Monday, March 13, 2006


Late last night the lights went out and I talked to WineTastingLesbian on my cellular phone and starred at the moon that glowed with such a strong light it illuminated my slopping backyard and the field of clover. I think WineTastingLesbian is beautiful and she is the kind of woman who I could have a kid with and sleep all night with I think. Not just because she is beautiful, but because I don't have to put up with all the shit that straight ladies give me. Sometimes I think straight women want to be lied too. I know that is a generalization that could be up for tons of critiques from feminist, cultural theorist and queer pinko problematic thrill seekers. But fuck it. Let's start with that sentence; and, let's end with that sentence, because I think WineTastingLesbian is really nice, hot in red lipstick and has had to face many of the challenges in making friends with the straight and gay world, just like me (except I have done it in three worlds). She has got the same battle scares as me. And in the end, does that not have some critical weight on my point-of-view? And in the end, is it not our relationships with people that transverse any ideas of sexuality or theoretical emancipation? I mean, how realistic is it to take politics to your fist instead of roses? I like the fact that WineTastingLesbian bought drinks for me on Saturday. There is something backwards about it, it normally goes the other way around. But she is not hitting me over my head with feminist rhetoric about how subversive it is, it just is. We just be. She knows her drinks. I know a bit about the world.

When we went to the Waffle House on Saturday night for a midnight snack I noticed that men and women were looking at her. I have to admit that it is a turn on for me. I love it when others look at the woman I am with, and even though me and WineTastingLesbian are not together I liked what I saw, and I like that others liked what I saw. She was really flirtatious, and she reminded me that I should be flirtatious and that was that. It was not an inward flirtation but an outward flirtation, with the environment. So, we were a little flirtatious with the waiter, who was this big beautiful greaser. He was like a young teddy bear or leather bear cub in training. He was sweet and docile with a mane of greasy brown hair and black caked under his very short fingernails. He moved very peacefully and asked me all the right questions.

"Would you like to order now?"

"Do you want me to put the order in now or wait for the rest of your party?"

Each question was done waiter to waiter, hyperspeed spirit to spirit contact. The sympathy that you feel seeing a waiter never leaves I think. You know what it is all about. Part of it is seduction. That is life, no? Seduction, food, selling, flirting.

Winetastinglesbian emerged from the bathroom, this guy was watching her all the way back. He was watching me too, trying to see what my reaction would be -- trying to see if were were brothers and sisters, fag and fag hag, just friends, cousins, etc. He was sizing me up trying to see if he could talk to her. I let him know that I knew he was looking at me, but went back to doing my little menu reading game, but clear that if he came over here to talk to her, I will rip his clavical from his torso. When Winetastinglesbian sat down we continued to talk. Tonight is the first time I saw her with lipstick. Maybe that is why I had a hard on. I told her to do her nails. If she does do them, then we are going to make babies.

When she got settled and ordered, we looked at the tall buttery looking men with their plump girlfriends. We looked at the butch 20 something girls giggling as this other guy walked around them. He was talking, touching and squeezing them, while the Alpha Bitch of the group talked about getting this pretty young womean next to her worked up for the evening. Immediately the other girls laughed, the boy blushed, but there was also a sense that he lost some patriarchal balance. These mares were already sired, he should approach another herd. After he left their booth he went to sit with the woman he came here with that evening. She was dark auburn and sophisticated. She read the Waffle House menu like she was picking a cut of beef or deciding if she should pick a red wine first. After a good 25 minutes, he went to go touch and talk to the women further down the counter. The stallion wore a dark blue cowboy pinstriped shirt with his top 3 buttons open. He had this very alabaster white skin, but it became fleshy and darker with more inspection. It was a combination of the hue of the shirt and his dark chest hair that made his skin look so pale at first.

Behind WineTastingLesbian was an older couple, they were talking the way Southern black folk talk. The way I talk and revert to talking when I am here. A level of gossip that is permissible in a way that it is not in Southern Germany despite the people of Southern Germany being far more nosey. It is the idea that gossip is done in the open here, in Germany it is done in secret and in whispers. Life her flows like butter and grits, in Germany it is compartmentalized like fenced in fields. Private discussions about you in Germany are designed to plan abuse and social alienation, in the South the smile is very big and the knife is delivered between the teeth, into the shoulder blade. You just need to see the eyes, that wink before a compliment, it is almost undetectable, it is your only given clue, it is covered with a pat on the back, it is the gossips way of saying "I am fucking you". Here you take the warning and fold it up and set your boundaries for defense or for the offensive. In Germany, you are not even given a chance to fight back, they will railroad you to the ground, revealing no emotion what so every, just that plain white paper sheet of arrogance. The company Trumpf comes to mind for Germany. The warehouses of LaVergne come to mind for the South.

Behind me were a group of young guys. I want to say they were from Laos but I was not sure. They were in their earlier twenties, late teens, smoking cigarettes and piled up like a bunch of bananas in a crate. In that booth, there must have been at leas five or six of them. Their eating and conversation were undetectable. Their delight in the world around them was displayed as a bubble gum colored aura that rose above them and protected them from all the spit fired drunk boys and girls around us. An environment painted mostly in black or white. Mostly drunk. Mostly hovering between high school age, to twenties, to thirties, to forties, to fifties. Their sexualities were mixed. It was that feeling that everyone knew how they wanted to take it. Sexual opinion like Waffle House coffee was everywhere. “Black.” “No Sugar.” “No Cream.” “Half and Half.” “Just Milk.” “Sweet and Low.” “Splenda.” “Equal.” “Blue packets.” “Pink Packets.” “White packets.” “Yellow packets.” “I normally don't do this, but since you don't have any of the Yellow Packets, I will use the Pink Packets.” “No Brown Sugar?” “We have some Raw Sugar.” “I like Raw Sugar.”

All these conversations were running through the air like radio waves. WineTastingLesbian and I just ate our waffles and coffee and eggs and steak and hash browns cool like that -- that jazz player cool life I used to know and had growing up here.

The truth behind our silence though was the fact that we had lost He-man. He came to the bar with us, but we could not find him at last call. I told WineTastingLesbian that he had smoked too much weed over the past 15 years and is fucked up. He is still on that Metu Neter and holistic oil rant. Not bad, but I was in that place in undergraduate, years ago. He has to find a place now, and not waver through life with his old girlfriend (Angryblacklesbian) protecting him. Nor should he leave the bar and not tell anyone where he is going? We just went to Waffle House and waited for his call.

But that is an incomplete story. I promise to tell you more about last Saturday Night.

So, I looked out onto the moonlight and we talked about work and her trip to Atlanta. I kept commenting on the lights being out, and she kept talking to me about the world that she lives in now. Bills and uncertainty. She started to fall asleep on the phone, as the moonlight keep bouncing off my backyard. I laid down on the couch, said an important sentence. Something I can't remember. There was silence. Then I asked if she was asleep. And she said yes. So, I let her go.

I got up. Turned on the lantern we have stored in the back for emergencies. Sat down and read. Then the lights came on an hour later. I completed one chapter in that time. I wish all the texts I have to read were that easy.

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