When I saw Ronna, I knew there was still an attraction between us, but I want to – and Ronna does – keep it at bay. I need to let her explore relationships with other guys like Jordan, whom she seems to like. Ronna and I did hug tightly when I left. Today’s Gay Pride parade was to begin at noon, and this year I didn’t want to miss it.
“I need someone soon,” Josh said as we drove home. “I can’t live without a woman.” “Sure you can,” I said. “No, I can’t,” Josh said. “I know,” I told him. “I was just trying to see if I could fool you.”
Oddly enough, we passed the purple-haired Torridzone Igloo and his inseparable friend Scarlatina Lust on Macdougal Street just a few minutes after I’d showed Tom a copy of their magazine Smegma. I told them we were going to see Crad Kilodney.
Wes called at 3 PM and said, “Your book is out,” and I drove to Manhattan, arriving at the Taplinger office just before 4 PM. “It looks like a real book,” I said. “We’ve cleverly disguised it,” Wes said.
It used to be so simple: everyone who had long hair, smoked grass and was against the war was your friend. We were going to change the world. No one in our generation would wear suits or work for fascist companies or compromise.
In class today, I had my veterans write on legalizing marijuana. They laughed when I suggested they try writing the essay while stoned.
Just getting older seems to help. I am still insecure, but I no longer worry so much about things which used to bother the hell out of me. I don’t much care if people don’t like me. I’m not as afraid to express my opinion. I don’t worry as much about making a good impression.
The girl at the Brook Theater charged me student prices; I gave her $3 for one ticket and she handed me back change after glancing at me. it’s been years since I’ve gotten in as under 18. This, following the University of Pennsylvania reception when I got mistaken for a high school senior, makes me wonder about my identity.
Do people actually think I’m a male prostitute? The article almost made me feel that I wasn’t reading about myself.
Dad came into my bedroom at 10 AM today with the Post, turned to page 16, and there was my byline and my winning entry – just as I wrote it, except the typesetter had fucked up the end the end of the story.