So this isn’t the greatest thing I’ve ever written, but it’s Cinco de Mayo, I’m drunk, my Depression sucks right now, and this isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever written either. Enjoy, chums, and we’ll chat again tomorrow. Oh, and by the way, the same disclaimer from Part 2 applies here: these conversations are approximate but as close to the original as my mighty mind can muster. Finally, here are some links to Part 1 and Part 2 , if you missed them and are too lazy to scroll down.
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“I got a date with the night/ burnin’ down my finger/ Gonna catch the kids dry/ Gonna walk on water”- The Yeah Yeah Yeahs
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The guard wasn’t at his desk. I tapped my fingers nervously and looked down at the second piece of paper I’d put my name on (or my initials, at least). It was a sign-in sheet, and it had sign-out column, too. Was I supposed to mark down that I was leaving? This struck me as odd, creepy even. I felt like I was back in high school, and like high school, I decided to blow this off. I walked over to the glass doors and peered to my right down the long hallway to the drill court/ garage. There was the guard, standing all the way down at the end. I paused. Was I sneaking out? I walked back over to the sign in sheet, picked up the pen, put it down, walked back to the door. Just as I opened it the guard turned around.
“Hey,” I called. “Do I, uh, need to sign out?”
“Yeah, yeah you do.” He was heading back toward me, so I shuffled to the desk and picked up the pen again. He sat down in his chair just as I finished writing.
“Is there… a reason for this?”
“Oh, yeah. Some of the models used to just go out and not come back.”
“What? Like, leave their stuff?” At first I wondered why Kink cared. Was it any worse than bailing at the airport? I realized it probably was: theft of services for staying in the company’s dorms without fulfilling their half of the agreement, or something.
“Yeah. That hasn’t happened in a while.”
I frowned and nodded. I suddenly felt very justified in going out the night before my first porn shoot even though I was sleep deprived, getting over a cold, and needed more strength the next day than my puny muscles could contain— getting mildly drunk would still leave me as one of their more responsible employees. “So I think I’m gonna hit that Walgreen’s and then maybe grab a drink. I was told the bar across the street might be a good idea?”
“Actually, I think that closes at midnight,” he said, looking at his watch. It was after 11:30.
“Oh, hmm. Well, should I try down on Valencia?”
“Yeah, let me point you in the right direction. You want to be kind of careful how you get there.”
Just as the guard was about to open the door, my driver/guide reappeared. “Oh hey there!”
“Hey!” the guard and I replied.
“She wants to go out, but I think The Ace is closing—”
“Yeah, yeah. She’s gotta go somewhere else,” the guide concurred.
“I was gonna show her how to get down to Valencia. Do you know the names of any of the bars there?”
“There’s the Elbo Room, the— well, you know, I’m heading out now,” he turned to me. “I can drop you off. That way you’ll know how to get back.”
“Oh, that would be great! Thanks!” I waved good-bye to the guard and headed out the glass door with my still-guide.
“You want to be sort of careful in this neighborhood,” he repeated. “I mean, it’s not bad, but you have a few prostitutes over on those corners, and the homeless people nearby…” I got his point— that those kinds of people signaled a dangerous neighborhood, not that those kinds of people were necessarily dangerous themselves— but it still felt strange hearing a representative of a porn company telling me, a porn model, to be wary of social deviants. We turned a corner, and I saw a homeless man huddled up near a side door to The Armory, at the top of a small ramp. I’ll give him a twenty tomorrow, I thought, suddenly amazed at the thought of holding several hundred dollars in my hands. I’ll just find a check cashing place first.
The driver/guide and I climbed into another pick-up truck that was parked around the corner, and I finally got up the courage to remark, “I’m sorry, but what did you say your name was?”
“Gonzo.”
“Gah- Gonzo!” I grinned. “Like the muppet or the style of porn?”
He laughed again. “Like the style of journalism actually.”
“Oh! You’re a fan of Hunter S. Thompson?”
“Yes I am.” He proceeded to tell me a bit about how the man had changed his life. At the end, almost as an afterthought, he added, “It kind of makes sense anyway since my real name is Gonzalez.”
“Ohhh okay. Yeah, that does make sense.” I smiled back. By this point we were driving down Valencia, and Gonzo was pointing over his shoulder.
“So you’ve got that place there, and then this bar—”
“Oh, this one looks fine,” I assured him. I didn’t want to get too far from The Armory.
He pulled over and asked if I was sure. “I mean, Cassanova is fine, but I got a ways to go, so if you—”
“No, no. It’s all good. Thank you so much for the ride.” I crossed the empty street and waved good-bye. Then I turned to look into the bar and immediately felt intimidated. The Mission is SO the Williamsburg of San Francisco. I reminded myself that I was wearing the right outfit, or, at least, not the wrong one, and strode through the door. No bouncer. Not anything like New York at all.
It was true: despite the fact that the people looked the same, the whole place had a different feel. It was quiet on the streets and loud with honky-tonk music indoors. Kids in oversize glasses and tight jeans hugged at high tables and mock square-danced back by a raised sofa. The decor was vaguely Tex-Mex, vaguely southwestern— just different enough from what I was used to to keep me interested. It was also just different enough to make me feel like I stuck out as the unfamiliar jackass I was. The fact that I was the only one who was there alone didn’t help. I just need a drink.
I politely pushed my way to the bar and soon enough the plainly handsome young bartender asked me what I wanted. I froze. You cannot order a fucking vodka tonic here, you yuppie. “I’ll have a—” I tried to think of a cooler mixed drink and utterly failed. Caring so much about what you drink is the least cool thing of all. Just SAY SOMETHING “Sierra Nevada.” He went over to the tap to fill a glass, and I was left feeling old as well as uncool. Maybe they just don’t card here, I soothed myself. When the guy handed me my drink I smiled and immediately took a sip.
“That’s 4.50.” Seriously? Already? He’s not even gonna ask if I want to open a tab? I put the drink down and reached for my wallet. They just do things differently here. That’s all.
Five minutes later I was standing back against the wall, gulping my beer and looking around for anyone to talk to. There was the Asian chick with the bowl haircut— but, oh, there was her friend. The White guy in the t-shirt looked like he was just waiting for that blonde girl to turn around again and— yup. Two Latino men caught my eye and then looked me up and down. Oh fuck no. We are not doing that tonight. I am NOT here to get laid. I went back to staring off at a far corner. I decided I would chug my beer and leave. This night blows. You need to find something interesting to do. You need to drink faster. You need to— goddamnit you’re a porn star! Talk to someone! I looked around again, then looked down at my feet. The faster I drank the faster I could move on. Unfortunately, I’m not very good at chugging.
“Ummm, exxcusse me.”
When I looked up I was greeted by the looming presence of a tall, thin, olive-skinned young man. Too young. Maybe even a teenager. “Hi,” I smiled. I didn’t really care who he was. As long as he wasn’t going to hit on me right away, we’d be fine.
“I’m…. Tommy,” he said, sticking out his hand at an odd angle. “Whasssyour name?”
Ho boy. “I’m… Lori.”
“Issnice to meet you, Larry,” he replied. We both took another drink. “Whaddooyou do?”
“What do I do? Or, what am I doing here?”
“Whaddooyou doin’ here? I guess? Like, whaddooyou do?”
“I’m— I model. I’m doing porn, actually. Kink.”
“Sssoooo what kind of modeling do you do?”
“You’re kiiiind of drunk right now, aren’t you?”
“I’mmssorry. I’ve just—” He moved closer as if to share a secret. “I’ve been drinking all day. Like, had a whole bottle uh Hennessy.”
“A— a whole bottle?”
“Yeah, you know, at a barbuhcoo.”
“Oh yeah?” I took another large sip.
“Yeah, jussat my house. Like, on the porch.” He moved his arms to, I suppose, indicate the limits of his porch, and he spilled a third of his beer on my shoes in the process. “Ohhhhmaaannn….” We were quiet for a minute. I couldn’t think of anything to do but laugh, and it came out forced. I followed it with another gulp of beer.”I’m sooooossssoorrry. Lissen, my name is Tommy…”
“It was very nice to meet you, Tommy,” I said, taking another big sip. “But I have to go now.” I pushed my way back to the bar to put down my nearly empty glass. Then I gave Tommy a gracious smile and left.
“Oh fucking hell,” I murmured. The small group of hipsters outside the bar looked over and then looked me over, so I started walking. The air felt cold on my wet feet as I moved past one low, empty building after another, further and further from The Armory. For the first time that night I was really struck by the variety of the architecture — the stucco store fronts alternating with the tall, thin, wood-shingled homes. Some of it was Spanish revival, some, perhaps, Victorian, some modernist. I didn’t— don’t— have the words to describe to myself what I was seeing. In my ignorance, all I knew was that things seemed… tropical, even though the weather was cool. It all felt like a contradiction: the unnameable trees swaying near the Philly-style tram lines, the desolateness of a street that was clearly alive at every hour but this, the fact that I was supposed to be here but hardly anyone knew it. The thought began to settle in that it was all a dream, and I peered in the windows of every building I passed to try to find something that would convince me otherwise. Every restaurant and store was proving dark and empty, and the homes were quiet. I shivered.
I’d been passing by the occasional car and pedestrian, but it wasn’t til that moment that I got the feeling someone was following me. I turned around quickly, just long enough to see the tall, tanned white man some third of a block behind. In my snap assessment I determined he had somewhere to go and was not walking just to keep me in sight. I relaxed, and then relaxed further when I saw a bustling corner another two blocks ahead. Did I have somewhere to go now too? I peered in the dark windows of a pizza shop as I passed, making sure not to miss an opportunity.
“I see you checking yourself out in all the windows,” came the controlled voice from behind me. There was something about it that was ever-so-slightly effeminate. I stopped and whipped around.
“I wasn’t checking myself out!” I protested. I saw an opportunity. “I just got into town! I’m looking for a place to go, but everything’s closed here. You guys aren’t like New York.” For a second I thought the tall man was going to keep walking, but by the time I finished he had stopped right next to me. I gazed up at him.
“Oh? You’re from New York?” he said with a slight smile. It wasn’t just his frame that was large: his features were also broader than they should have been but strikingly handsome. He reminded me vaguely of my 5th-grade drama teacher, the one I’d fallen madly in love with. I’d recently looked him up on facebook and discovered he was gay and living in Los Angeles. “What are you doing here?” His voice somehow seemed smaller than it should have been.
“I’m— working. Sort of,” I replied.
“What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m—” I took a deep breath. “I’m in porn. Or, I will be.”
“Oh?” He grinned and his blue eyes gleamed in the street light.
God, what a cliche. “Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled. “Tomorrow.”
“At Kink?”
“Uh-huh. Are you familiar with them?”
“Sort of. I know they’re at The Armory, but I’ve never been there, and I don’t really know what they do.”
I laughed. “Some crazy stuff. Which is why I shouldn’t be out too late tonight, but I just wanted to see the city. I just got in.”
“Well why don’t you come with me?” he asked. “I’m Nate, by the way.” He stuck out his large hand and waited for me to take it.
“I’m…” I gave him my hand, then my real name.
“Pleasure,” he replied, and we started walking.
“So where are we going?” I asked, wondering if we’d be hitting the busy bar on the next corner.
“There’s this place I think you’ll like. It used to be a hair salon, and they kept all of the old equipment. It’s pretty cool.”
“Sounds good. But, um, I should probably let you know, I’m not— I’m not looking to hook up with anyone. I mean, I have a busy day tomorrow but also I sort of have a boyfriend, and also I think I might be getting a cold sore, and… yeah.”
He laughed. “That’s fine”
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Some half an hour later I found myself in a familiar situation. “Get OUT!” I exclaimed when Nate told me he used to work in an animal shelter too. It wasn’t just echoes of Elaine Benis ringing in my head. There was another scenario that— Sam. My neighbor. The last time I was sipping drinks in the semi-dark with a gorgeous, thirty-something blue-eyed man and had practically screamed at him for fulfilling my wildest expectations was— could it be?— a year-and-a-half ago, with him.
“What do I want to do after I graduate? Oh jeez. This probably sounds corny, but… like, I’d love to use theatre as a means of social activism. Maybe start a charity program for children.” I’d told Sam.
Five minutes later I asked him what he’d been doing since he graduated Yale. He smiled and answered quietly, “I run a charity program. For children.”
I shook my head and came back to reality. This night was not going to end like that one. “I can’t believe that!” I remarked to Nate. “Oh my god, then you’re going to love these pictures.” I reached into my bag and pulled out my i-pod. “I don’t have my phone, but I do have this, and yes, I’m totally being this person right now.” I turned it on and opened up the ‘Animal Shelter’ photo file. “Look. at. this,” I commanded.
“Oh my gosh! Is that— that little guy fit in your hand?”
“Yes!” I squealed. “Oh my god, it was so sad though. So this kitten was an orphan, a week old, and his mother—”
“Hey, if we’re gonna talk, do you want to go over to the corner?” I grabbed my vodka tonic and followed him to a salon table in a dark, quiet nook near the door. “I’m just going to go to the bathroom real quick,” he said, putting his beer down.
“Okay,” I replied. “I promise not to roofie you.”
“You’d need a lot of roofies for that to work, and then good luck dragging me back to The Armory.” He smiled and headed toward the back of the bar. I smiled too, taking a big swig of my yuppie drink and reveling in the buzz. He returned almost immediately (I’ll never stop being amazed at how fast people with penises can pee) and proposed a new idea: “How about we go to this other little place? It’s quieter there.”
“I— yeah?”
“Yeah.” He stood as if waiting for me to join him.
“Just have to finish my drink first!” It was still over half full.
“Why?”
I was confused by this question. “Well, I want to drink it, and… it cost money?” Even though Nate had paid for the drink (over my protestations), the idea of just throwing it out made me profoundly uncomfortable.
He shrugged. “It was seven bucks. We’ll get you another one.”
“Okay…” Was this what it was like, having money? Nate didn’t work at an animal shelter anymore. He worked in IT. Will I throw money away too when I get my check tomorrow? I’ve never had 600 dollars to just… spend… I followed my new companion out of the bar, hazy from exhaustion, alcohol, and the possibility of being briefly rich.
“So you were saying, about the cat?”
“Oh gosh! Right!” It was quiet again outside, cool and peaceful. “Okay, so this is a really sad story.”
“I’ll brace myself,” he said.
“Well I took care of the cats my second summer there. Like, all of them. Four days a week.”
“All of them?”
I was surprised by his surprise. “Yeah, all of them! Geez, what shelter did you work at that they could afford more than one of you?”
“The PSPCA, in Philly.”
“GET. OUT.” I stopped walking. “That’s where I got my cat! I’m FROM Philly!”
“I went to college there.”
“Where?”
“At Penn.”
“Oh my god, another Ivy Leaguer,” I remarked, shaking my head. “How do you guys always find me?” He gave me a curious look, but I ignored it and proceeded to tell Nate the sad story of the orphan cat. He told me more about the PSPCA, and we talked for awhile about Philadelphia. By the time I thought to look up at the street signs we were a mile from The Armory. “Twenty-fourth street?! Where the hell are you taking me?”
“You’ll see!” he teased.
“Oh god, you’re taking me back to your rape cave.”
“I am not taking you back to my rape cave. Here.” He pulled out his wallet, removed his driver’s license and handed it to me.
“What’s this for?”
“So you know who I am. So you know I’m not going to take you to my rape cave.”
“Of course you can still take me to your rape cave! I’ll just be able to tell the cops afterwards where you live.”
“Right. So why would I rape you now?”
“Probably because you’re going to kill me afterwards.”
“Hmmm…well, no one would know you were gone, right?”
I stopped. “Hey, pal. Kink would know when I don’t show up tomorrow.”
“I know, I know! I’m kidding!” He took my hand in his to reassure me, but I paused. “You don’t actually think—”
“No! No, no. It’s just… I’m not going to fuck you. I don’t want to make you think—”
“I don’t. We’re just holding hands.”
“Okay,” I conceded, and we started walking again.
“We’re almost there. I figure we can get some food too. There’s this pizza place slash rum bar I’ve been meaning to try.”
“That sounds awesome, actually.” I quit protesting, quit looking up at the street signs, and just went with it.
“Beretta,” he said, when we arrived.
“I— this sounds familiar,” I mused as he opened the door for me. “Oh! I read about this! It’s one of the places they tell you to go in all of the tourist guides.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
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Despite Nate’s protestations that, “[his] friend, here, she’s only in town for a bit,” we were informed that they were done making pizza for the night. It was after one, so that rather made sense. Instead, we split crab cakes and polenta and sipped some of their signature cocktails.
“I’m paying for half of this,” I clarified after we ordered. “I’m getting 600 bucks tomorrow.”
“You sure? I mean, about paying?”
“I’m sure! Men shouldn’t have to buy women. Plus, you’re not buying anything from me anyway, since I’m not fu—”
“I know, I know. You’re not fucking me. Who said I even wanted you to?” He smirked.
“It’s true,” I replied. “For all I know you could be gay.”
“I’m not gay,” he sighed. Did he get that a lot? Because he was vaguely effeminate? Because he lived next to the Castro? Did he care? He took a sip of his drink and said, “Here’s a riddle for you: who doesn’t eat pussy and doesn’t go to Antarctica?”
“I—”
“Gay men.”
“What? Why wouldn’t gay men go to Antarctica? Actually, why would they go to Antarctica— why would anyone?”
“To climb a mountain.”
“Huh? I’m pretty sure gay men climb mountains.”
“No, I— I’ve been to Antarctica. To climb a mountain.”
“I don’t—”
“And I’m not gay.”
“You climb mountains?”
“Are you familiar with The Seven Summits?” he asked.
“No, but I can guess. You climb the highest mountain on every continent?”
“That’s right.”
“Wow. You really like doing that?”
“You like doing kinky porn?” He must have seen that I was taken aback. “I didn’t mean that in a mean way. I meant, isn’t it kind of the same thing?”
“How?”
“Psychologically. We go to the same place.”
“Maybe.” We were silent for a second. “So can I ask you something?”
“Ask away,” he replied.
“If you’re not going to climb me or eat my pussy, why did you bring me here?”
Now he looked slightly taken aback. “I can’t like talking to you?”
“You can, but—”
“I’ve never talked to a porn star before.”
“And how is it?”
He thought for a second, but instead of answering my question he replied, “I used to be a prostitute.”
“I…a mountain-climbing prostitute!” Then, quietly, I asked, “You really did that? I wasn’t even sure if straight men could make a career out of that.” Did I expect him to admit he slept with men?
“Oh, I didn’t make a career out of it,” he clarified. “It was… supplemental. When I was a motivational speaker, I’d meet all of these women—”
“A motivational speaker too. Did you talk about climbing mountains?”
“I did.” He smiled, and I smiled back. Things made sense.
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To be continued…
Update: Part 4