1215 – Dim light filters through my eyelids. I struggle to open them through the gunk crusted on them, a combination of vomit and eye discharge. I pull myself into a sitting position and stare through the hazy light at the stairs climbing into the main house. Why didn’t Mom wake me for breakfast?
1237 – There’s a stirring in the bed behind me. I squeal like a girl and whirl around. Doing so makes me dizzy and I fall on my butt on the floor. I lunge to my feet and peer into the covers. A head appears out of the sheets and bloodshot eyes stare into mine. My gaze travels to the stubbled cheeks and square jaw, the muscular shoulders and chest. This is another of my gay flings. I’m so glad Mom didn’t come wake me for breakfast.
1251 – As the New Orleans sunlight filters through the blackout shades on my basement windows, I begin to recall the debauchery of last night. The scenes in the gay bars. The stumbling down Bourbon Street arm in arm with this man. The defilement once we reached my basement room. Did Mom hear all of this?
1316 – “You’ve gotta go.” I tell my fling, “I can’t have my Mom know I brought a man home.” He blinks in confusion, then slowly rises and dresses (OMG, what a fine butt). We lock lips one last, lingering moment, then he climbs out of the window and is gone.
1341 – I dress and slowly mount the stairs. I smell Mom’s perfume and follow it’s sweet scent to the kitchen. She is drinking tea. I go to the medicine cabinet, grab my Triumeq, and fall into a chair. Mom hands me a glass of OJ and I take my meds. Then I begin to weep over the horror that is my life. No wonder I’m so abrasive and shrill.
Where’s my face paint?