Chapter 1

I've been to Chicago. I've been to New York. Hell, I traveled all the way down to the border of Mexico, just to see if I can get published. And nothing. Not one piece of crap newspaper thinks the stories about truth are gonna sell. Because who would wanna read about a bunch of crazy faggots.

Nonetheless, I still write. Guess the life of struggling artist allows me for being much more of a queen that I already am. My days pass on thinking, frustration and pointless search for the inspiring... Inspiring something. Art galleries, movies, people talking on TV. But, let's face it, everyone can shit a piece of crap they're nowadays calling art, put it in a nice glass show-case and happily stuff their wallet. If you want to see the truth about those goddamn artists, go to some bar. Or gay bar, because they're usually... You know. Artistic that way.

To be honest, I hate art. I couldn't even look at the half of the exhibition I went to. I chose to sit outside instead. Smoke a cigarette. Maybe go get drunk.

Sometimes even I can't stand my own whining. I am by far and away the most annoying drama queen. Of course the fact that I'm just gorgeous adds to the problem.

I breathe out dirty cigarette smoke and think. God, lately I smoke so much I fear my dick'll go flat. But what can I say, writer's gotta write, there's no point sitting there and hoping alcohol's gonna cure every little sorrow.

Not that I haven't tried.

Oh crap, who the hell wants to live forever? We're not meant to live longer than twenty-eight. We get too much self-destructive because of the, I don't know, goddamn wrinkles.

After the artsy-fartsy-god-knows-what I went down to Yellow-feathered Flock. Awful old joint, just awful. Perfect for drinking up all the money I had left. Biggest advantage of gay bars – no one will punch you for admiring their boyfriend's ass; and maybe casually licking your lips when the piece could have been worth your while.

I really should do something about my... Maybe in a couple of drinks, then we'll talk about it, shall we?

People really don't know how to deal with each other. I wish I had brought earplugs but then again, what's a night wasted in a stinky gay bar without some thumpa-thumpa.

Jesus, people really should do less bullshit talking, more actual enjoying their situation. "You don't love me the way I love you!", "Your mother hates me!", "How can you say that, you said you loved it when I bite your neck!". Mother of god, boo-fuckin'-hoo, go back and cry in a closet, then, since you can't accept yourself the way you are. You are gay, for Christ's sake, not some suburban housewife who's trying to please the husband. There is no American home and living gay dream, deal with it! Stop pretending to be a heterosexual homo, stop with the white fence, dog, two cats and adopted Chinese twins! Listen to some Nirvana, for fuck's sake, because I sure as hell can't stand your whining. I guess your boyfriend can't as well, since he murmured something and escaped to the bathroom. I smirked and swallowed the rest of my whiskey.

Now's the time for my move.

I went after him. He knew I was following. He felt my stare on his gorgeous butt since the moment he and his bag of whines arrived. The bathroom was full of guys giving, receiving... Or both. The floor was suspiciously sticky, not to mention the improvised glory holes – yes, I wouldn't pee in the last stall if I were you. Unless, of course, the idea sounds appealing?

Gorgeous butt checked himself out in the mirror. He saw me in the reflection and turned around. I especially liked his blond hair. They were kinda messy, unkempt, really nice shades of honey and... Don't get me wrong; I usually don't get into details. This little homo-hetero housewife was different. There are lots of them that I've introduced to a good fuck. Then and again, couple of them would get a stupid idea to come and look for me. But this one... Oh no. He was wasting himself. His face was something you should call pretty, since there are no other words to describe it without the necessity of getting too lovey-dovey. The eyes... They were definitely blue, I think. Showing all his emotions without him even opening this gorgeous mouth.

I grabbed his wrist the moment he was coming into the stall. I smiled. He smiled back and pulled me inside.

"Just... Let's keep it quiet. Please?", he asked, giving me a coy, indecisive look.

I pulled my pants down and shut his mouth, then. Properly.

He couldn't have been disappointed, judging by the moans.

I waited a couple of minutes before I considered it safe come out of the bathroom. Lit a cigarette, pressed my back against the stall and gently breathed out the smoke. Would have been way more poetic if the surface above was a midnight sky, not a dirty ceiling covered in cell numbers and pictures of cocks.