Read Online Mary Ann in Autumn by Armistead Maupin - Free Book Online
Authors: Armistead Maupin
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place and cuddle the fuck out of you.”
“Okay.” She smiled crookedly, loving the sentiment in spite of his wording. “I wanna ask you something first.”
“Shoot.”
“You know how lately I’ve been sort of disenchanted with the blog?”
“Not really.”
“Well . . . I have. I think it’s kinda run its course. I mean, I think I’ve done some good, but I’m tired of being Debbie Dildo, you know?”
Otto shrugged. “You’re good at it.”
“Thanks, but . . . it gets to be limiting after a while. I think I wanna open it up, talk about life in general . . . you know, the petty shit and the big issues we all have to deal with. Something substantive. I think my readers would follow me, and I would really—”
“Go for it. What’s stopping you?”
“Well . . . I need you to tell me it’s okay.”
“Why?”
“Because I might be writing about us. In part, at least.”
“Oh.” A cloud passed over his face. “Like . . . using my name and all?”
“Yeah, unless . . .” She decided to keep it light. “You’re not wanted for something in ten states, are you?”
He wouldn’t pick up on the gag. “I like my privacy, Shawna. I love what we have, but . . . I don’t know about sharing it with strangers.”
“You just performed on a pier with a ton of strangers.”
“No,” he said quietly. “That was Ottokar. Or Sammy sometimes. But it wasn’t me. That’s why I’m able to do it.”
That made sense, in a way, but she suspected his fears ran deeper than that. “I wouldn’t be writing about our sex life,” she said. “I wouldn’t be as . . . specific as—”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?” She was starting to feel hurt, and, worse yet, sounding that way. “Are we just not . . . that serious?”
Otto saw her mortification and grabbed her hand across the table. “Listen, ladylove . . . if we weren’t serious I wouldn’t give a shit what you put in that blog. I just don’t want to feel self-conscious about what we have. I don’t want to be weighing my words all the time. I don’t want to think of us as . . . you know . . . material.”
Anyone else who’d called her “ladylove” would have received, at the very least, a derisive snort, but Shawna found it sort of sweet. It was possible Otto had picked up that expression the summer he worked as a knight at the Renaissance Pleasure Faire, but she preferred to believe it had sprung, freshly minted, from his uncorrupted heart.
She decided not to press him further about the blog. He didn’t read it anyway, and they weren’t on record as being a couple. She could call him her boo or something similarly vague and still do the kind of writing she wanted to do. He was right about the potential for self-consciousness in such an enterprise. It was better just to let the words flow, as she always had, and let Otto be Otto. The less he knew the better, really.
O N THE WAY HOME TO the Mission, they were stopped at a light under the freeway overpass when a homeless woman in a dirty red tracksuit approached the car with a ragged cardboard sign that read YOUR MAMA WOULD GIVE A DAMN . Shawna wondered how well that actually worked, if most people saw their mothers as pillars of generosity and therefore felt inspired to give. It was original, anyway, and it made her smile.
She dug around in her bag for a loose bill, with no success. Otto saw what she was doing and pulled out his wallet. “Is five enough?”
“Make it twenty,” she said. “I’ll pay you back.”
“She’s a junkie. See those sores on her neck.”
“And your point is?”
“I’m just sayin’.”
Shawna rolled down the window and held out the twenty. The woman took it without a word, then pulled up the leg of her sweatpants so she could stash the offering in her sock. Shawna caught a glimpse of putrid gray flesh, a constellation of sores. The woman’s face, by contrast, was a fiery red-brown, sun-ravaged and grimy. She looked to be
“Okay.” She smiled crookedly, loving the sentiment in spite of his wording. “I wanna ask you something first.”
“Shoot.”
“You know how lately I’ve been sort of disenchanted with the blog?”
“Not really.”
“Well . . . I have. I think it’s kinda run its course. I mean, I think I’ve done some good, but I’m tired of being Debbie Dildo, you know?”
Otto shrugged. “You’re good at it.”
“Thanks, but . . . it gets to be limiting after a while. I think I wanna open it up, talk about life in general . . . you know, the petty shit and the big issues we all have to deal with. Something substantive. I think my readers would follow me, and I would really—”
“Go for it. What’s stopping you?”
“Well . . . I need you to tell me it’s okay.”
“Why?”
“Because I might be writing about us. In part, at least.”
“Oh.” A cloud passed over his face. “Like . . . using my name and all?”
“Yeah, unless . . .” She decided to keep it light. “You’re not wanted for something in ten states, are you?”
He wouldn’t pick up on the gag. “I like my privacy, Shawna. I love what we have, but . . . I don’t know about sharing it with strangers.”
“You just performed on a pier with a ton of strangers.”
“No,” he said quietly. “That was Ottokar. Or Sammy sometimes. But it wasn’t me. That’s why I’m able to do it.”
That made sense, in a way, but she suspected his fears ran deeper than that. “I wouldn’t be writing about our sex life,” she said. “I wouldn’t be as . . . specific as—”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?” She was starting to feel hurt, and, worse yet, sounding that way. “Are we just not . . . that serious?”
Otto saw her mortification and grabbed her hand across the table. “Listen, ladylove . . . if we weren’t serious I wouldn’t give a shit what you put in that blog. I just don’t want to feel self-conscious about what we have. I don’t want to be weighing my words all the time. I don’t want to think of us as . . . you know . . . material.”
Anyone else who’d called her “ladylove” would have received, at the very least, a derisive snort, but Shawna found it sort of sweet. It was possible Otto had picked up that expression the summer he worked as a knight at the Renaissance Pleasure Faire, but she preferred to believe it had sprung, freshly minted, from his uncorrupted heart.
She decided not to press him further about the blog. He didn’t read it anyway, and they weren’t on record as being a couple. She could call him her boo or something similarly vague and still do the kind of writing she wanted to do. He was right about the potential for self-consciousness in such an enterprise. It was better just to let the words flow, as she always had, and let Otto be Otto. The less he knew the better, really.
O N THE WAY HOME TO the Mission, they were stopped at a light under the freeway overpass when a homeless woman in a dirty red tracksuit approached the car with a ragged cardboard sign that read YOUR MAMA WOULD GIVE A DAMN . Shawna wondered how well that actually worked, if most people saw their mothers as pillars of generosity and therefore felt inspired to give. It was original, anyway, and it made her smile.
She dug around in her bag for a loose bill, with no success. Otto saw what she was doing and pulled out his wallet. “Is five enough?”
“Make it twenty,” she said. “I’ll pay you back.”
“She’s a junkie. See those sores on her neck.”
“And your point is?”
“I’m just sayin’.”
Shawna rolled down the window and held out the twenty. The woman took it without a word, then pulled up the leg of her sweatpants so she could stash the offering in her sock. Shawna caught a glimpse of putrid gray flesh, a constellation of sores. The woman’s face, by contrast, was a fiery red-brown, sun-ravaged and grimy. She looked to be
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