Dennis Cooper sent me the book of Gerard Malanga’s that I ordered and wrote a nice letter. Dennis has got some poems coming out in Gaysweek and is doing a series of teen idol cards with pornographic vignettes on the back, all packaged up with gum in a special wrapper.
On the bottom of the ripped-out loose-leaf paper, there was a red lipstick outline of a woman’s lips with the words “¡Este beso es para te, amor mio!” And it was signed “Tu enamorada, Anónima.”
Ronna said, “Just when I think I’m getting deeply involved with you, you show me why I shouldn’t.” And that’s good, as far as I’m concerned. At this point I’d almost rather be friends and forget about sex.
Ronna admitted that she is jealous of him even if he’s totally straight; she’s worried that I’m going to become Manhattan-trendy and start shooting heroin. She said she’s been wanting to ask me if I’m in love with him. “I am, a little,” I told her.
Wesley phoned this morning to say they had a meeting at Taplinger yesterday and they’ve decided to publish my book in the spring. “That means we’ve got to move fast,” he told me. I can barely believe it. When Wes first mentioned them having a meeting, I thought surely they’d decide not to do the book at all.
Ronna told John she was in love with him and he asked her if I would consider sleeping with him, too. (I told her to tell him I might.)
Susan Lawton and I had lunch at a new expensive Broadway place, The Saloon, where the waiters were on roller skates. When I ordered Perrier, she said, “Ah, I was right when I assumed you were an ex-alcoholic.”
Marc’s car was found in a lot filled with wrecks right on East 56th Street and Foster Avenue – the very place Marc told me was a haven for stolen cars when we passed it last night.
Janice said that she can’t get critics from Manhattan to come to the Downtown Cultural Center exhibits because no one believes any worthwhile art could possibly come out of Brooklyn.
Stacy finally went to her dreamland, California, and returned terribly disappointed. She had always set up unreasonable expectations of some kind of paradise out there. Mason says now she sees her disenchantment as a metaphor for her whole life.