in 1991, thirtysomething was going strong on tv, meg ryan was still bearable, and being 30 seemed a million years away. 1980s retro hadn’t hit yet and i was dating this guy primarily because he had air conditioning and lived downtown, plus the whole crush thing. he looked like john ritter, did aerobics and read “what color is my parachute?” like it was the bible. (p.s. his parachute was torn) so in my low rent west philly apartment with wall to wall linoleum where when it rained water leaked down the wall over an electric socket, i frenched a man with the shades thrillingly open. then I laid back on my futon and let “mistah do his business" color purple style. business=grinding.
it was more a queer nation activist, scare the neighbors thing than about my actual pleasure. that was reserved for falcon videos with my favorite 1980s porn stars (i love you luke bender!) and the voyeuristic joy of my ivy league university locker room. i’d lost my mental queer virginity 10 years earlier when this kid spencer and me were playing with his pet mouse and spencer mesmerized me by letting the rodent crawl up one leg of his adidas shorts and out the other over and over again. i hadn’t wanted to be a mouse that much since i'd read beverly cleary’s classic tale “the mouse and the motorcycle.” vroom!
Comments