DRIVE (Part 3)

"If I'd written all the truth I knew for the past ten years, about 600 people - including me - would be rotting in prison cells from Rio to Seattle today. Absolute truth is a very rare and dangerous commodity in the context of professional journalism." Hunter S. Thompson

"I want this to last forever." That's what he said as I went down on him, and I was beginning to wonder how long it would take to end the adventure. I'd taken it as far as I wanted. Guilt was setting in quick and my father was due home in an hour. When I heard his words my eyes went wide and my brain reviewed any reasonable excuse I could find to get him off and out.
I've always reserved the truth for emergencies. When all else fails, the truth is your last and best chance for salvation. When I was a teen and lies were a reflexive response, the truth was always there to bail me out when all else failed. This was no different. My dad was headed home, time was closing in, and so I told him the truth: "My dad will be home in twenty minutes."
Half-truths are just as effective.
The guy responded immediately as I disengaged my mouth from his penis. He began jerking off furiously and looked at me to do the same, which I did. I guess I wasn’t doing a good enough job because he pushed my hand aside and took over. I'd seen enough movies that I knew what he wanted to happen, but I asked anyway: "Where should I shoot." I remember his voice, low and smooth: "All over me." Rubbing his belly with one hand as he jerked with the other, giving control back to me, we both shot simultaneously. What a let down. I'd taken such a big risk only to climax under my own power. I felt like a man who risked everything for nothing and I watched him rub our semen into his skin.
In an ironic moment of clarity, it struck how in love men are with their body fluids. Unless they’re getting thousands of dollars per scene, most women hate semen, and who can blame him. Watching that man bath in our stuff wasn’t pretty. I honestly wondered what the big deal was, and I was grossed out when he didn’t ask for a towel to clean him.
He dressed himself, kissed my cheek, we hugged, and he old me to call him, but I never did. Despite being raised in the age of HIV my mind never considered I was putting myself at risk, not until that door closed and the sound was like Big Ben tolling the end. I put it out my mind as best I could go over every possibility for why this guy didn't have HIV. I reviewed every HIV infomercial and any "he doesn't look sick" stereotype I could think of, but nothing really worked. I got on my knees and prayed for God's forgiveness, swearing that I would never do it again.
I called HIV hotlines for information, but only became more confused. Hotlines don't deal in the truth; they dabble in fear and possibilities. I was looking for definite answers, but they wouldn't give them to me. "Can a person get HIV from oral sex?"
"You can get it from any unsafe activity."
"I know, but can you get it from oral sex?"
"Yes."
"Oh Fuck!" I thought to myself. "How do you get it? Who's at greater risk, the giver or receiver?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? Do you know the percentage of HIV patients who were infected from oral vs. anal sex? Is anal sex the primary avenue of infection? Don't I need an open sore or bleeding gum to contract the virus orally?"
"I can send you a pamphlet---"
I don't want a fucking pamphlet! I just sucked on a man's cock and I'm gonna die!"
They were no help at all.
I spent days trying not to think about dying. Every day I inspected my body from head to toe looking for lesions. I took my temperature praying I didn't have a fever. I ate excessively to prove I still had my appetite. And, I lived in fear of diarrhea. What I didn't know or realize was I had already lost a tremendous amount weight already. A friend named James who was a Buddhist turned me on to a diet where you manage what you ate based on which foods complimented each other. He told me some foods go better together, makes the digestive process more efficient and reducing the amount of fat the body collects. I stopped eating meat with any kind of starch and at beef solo. That's right, I was Atkins before there was such a thing. He also told me how drinking while you eat reduces the effectiveness of the stomach's acids, also contributing to increased fat storage. I stopped drinking during dinner and mostly drank water. Every night, after KTLA's hour block of Cheers was over at midnight, I'd grab my Walkman, dance mix tapes, and audio books of Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles and I'd go for a walk until 3am. I never even noticed how my body was transforming. My pants were big and baggy anyway, so I had no idea I was dropping pounds. Not until I went to my father's restaurant and a waitress noticed I was smaller and very pale. I never went out during the day, my already light skin turned as white as a black man can get. Even more so when your a nice light caramel.
I freaked. I thought this was it. I was going to die. As horrible as I thought my life was I didn't want to die. No matter how much I tried to look at the bright side of things, nothing defeated my desire to live. I'd already tried several times to kill myself in various ways. Once, I tried to hang myself. Another time, I took a samurai sword Doc gave me, put the butt to the floor, the point to my stomach and leaned on it as hard as I could, putting my weight on it a little at a time, but always stopping before the big push. I'd put knives to my wrists and dared myself to fly off buildings. I wanted to die, or I thought I did. But, here it, beautiful death, right in front of me and I couldn't look her in the face.
I'm not a coward. I'm just afraid the day will come when I'll have to prove it.
I asked my father to get me an appointment with a doctor. He was immediately suspicious of my reasons. "What is it? What are you afraid you have?" I shrugged it off with a quip and called a clinic where the doc agreed to see me the same day. I told the nurse I wanted a physical, but what I really wanted was an HIV test. I sat through the whole thing in a daze, devising a segue from "I hope my cholesterol is okay" to "I need to know if I have AIDS." I think the doc knew what was up because I didn't have to even ask for the consent form, he just gave it to me. "Standard procedure for new patients.” he said. I asked when the results would be back. He said it takes a week. I got them in three days. That call was the only time I've ever been happy to answer the phone in my life. I made him repeat the results three times, then I repeated it, then I made him repeat it again. Negative.
I prayed to God to save me. I got on my knees, crying, begging Him to save my ass. Did He? How knows, but I promised I'd never repeat the same mistake again and I wasn't going to tempt fate.
A week later, I sucked my second dick.
TO BE CONTINUED

DRIVE (Part 2)

But, things really started getting confusing for me. Even in my head as I try to remember how things occurred, I don’t remember how they happened, just that they did happen. I don’t know how or why, but I got my hands on copies of Jon-Jon’s gay porn movies. I can’t even imagine what excuse I must have given for wanting to see them. But, I did and I copied them for myself. Watching gay porn was even more exciting than straight movies. For one, watching it felt really dirty. Take the male guilt of watching regular porn and amplify that by a hundred. It felt taboo and forbidden. I’d watch it late, in the dark; petrified my father would wake up and see me with it. But, that wasn’t the only thing exciting about it. I liked what I was watching.

Gay porn is different in that the situations presented are more likely to happen. What are the odds that a pizza delivery boy would knock on some blonde’s door and next find himself in a one-man orgy with a sorority house? But, it was very possible that a guy taking a shower after working out, looking over at the next guy and start something up. The one that really stuck in my head and excited me was this scenario of two guys in an adult theater who end up masturbating themselves and then each other. Later, another guy shows up and goes down on both of them. Gay sex was so accessible. Just like the Eddie Murphy joke, you could play basketball with a guy, have a couple of beers, then go home and rub one out or shoot one off together. I used to laugh at that, but there I was getting off on it years later. Yeah, I touched myself and masturbated to gay porn. Once I did that, I guess having sex with a man was only a matter of time.

I remember why I stopped going to the bars with Jon-Jon. If I have my order of events correct, it was when he got himself a girlfriend. There was this teenage girl living in Jon-Jon’s condo complex with her little brother. She was sixteen or seventeen and seemed to come out of nowhere all of a sudden. First, Jon-Jon was hanging out with her. Then, they seemed to get much heavier and physical. Next I knew she was his girlfriend. I was pissed off and jealous, but not because Jon-Jon had no more use for me. More because a gay man had achieved what I always wanted. A girlfriend. A white, blue-eyed, blonde girlfriend. Their relationship didn’t last too long, but as it was going on, I distanced myself from Jon-Jon as much as possible. Then it ended. It wasn’t Jon-Jon’s only experience with a woman, but I think it was something he had to do to confirm who he was. You’d have to ask him how it happened and why.

I found out about the split a while after it happened because I hadn’t seen him in a long time. When I went to see him out of the blue, I ended up at the girl’s house and she told me what happened. Basically, Jon-Jon had dumped her for a guy. That night, Jon-Jon wasn’t home, so I spent my time with the girl. I was flirting and when she walked me out we ended up kissing. I’d broken the golden rule all guys live by, but I didn’t think it counted because Jon-Jon was gay. Certainly, that had to be an exception. I started walking home and looked to my right, into the complex’s parking garage, and saw a dark figure looking back at me. I looked closer, and it was Jon-Jon. I waived at him, but he didn’t respond. I knew what was going on. He must have seen me kissing the girl. But, he couldn’t be pissed about that. He’s gay, and they broke up. I later found out he was very pissed about that. Nothing ever started up with the girl. Jon-Jon and I eventually got back into each other’s lives. And, last I knew, the girl became a lesbian with her best friend.

From then on, my going to gay clubs with Jon-Jon was against my will. He always had to guilt me into it. Or, just plain get mad at me. He entered into his first serious relationship and vanished for months. This was the beginning of a pattern; he would enter and leave my life based on his relationship status. His first real lover died from cancer. The second was “Dug-Dug”, an accountant who took care of Jon-Jon in every way imaginable. Jon-Jon eventually moved out of his father’s home and in with Dug-Dug who became like a father financially. It was then, when Jon-Jon was on one of his excursions in the “land of love”, that I went on my own expedition into the unknown.

It started in my 19th year and ended before my 21st. Often, it’s not a good thing to leave me alone for a long time. I get to thinking about things, dangerous things.

The first thing I did was asking my father for a telephone in my room and I knew exactly what I was going to do with it. Once that was in, I went to Boys’ Town and grabbed a Frontiers Magazine, the gay equivalent of the Weekly. In the back were personal ads for sex. I picked up a copy of LA Express, a paper where LA prostitutes advertise their services, many of them she-males. I never understood how a city with laws against prostitution could allow such a paper, but I was happy for it. From one of those sources, I came across a gay phone line, 976-WOLF, and I called it. I listened to various sex ads in my area and then I placed one. My phone rang off the hook all night, and that same night that I met my first male partner.

I don’t remember his name. He was black, skinny, but taller than me. An Air Force officer recently discharged. Our first conversation was nice, it was almost like we were two guys just chatting it up until the topic went in certain directions that broke the illusion. He came over the next day while my dad was at work. I remember he wore funky disco sunglasses, tight blue jeans, and a waist bag where the earphones from his Walkman wrapped around his back to his ears.

We sat in my room for a while, looking at All My Children and vamping over Erica Cain. I was nervous, but excited. This was the dirty underbelly of sex. I was on the verge of something taboo, forbidden, and that excited me. The anticipation was uncontrollable and I began to shake violently, something I still do today when I’m sexually anxious. I think he made the first move, kissing me on the lips. It was weird. The difference was immediate. This was not a girl and there’s no way I could pretend myself through it. As he moaned the bother went away and it became bearable. Not good or nice, I was just able to get through it. His response fed into something not sexual, egotistical maybe, but not sexual. I was doing something right, someone was getting off on me and I liked it. What I’d always wanted from a girl I was getting from this man. My kissing became more aggressive and he made another first move, grabbing my crotch. I was more surprised by my reaction; I was erect and responding to him. It felt good. And, putting my hand on his crotch, feeling the bulge in his tight jeans excited me even more.

I wonder if my pleasure was masturbatory because I touch myself today in the same way I touched him. I liked the feel of it beneath the jeans. The shape. And, its strength. He was much bigger than I was. I'd discovered for myself the myth about men of color was very true. Long story short, we went down on one another, but it wasn't as I expected. My turn was disappointing. Here I had dreamed of this, getting blown. It didn't matter anymore who did it, just that it got done. I'd had it from a woman and it was horrible. Now, I was on the verge of experiencing what I was told was the major positive of being with a man, because who could know a man's equipment better, right? The only word to describe how it felt is "wrong." It felt wrong. I couldn't even look at him because it was a man I was looking at. I closed my eyes and tried to enjoy it that way, but it didn't work. Sure, he did more, but there was a tenderness that was missing. That's when it got really hard to finish. Everything about a man is harsh, hard, quick and forceful. Women, no matter the level of skill, are soft, slow, and tender. The word "wrong" just kept repeating in my head over and over and I fought back tears because, at that moment, I knew I had hit a bottom and there was no coming back from it. I'd crossed a line. From that day on there would always be this "option", a "possibility" that wasn't there before. If I could do this now, I could do it again later.

I stopped him when it became obvious that I wasn't going to climax, put him on his back and went all the way. There was no going back now. I couldn't get out of this. What would I say: "Sorry, but this isn't what I thought it would be and I'm done." I honestly felt bad for the guy because I had misled him. I didn't tell him he was my first or that I was straight. I played it gay all the way and now I had to go somewhere most men outside of prison can’t imagine. But I liked it. I mimicked the women in each porn I'd ever seen. Soon, I got into it. His response to me was enticing. The more he squirmed, the more I wanted to see what I could make him do next. The pleasure I got from it was pure power and validation. It was like hitting that fly ball in little league, the only ball I hit that went outfield and had everyone on his or her feet. It was the same as hearing my father say he's proud of me, or having my friends pat me on the back for an accomplishment. Just having someone tell me something good about myself. I was getting that feeling as this man squirmed and called me his baby.

TO BE CONTINUED

DRIVE (Part 1)

PRELUDE

How long has it been?

A month? Two?

Well, I'm back by popular demand, even though I don't feel like being here. One of my kids brought a bug home and I was doing well against it until Sunday night when I rubbed one out and woke up the next day with a scratchy throat. But, JG is eagerly waiting to read something and I realize ever since I left the CTO I really haven't been doing much of anything, except enjoying the technological advancements in home entertainment via digital video recording.

So, there's nothing really new to report. Stuff has happened, but nothing I consider entertaining of having any worth mentioning here.

Therapy is progressing well, but it doesn't take much to know that I'm not my biggest fan. Still, it's nice to unload on someone other than this void they call a blog page. Dr. Shrinker still sits in her chair as I rattle on for forty-five minutes without stopping, but she does interject here and there to share a thought. The last two times I've seen her, I could swear she was dosing off on me. Her eyes start to droop and I wonder if she's listening to anything I'm saying. Of course, being who I am, I don't bother to get offended and just keep talking, hoping she’s getting everything. In my last session, I came clean about my same sex experiences, how they started and why. But she didn't seem interested in them. Instead, she focused on my racial prejudice against my own people and how that made me feel.

The one thing that sucks about therapy is, you spend all this time opening wounds, and they just stay open until the doctor decides to sow them shut again. I feel like shit after every session because it seems so pointless. I know what I am. I know why I am that way, but it won't change anything. Not my wife or my life. My "illness" is progressing to a point where I don't think I really care for a cure anymore because the "problem", if mastered, is more enjoyable.

One Saturday night, I sat up in my bed. The wife and kids were asleep and I stared out the window, painfully aware that I've never been loved by a woman in the same way that I love someone. I've also been the aggressor in my relationships, never the prize. Doesn't matter if I play hard to get or not, I'm always the one, the only one, to make a move. I can't describe the depths of despair I sunk to that night. I was ready to chuck my entire life down the toilet. The desire to find a woman who would love me the way I want was so intense I felt I was holding onto my family as if they were a ledge atop a two hundred foot drop and gravity was pulling me down with such force that I could almost feel my fingers losing their grip. I knew what I was feeling was wrong, some unattainable “unicorn” that may not exist. More so, I knew I didn't want to lose my family, not over this, some high school fantasy still unfulfilled. That didn't change what I wanted. It didn't stop my mind from imagining a woman out there, somewhere, who'd love me in the passionately. Someone who wanted me in the same ways I wanted her. Except, I wouldn't have to ask for it. I wouldn't have to beg. It would come like a flood or unstoppable hurricanes that I couldn’t shield myself from, nor would I want to.

I woke my wife up from her sleep. I admit it was a very selfish act, disturbing her rest after an entire day of motherhood just to berate her. Just to tell her how she failed me, threatening her with divorce. I'm a sick puppy, I know this, but there is a method. I'm not a cold son of a bitch. I keep thinking if I tell her these things, no matter how disappointing and hurtful, she’ll heart me. A light bulb will appear over her head and she'll finally see things the way I do. She'll transform into someone she never was to begin with and give me the selfish love I crave. But, it never works out that way. There's no epiphany, no revelation. She listens, and either agrees with me and considers divorce or says, "I told you so. You knew what I was like when you married me." Then, she’ll cry.

Confession time: I like to make my wife cry because it's one of the few times I actually feel like she loves me.

My wife is a wonderful woman, I know this, and she loves me. Somewhere in my gut I know that to. It's my head that can't accept it. No matter what she's done, no matter what she's sacrificed, what she's said, or any of the ways you truly prove your love for someone, there's still a voice in my brain that always speaks to me with doubts. I'm far enough in my therapy to know it's my own voice I'm hearing, doubting her love because I have no love for myself. Everything with me is visual. I have to see it to believe it. Worse, when it comes to love, it's physical. If you love me, you have to show it physically in very extreme ways. It's always a test to see how far someone will go for me? Ten years and two kids are nothing compared to her willingness to do something sexually unseemly just for me. If she doesn't, how will I know she loves me? When I tell her I don't think she loves me and she starts to cry, a piece of me is happy. I feed off it. It’s proof she loves me. The assuredness doesn't last long. Soon, I'm looking for another show of affection.

I'm an asshole and I know what I'm doing is abusive. I told my wife to kick me to the curb after my second session. I told her what I was doing and why. How I felt and what matters to me. I told her she doesn't deserve this, what I'm doing, it’s abusive and she needs to get the fuck away from me before one of two things happens. Either, she gets numb to it and pushes me to find new extremes to get a reaction. Or, she'll leave me anyway, and it won't be pretty. Worse of all, I hate feeling like a jerk around her. I hate feeling like a rapist or some emotional puppy humping her leg just because I want some amount of affection that I think is normal. And, if it isn't I don't care. I still want it.

Two weeks ago, I hired an Argentinean artist to do some work for me and last week he finally sent me the sketches after writing or sending nothing since I paid him. The work wasn't bad, but so wrong, that I kicked diplomacy out the window and let loose on him in an email, basically telling him he was unprofessional and the work was dissatisfactory.

He sent me an email back, writing that I treated him like a child and he didn't appreciate my accusing him of doing bad work just to send me something after two weeks of nothing. These conditions are exactly why he insists on being paid half upfront, to compensate for "the hours of work an artist goes through" once a client cancels. I was livid. First, he has the nerve to write I was treating him immaturely. Then, he throws in my face that I paid half upfront, so if I cancel, I'm shit out of luck and he knows there's no way I'm going to track him down in Argentina over $40 American. He wrote that he would re-do the art in a different style, but by that time I didn't give a damn. I'd been through something like this before with another artist and there was no way I was doing it again. I wrote him to cancel the assignment and send back my money because the sketches he sent in no way constituted "hours of work." He responded and I still haven't opened it because I don't want to get pissed off. What would be the point? He got me. This piece of shit in Argentina got me. This is probably his whole scam, getting people to hire him, send half the cash upfront, then piss them off so they cancel the gig and he walks away with free money for dick work. He got me and I can't bring myself to open that fucking email because of it. Thankfully, Casey, the same artist who worked on my book’s chapter illustrations is able to do the job. I'm truly excited to work with him again. But, I know sooner or later I have to open that damn email.

I don't want to admit I'm sick, but when you start breathing hot carbon, you’re fucked. Still, I'm hoping for the best. The last thing I want to do is call in sick tomorrow. I feel lucky that I have a job that makes me feel that way. Like I'd rather come to work than take a legitimate sick day. Part of it is I'm still the new guy and it doesn't look good to take a day off so soon. The other part is this job isn't bad. I'd actually feel guilty if I didn't show up because it's not like there's a lot for me to do anyway.

END OF PRELUDE

Last night, I went out with my friend, Heller. We had coffees at a nice Santa Monica artsy coffee shop that made me wish I had my laptop. As with all my close friends, our conversation was deeper than the ocean and pretty dark. We talked about traumas, inner turmoil, and vehicular assault. After a while, I felt vulnerable enough to talk about my experiences with men. I'm very careful about that, especially when speaking to gay men because I’m afraid they'll think I was making a pass when I'm actually trying to get information and feedback from the best source. But, Heller being a brother to me, along with Doc and Fitz, I wasn't too worried. Still, I let the disclaimers fly during my "confessions."

I think I was 19 when I was first with a man and the decision was a conscious one, and at the time, pretty damn logical. My friends, Jon-Jon and Heller, both came out to me in high school. Where Heller and I drifted apart. Not necessarily because of his orientation, but it could have been part of it; perhaps, he was cutting the ties of his old life to best transition into the new. And here I was, an infected limb causing him pain and begging to be ripped off at the root.

But, while Heller and I drifted, Jon-Jon and I bonded.

See, I had no experience with homosexuals; I didn't even think they existed. They were no different than anything else I'd seen on television. They were "out there", but what were the odds I'd actually see one. I should also mention I shared the same belief in angels, demons, vampires, werewolves, and Spider-Man. When Jon-Jon came out to me, I really didn't know how to react after the initial shock wore off. I had no presets that told me to hate him. He was the same guy, different, but the same. So, I stayed by him because I thought that's what friends do. That's a very important part of this, let me repeat that statement: "I stayed by him because I THOUGHT that's what friends do." It's all about playing roles. In retrospect, I wish I’d been a more hateful person and told him to “Fuck Off!”

Jon-Jon dragged me to every gay place imaginable, from coffee shops to bookstores. I even sat in on some gay and lesbian teen meetings and people were amazed that I wasn't gay myself. I was a straight guy sticking by his friend no matter what. I became "The Golden Child", the first nickname I ever had that didn't have anything to do with my ass or some creative manipulation of my first name. When I turned eighteen, Jon-Jon took me to a gay club, Studio One. My first time ever at a club and it was a gay one. I loved it. I'd never felt so free in my life. I remember it took a while to get on the dance floor, I was so nervous. Once I did, I was dancing all night. The most memorable and impressionable thing was the acceptance I felt all around me. I was a fat kid, girls had rejected me at every turn, but in that club were people who, for whatever reason, liked me. In that space, I was cool. Jon-Jon would go on and on about how well I danced. I'd close my eyes and go into "the zone", unbuttoning my shirt, throwing up my hands, screaming and dancing to the music. Anyone who knows me knows that's a pretty big deal.

I've always been ashamed of my body hair, but it was a gay man who was the first person to ever see my chest hair and respond positively. To girls, it was disgusting. I've always disliked raising my arms for any reason because I'm afraid I might smell bad. That little quirk was born during the years living with my father when I fell victim to puberty. My father always uses deodorant and, well, deodorant just isn't strong enough for me.

On the first day of high school orientation, I was especially ripe. You could smell me from down the hall. And the teens to my right and left knew all too well who was stinking. The principal addressed the freshman class, asking who was from certain nearby elementary/junior high schools. When he said mine, I kept my arm down. Another classmate of mine from the same school started goading me to raise my hand. When I refused, he grabbed my arm by the wrist and yanked it upward. When I looked at the boy to my left, who was holding his nose, I tried to bring my arm down, but the guy kept it up. Finally, I said: "I don't want to raise my hand!" And the boy next to me, holding his nose, said: "He doesn't have to raise his arm...damn!"

I knew I had a problem with odor. But, I thought the solution was adding more deodorant. I'd pile so much on it would foam, my pits would get sore and the skin would peel. It wasn't until maybe the second year that I discovered antiperspirant and that seemed to help. But, to this day, I'm paranoid about my body odor. I heard my mother once say that when people rub their noses, it's because something stinks. Now, every time I'm next to someone and they brush there nose, sniff, or do something like that, I think I might smell and I'm offending them. Doesn't matter that I showered. Doesn't matter that I'm wearing $5 antiperspirant so strong I can skip a day, or that I haven't dropped a sweat bead. The minute their hands go to their face, in my mind, I stink and then I do sweat because my primary physical response to stress and anxiety is sweating. What a conundrum, huh? I'm afraid I stink, which makes me sweat; pushing my antiperspirant to its limits so sooner or later I will indeed stink. Thus, I was given the name: "Dr. Sweat."

Getting back to it, I was on that dance floor in that gay club, dancing my ass off and feeling completely free for the first, and perhaps, the only time in my life. After that, it became a drug. The more Jon-Jon and I went out the more accepted I felt. The more free I felt, the freer I became, at least in "Boys' Town." Jon-Jon and I would walk hand-in-hand or I'd have my arm around him like he was my girl. We'd sit in a coffee shop, his head on my shoulder and my arm around him. It was fun. It felt great. Because I was straight and everyone knew it, I felt free and still accepted. But then, things began to change.

I wish I could remember why or how, but after a year or two of going to Boys' Town non-stop and began to dislike it. I think it began to bother me that everything surrounding me was gay when I desperately wanted a girlfriend. Maybe it got boring. I don't know. But, there came a time when Jon-Jon would ask me to a club and I’d refuse. Didn't do much good though. Jon-Jon has always had his way with me mentally. I've always found it hard to tell him what I really thought or how I truly feel about things, especially homosexuality. He would guilt me into going and once I was there I was in the zone all over again. Some exciting things happened in those days. Like the time Jon-Jon went to visit his mother in San Fran, but when he came back he didn't go home. He'd been gone for days before his father, who hated me, called my house, asking me to find him. And, I did. That was cool, very pulp noir.

TO BE CONTINUED