we rise with mars
Oh! Our last weekend in the Hamptons! Let me tell you those kids were great. They liked us, they really did. I mean, all kids are magically drawn to TRUE but they liked Sterling and I too. Yay! Score one for the evil queers. Actually, we decided that the girl was something of a baby dyke in the making. Besides being a total tomboy with a thing for boys’ skater sneakers and metal studded belts, she very sweetly offered to be the witness to a marriage between TRUE and Sterling, much to the chagrin of both ladies. (Sterling because she was secretly sweating the girl’s mom and TRUE because, well, she’s TRUE.) It was so wonderful, though, all of it…the big house lit up at night with a pile of shoes in front of the door and shadows flitting about upstairs. Peter and I cooked up a storm—the refrigerator was filled with Pyrex containers, the tops covered with pink cellophane. They didn’t want us to leave. We played games and made breakfast. Their mother watched us wearily from the porch. I think she was glad for the respite. I paraded through the yard holding a bowl of fresh picked blackberries over my head, with the kids jumping up and tugging on my sides because they wanted so desperately to know what I had for them. We went to the beach and held hands in the waves and spoke pigeon German and pigeon English and watched the Osbournes on TV.
Late at night TRUE, Sterling and I gathered behind our house like camp counselors. The older boy kept trying to spy on us. He was sixteen, but a very young sixteen, prone to bouts of moodiness in which he sat slumped with his walkman on, disconsolate.
“You’d better not let me catch you giving that boy any weed,” Sterling said to TRUE.
“What? Hell, no,” TRUE said, puffing away. “He’s never had it before, that’s fucking obvious.”
“You don’t want the honor of being his first?” I asked.
“No way,” TRUE said. “The shit I’ve got is not for the uninitiated. It’ll make his eyes light up green and his head spin all the way around.”
She passed the joint to me and lay back on the wet grass.
“And I’ve got no time for that, chillymost.”
jenny apple loves nyc and nyc loves jenny apple