Come Back (17 page)

I'm going drinking tonight. And after that I'm going to do lots of poppers. I'm going to get lots of strange boys who remind me of my boyfriend to sit on my face. Sometimes I can imagine it's
him
sitting on my face. That's the closest thing I know to love. My boyfriend even said that he may never pee on me again. Who cares? I'll have a nice night out. And maybe I'll die in the hot tub. That's where I'd really like to die, with the smell of some strange boy's butt in my lips. Some butt that makes me cry — because I can imagine it's the butt of the boy who will never love me the way I want to be loved. Oh, by the way, if I do die, can you tell that nice lady that edited the journal that I just wasn't “nuanced” enough for this life? I'd really appreciate that.

Dash's melodrama suits his personality and his career. His plays are filled with screaming drag queens and pathetic dramaturgical attempts to create real female characters, who are of course nothing but drag queens themselves. Thank God the drag queens don't do me anymore. It was a kind of homage. But ultimately it became fromage. Am I being flip enough for you? Dash King was a footnote to history — if that. Like all those at the beginning of this century who were still flogging identity politics and bemoaning its demise, he became obsolete. But even this passage — where he bemoans the death of David Prent's dream — is symbolic of an era. It is an era of extreme self-delusion. This is a man who believed that Shakespeare was not Shakespeare. He could also convince himself that he was exemplifying the masochism of Shakespeare's sonnets by remaining in a sick, loveless relationship. He was a man who relished the ultimate humiliation. He routinely searched for the aroma of the anus of the man he loved in the anus of strangers. In terms of Dash King, there is no “there” there. This is only a lost soul who has left reality behind.

My theory is that he involved himself so deeply in identity politics that he lost any sense of who he actually was or what he wanted. The narrative he fell into (like Alice down the rabbit hole) was that he would be a tragic figure and suffer for his love. Is this not something like Baudrillard's hyperreal? Baudrillard's notion that Disneyland was America — was that not a particularly camp, homosexual notion? How much reality is there in valourizing a library devoted to the asshole — except as a futile reaction against the reality of the homophobia he was all too powerless to defy? Yet Dash's obsession with identity made the whole situation even worse than it might have been.

Is it not possible that post-structuralism itself is just, in its intellectual reality, a bunch of fags denying that any “there” is there? Remember that Gertrude Stein, a very gay lesbian, invented that catchy phrase. Well, Gertrude and the fags that followed her have been desperately trying to convince the heterosexual world that their lives had transcended that fantasy. They fervently hoped that marriage and traditional families — which they were excluded from at the time — were constructs.

Dash despised Foucault for, it seems to me, very silly reasons: identity politics mostly. But he would find my critique of Foucault homophobic. It's too bad he can't come back from the grave to argue with me. I would say, “Relax; have sex with whoever you want. If you had lived long enough, like me, you would be able to do that. In the future, in cyberspace, all things are possible.”

Listen, I want to tell you something. It's a minor thing, very minor. It's not really related to my analysis. But, of course, I must tell you everything.

I remember looking for an analyst during my “comeback.” My first therapist was in awe of me — much in the way that Dash imagines that therapists are in awe of him. But Dash shows his superficiality and banality when he suggests that he couldn't have a therapist because he was too famous for one. On the contrary, Dash's actual lack of fame was his big disappointment — but one he would never own up to. He was not internationally famous, so there would have been no reason for a psychoanalyst, psychologist or therapist of any ilk to be in awe of him. But it's more than that. Analysts are
only
in awe of great people. I'm not saying that I am great, in the sense of being an amazing talent. Although it's true some people seem to think I am. I can't think of myself that way, of course. And shouldn't. And don't ever now. But there is such a thing as a “great” person — and by that I mean large. That is what I always was — too large for this world. Dash suggests that he was too much. But that too-muchness — this can be gleaned from his letters — is easily contained. It is even more easily parodied.

On the contrary, some of the therapists I visited literally ran from me, frightened, tails between their legs. I had one lock me out of his office. True, I was high on something at the time. I thought it was very funny when it happened; we got into an argument and I just wouldn't let up. I had to have it out with him. He was terrified. This didn't have anything to do with me being famous. It had everything to do with me being “great” — not just a little “too much,” but
really too much for this world
.

Anyway, my very first therapist said something I will never forget. I think I was worried because Sid, in his effort to support a cleaned-up but very obese version of moi, desperately wanted to know everything about me. He endeavoured to peer into every corner of my life. And, at the time, that included searching my chest of drawers.

Yes, I kept a little stash of uppers in a bra — one I never wore because it was way too tight. The bra had been a functioning part of my wardrobe when I was way too skinny. I asked the doctor rather ingenuously if Sid had the right to look in my drawers simply because he was my husband. I remember he smiled indulgently. Little did he know that, with every word he said, he was enabling my overpowering addiction. I could find enablement anywhere. He said to me, “In every marriage, there is something that is hidden between two people. My father was a very mild-mannered, quiet sort of person, who was dominated by my mother.” (Another one of my special talents — I could always get a therapist to end up telling me his troubles instead of listening to mine. I certainly didn't deliberately try to turn the tables on them, but I am very sympathetic, I have a good sense of humour and I love people. Therapists are so attracted to and intimidated by me that they find it more comfortable, ultimately, to talk about themselves.) He went on: “And my mother really did control my father, and he was very quiet and passive. But after he died we did find some things hidden in the closet, something that belonged to my father that none of us, even my mother, knew about.”

It was an ancient, tiny knife.

We all must have something that is simply ours, something that is just private. Yes, even my therapist's mother's henpecked husband had private places. But I cannot hide anything from you. It's all open. This has much to do with the fact that long ago you accepted me unconditionally. I will never forget that. For someone like me — who never knew unconditional love — receiving it, finally, is utterly overwhelming. And even though our romance was never sexual, it might as well have been. I really do wish I was a lesbian, or was lesbianic — a more proper twenty-first-century appellation. No, I must tell you everything. And what I am going to say — I'm sure it will irritate you. But isn't that what happens when people love, even if they don't have sex with each other? But you will always come back. I know you will. Anyway, this is the small thing. I don't know how you could not think it small. I don't know how we could be that out of sync.

Allworth convinced me to take another trip to the Tranquility Spa.

You are right to suggest he is a bad influence. This is something I remember from so long ago. Boys — usually homosexuals — always love to indulge my every whim because they are in love with me. Or my fame. Allworth is not in love with my fame, though he knows of it. But I think he finds me divinely entertaining. He gave me that sly look and, to his credit, that sly look absolutely gives me permission to say no. There was a little giggle. “Would you like to go again to the Tranquility Spa?” At first I said, “I don't think so.” And he said, “That's fine, I don't want to force the idea on you. I have no reason to go there and no reason to take you there. I simply thought you might want to go.” And I could see that he really was thinking of my feelings, which immediately made me realize I wasn't being judged or pressured. “You know, I don't think I would mind going again,” I said.

I don't know why I agreed to go. Perhaps it was just that Allworth was so easygoing. And not only didn't I feel pressured, but I also didn't feel observed. It is one of the things that makes me sure that Allworth isn't star-struck. I mean, he is, somewhat. But star-struck isn't his ultimate attitude. I simply delight him. I wish I was more attracted to him, but I'm not. (For, as you know, I'm quite capable of persuading even the most recalcitrant homo to submit to my lips.) I think he might have sex with me, though he prefers men. I think he would have sex with anyone, especially if it was someone he liked. And if he thought it would please them.

You know, for some people, offering sex is like offering coffee or dessert. That's what so many don't understand. Sex was often like that for me. Other people — those like June Allyson — offered more innocent fare: a hot-cross bun or candy from a pink dish. I offered blow jobs. I didn't then, nor do I now, find my behaviour abhorrent or disgusting. In fact, I find people who don't understand the sheer practicality of sex simply rude. It is, after all, a bodily function. Many a man was nonplussed by the suggestion of fellatio — partly because women aren't supposed to do such a thing. But you know, it often happens. And once they get over the novelty of my taking the initiative, they can breathe a sigh of relief. What would happen if sex was as normal as eating? Being guilty about sex makes as much sense as being guilty about an eating binge. These days there is no reason to be guilty. There are too many solutions: the fat can be sucked out; a pill can make the pounds disappear. And it is rare that anything we eat is
actually
fattening. Ingeniously, food just looks and tastes that way now. So why feel guilty? “Oh, I've just done a terrible thing . . . I've eaten.” But eating is something we all need to do. But then there's: “I've just done a horrible thing, I've given a man a blow job as routinely as June Allyson might have offered him a croissant.” Don't these statements seem ridiculous?

Allworth understands this, even though we haven't talked about it in so many words. We do discuss sex. That is, he enjoys relating his exploits without bragging or being distasteful. He talks filth, but he does not aggrandize himself. Sexual anecdotes only disgust me if they smell of boasting. So it was easy to say yes to Allworth's suggestion that we return to the Tranquility Spa. Allworth is also very indulgent about how long it takes me to get out of the house and into a cab. And what I really value is that he continues talking to me even when people are horrified or unduly perturbed by my shape. At least when I'm with him I forget momentarily the horror that is my appearance. I had taken the liberty of wearing a little black dress. It was, in fact, a Chanel. They are timeless, of course, but it's something I usually don't dare wear. Not because the dress is revealing — rather because it seems a little presumptuous for something so ugly to encase itself in something so beautiful.

When we entered the Tranquility Spa all was casual; no one took any notice of us. As per usual we were not the most grotesque beings present. I recognized some of the old crowd. The woman with the cantilevered face was in her usual place, chatting up the nippleless bartender whose gender we had not yet determined. (I know we're not supposed to care — but we still wonder, don't we?) Off in a corner, the handless man was nursing a drink in a bowl. He was pushing it about on the table with his stumps. Now and then he would dip his head and lap at it . . . It was very sad. As I sat down at the bar with Allworth, I thought of how easy it might be for the Handless Man if the Cantilevered Lady were to sit down with him. After all, she could lift the bowl and pour it. But it was not to be that simple. Life, human relationships, are not that simple. It's not simply about getting a hand when you need one. Unfortunately, there is shame, repulsion, revulsion and sexual
preference.
And the Cantilevered Lady is a handful, pardon the pun. This is almost preposterously evident.

As we slowly made our way from the door to the bar, the dilemma was whether or not to sit close to the Cantilevered Lady. If we were to sit beside her, it would seem too familiar, an invitation to discussion. If we were to sit too far away, it might be viewed as insulting. I chose a seat about halfway down the bar. Allworth, recognizing that I had forged a solution to this sticky predicament, helped me into my chair.

Once I got there I happened to glance at the door to the backroom. I noticed that the Doll Boy was standing there, doing nothing really — looking rather listless. There was a creature sitting at another table, all alone, at the other end of the room. It was not easy to see this creature because of the lighting. This made me want to swivel myself in the chair, for the angle at which I was sitting offered an indirect view. But once I have sat, as you well know, there is very little possibility of me actually wriggling around. The creature seemed to be male. But, as I say, there is no telling how any of these creatures started out. He seemed a neutral sort of figure. His movements were neutral as he pulled the glass to his face and sipped. The light was falling over him in such a way that he constantly moved in and out of it. In fact, the light was flashing off him. I couldn't help looking at him again and again. But if the creature had caught me, it wouldn't have mattered, because the angle at which I was seated veiled the fact that I was staring. After a moment or two, I realized he had two faces.