keeping my distance on the other side of the street. But rarely do I case her all the way back to her home anymore. And I never stand out on the street looking up at some little peach fuzz baby’s window.

You guys avoided me all weekend, but I was knew what was going on nonetheless. I guess you think I’m too righteous to deal with my queer friends fucking each other. But I don’t care what you guys do anymore or who you do it with, I really don’t. I’m over it. For all I know maybe you’re not even queer: just because TRUE licked pussy a couple a times doesn’t make her a career diver. Same for her Highness, Fitz. Faggy as he wants to be, that’s for sure, but he can’t seem to stop riding the Snatch Brothers Express. You two let the gin lead you there before, so I guess it was only a matter of time before it happened again.

I’m not going to freak out, I’m not going to lose it like last time. I’ve grown up a bit—I’ve had a few hetero urges of my own, believe it or not. I don’t think it makes me any less hardcore. That’s not to say that a few days ago I wasn’t blaming this hetero crush on the loss of my drop top. Sad to say how ingrained that car was in my psyche. Life was good when I woke up, yanked on a pair of jeans, threw on the first wife beater I could find, threw on the shades and hopped into the front seat. When I needed an accessory I hung my dirty panties on the rear view mirror, in a move I got from Bruce LaBruce. Ride, Queer, Ride. Pump the Serge with the bass box cranked up in the trunk. What woman could resist me?

Now I’m riding the train…working in an office…nearly reformed.

I’m in midtown right now, as a matter of fact. Suffering my usual hot and cold flashes in the climate control. My hands smell like bananas, which is odd because I haven’t had one today. Maybe it was that Fresh Samantha for lunch. The fucked up cartoons on the label are mocking me from their upside down position on top of my trash. My body’s still learning what to do with vitamins—healthy things tend to have a hard time permeating my system. They form oil on my skin and a film on my hair. Every afternoon I get gas. Meanwhile, the florescent light bores a hole between my eyes and the sounds from neighboring cubes of sick people coughing up phlegm and fat people stuffing their faces with trans fatty acids makes me want to gag. Success in an office environment depends on learning how to fill the interminably long hours in which you’re paid to look presentable and have the right, old school answers. It’s no good to have the right, new school answers unless you’re gunning for management, in which case you have other, more pressing problems you should be dealing with. All of this and more has been said before in haughty tones spiced with a GenX ironical wit that I don’t have the energy to feign. So I won’t go on about the office at this moment. Suffice to say, I want to fuck the shit out of my male, married late 30-something boss.

Oh, the tinge of rebellion, sweet as ever, even in an antiseptic environment such as this! To write such things about M., whose office is right across the hall? I imagine him sneaking up behind me—in which case he’d have to leave his pile of jingling keys (you’re jingling baby) on his desk—and reading what I’ve written. It’s right here right now—sprayed across the monitor. How would he react? What would happen next? Or what if someone else came by and I couldn’t minimize fast enough? The only thing that would save me at that point is my out and proud gayness. “Fiction,” I’d say, hoping against hope. I’ve never written a word of fiction in my life.

Wait—more later. M. just buzzed me. He wants me to check on something. My pussy throbs at even the slightest request—he never gives me anything that could be construed as an order, but I’m waiting on the day. “Could you check in the spare office, W. is looking for a Dictaphone.” Jesus, I guess I am too?