One night I sat on a curb drinking limoncello from the bottle I keep in my trunk. This was in a bank parking lot, outside a club called the Loft Warehouse that looked like its name, graffiti on the walls and everything. A photographer had invited me to a pirate-themed fetish party there. I had worn a corset, fake-leather hot pants, fishnets, rhinestone-studded stilettos. Some guys in the parking lot thought I was a prostitute. Inside the club I met a sweet drag queen named Sasha Shame who was a boy pretending to be a girl pretending to be a white cat.
There had been no ATM inside the club, and the bar took only cash. I had no cash, so I walked outside and that's how I wound up sitting there on the curb, drinking for free. A cop circled the parking lot and warned me to “Be careful, sweetie.” It was as if he thought I was in a movie, too – a girl in a costume who otherwise didn’t belong here. An actress not totally convincing in her role. Regardless of his concern, there I sat, alone and drinking in my prostitute outfit in the warm open night.
I felt safe, or maybe just blasé. I remembered reading about this nature documentary, predators chasing prey. Funny thing: the prey who gave up, who got tired and surrendered – the predators no longer cared about them. They only chased the ones who wanted to get away. So there I sat, feeling safe because I wasn't trying to get away. I welcomed whatever.
Ten years ago I bought my car: a four-door sedan. I got a car that size because I'd thought for sure I’d have a family by now. Soon I’ll need a new car. I’ve driven this one across the country too many times. Its mileage impresses the guys at the auto shop when I bring it in for repairs.
Sitting on the curb, I stretched my legs out in front of me and stared at the fishnet grid. I thought, “So this is my life.”