out thewindow while she was in the bathroom. Hey, whereâs my Hustler? Laurel gave her a lecture about how Hustler was gross, not suitable dyke pornography. We all started arguing about politics and this woman was definitely the target. She was for all the Wrong Things. Willa slumped on a chair looking rather autistic. Eventually she got up and sat by herself in the hallway. People were looking to me for an explanation. I shrugged. She wasnât my responsibility anymore. Someone finally called her a cab and she left without saying goodbye.
I spent the night at Irisâs. Her futon was beneath a windowsill that these pigeons lived on. They made loud cooing noises the whole night and I was enchanted. You Have Pigeons, I said. It was like being in the wilderness or something, sleeping beside this pack of loud birds. The awkwardness of not knowing someoneâs body, I had no idea what to do. I shoved my fingers into her. You can do it harder , she said, and I did. These girls. I couldnât believe I wasnât hurting her. I remembered Petra, the last place my fist had been. The vagina is not a delicate place, I was learning this slowly. I worked my hand into Iris, who sucked and chewed on the inky red heart that marked the place my real heart churned. She was so intense. I feel like youâre squeezing my heart , she said. I pressed myself against her and bit her neck, my hand grasping. Things with Willa had been much more intellectual than sexual, so this was a nice switch.
We must have slept only an hour or two when Irisâs roommates woke us up. There was a brunch, and then we were all supposed to ride with Dykes on Bicycles in the Pride Parade. I was still drunk when I woke up, sick but with all this hazy energy. I had to go back home to change. Laurel had spent the night on the extra futon in Irisâs kitchen and she was still drunk too. We stumbled home through the Mission together, stopping for coffee and carrot juice and a bagel I could hardly get down. Out in front of Esta Noche, drag queens were teetering into a decorated convertible. Their makeup was detailed and flawless. They must have gotten up at dawn. Back at my house I found a message from Willa on the answering machine, saying venomous, unbelievably mean things. It was horrible, the things she was saying. Why donât you write a fucking poem about it! I was so upset, I sat on the toilet crying and Laurel assured me that yes, my ex-girlfriend was crazy but I should just get over it because we were late for the parade. I got up and wiped my face and changed into my marvelous Pride Day outfit, a yellow terry cloth sundress, strapless, with rainbow elastic that held it to my body. I had big purple hair, a green studded collar and roller skates. I looked insane. The guy at the BART station wouldnât let me on wearing the skates so I had to ride the train in my socks.
Market Street was mobbed, it was wonderful. I was overwhelmed with tender feelings for my community, but I also hadnât slept and was seriously worried about not making it through the parade. Laurel had her bike and no shirt on. She had stickers sayingThis Is Sexist stuck over her nipples. We waited at the front of the parade and watched Dykes on Bikes roar by, then jumped in with Dykes on Bicycles, pedaling behind the motorcycles like little sisters. Ashley had a milk crate rigged to the back of her bike. I grabbed it and she pulled me the whole length of Market Street. We were a fabulous team, people were cheering. I managed not to wipe out, though it was scary going over the grates. Iris was there on her bike, topless, turning around and grinning at me. Willa was also there, pretending I didnât exist. Fine. If she wanted to act like a child, that was fine. Down by the water where the parade ended I drank more beer, got stoned, managed to digest a veggie burger and some rice, and left. I went home to change into something less ridiculous, shoes without wheels.
I spent the night at Irisâs. Her futon was beneath a windowsill that these pigeons lived on. They made loud cooing noises the whole night and I was enchanted. You Have Pigeons, I said. It was like being in the wilderness or something, sleeping beside this pack of loud birds. The awkwardness of not knowing someoneâs body, I had no idea what to do. I shoved my fingers into her. You can do it harder , she said, and I did. These girls. I couldnât believe I wasnât hurting her. I remembered Petra, the last place my fist had been. The vagina is not a delicate place, I was learning this slowly. I worked my hand into Iris, who sucked and chewed on the inky red heart that marked the place my real heart churned. She was so intense. I feel like youâre squeezing my heart , she said. I pressed myself against her and bit her neck, my hand grasping. Things with Willa had been much more intellectual than sexual, so this was a nice switch.
We must have slept only an hour or two when Irisâs roommates woke us up. There was a brunch, and then we were all supposed to ride with Dykes on Bicycles in the Pride Parade. I was still drunk when I woke up, sick but with all this hazy energy. I had to go back home to change. Laurel had spent the night on the extra futon in Irisâs kitchen and she was still drunk too. We stumbled home through the Mission together, stopping for coffee and carrot juice and a bagel I could hardly get down. Out in front of Esta Noche, drag queens were teetering into a decorated convertible. Their makeup was detailed and flawless. They must have gotten up at dawn. Back at my house I found a message from Willa on the answering machine, saying venomous, unbelievably mean things. It was horrible, the things she was saying. Why donât you write a fucking poem about it! I was so upset, I sat on the toilet crying and Laurel assured me that yes, my ex-girlfriend was crazy but I should just get over it because we were late for the parade. I got up and wiped my face and changed into my marvelous Pride Day outfit, a yellow terry cloth sundress, strapless, with rainbow elastic that held it to my body. I had big purple hair, a green studded collar and roller skates. I looked insane. The guy at the BART station wouldnât let me on wearing the skates so I had to ride the train in my socks.
Market Street was mobbed, it was wonderful. I was overwhelmed with tender feelings for my community, but I also hadnât slept and was seriously worried about not making it through the parade. Laurel had her bike and no shirt on. She had stickers sayingThis Is Sexist stuck over her nipples. We waited at the front of the parade and watched Dykes on Bikes roar by, then jumped in with Dykes on Bicycles, pedaling behind the motorcycles like little sisters. Ashley had a milk crate rigged to the back of her bike. I grabbed it and she pulled me the whole length of Market Street. We were a fabulous team, people were cheering. I managed not to wipe out, though it was scary going over the grates. Iris was there on her bike, topless, turning around and grinning at me. Willa was also there, pretending I didnât exist. Fine. If she wanted to act like a child, that was fine. Down by the water where the parade ended I drank more beer, got stoned, managed to digest a veggie burger and some rice, and left. I went home to change into something less ridiculous, shoes without wheels.
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