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A Writer’s Diary Entries From Mid-December, 1986

We made tentative plans for Saturday night. He said I should call him Saturday afternoon after he gets back from his facial. Can you see me with a guy who gets facials? I don’t even know any women who get facials! And then I feel like a creep for being so close-minded and wonder if I’m not a little homophobic myself.

A Writer’s Diary Entries From Late November, 1986

It was 20 years ago, also on the Friday after Thanksgiving in 1966, that I had my first appointment with a psychiatrist. Boy, was that a fucked-up 15-year-old who walked into Dr. Lipton’s office. I remember some of the questions he asked me: “Do you smoke pot?” (when I said no, he asked if I was socially retarded) and “Do you like girls?”

A Writer’s Diary Entries From Mid-November, 1986

I spotted Marvin in the parking lot of Dalt’s, a restaurant on Federal Highway off Sunrise Boulevard in Fort Lauderdale. He’s nice-looking enough, but definitely not my type, and I could tell right way that I wasn’t his. But I had a good time, if only because it was such a change to be out on a date on Saturday night.

A Writer’s Diary Entries From Early November, 1986

In Miami at 1:30 PM, I caught the end of a talk by Belva Plain, the Jewish-saga writer who reminds me of my great-aunts; stayed for the Jay McInerney/Tama Janowitz reading; and then went to hear Kathy Acker and John Waters. The Book Fair made me feel better about myself as a writer.

A Writer’s Diary Entries From Late October, 1986

Abby Rubenfeld called the impact of the Hardwick case “devastating,” but she put it in perspective and outlined a possible legal challenge to Florida’s sodomy law. The two law students sitting next to me admitted they were afraid to come because people would think they were gay; they didn’t want to get in the TV camera’s range. Well, at least they attended.

A Writer’s Diary Entries From Mid-October, 1986

The rabbi told the story of a 19-year-old poet destined for greatness who every winter would walk on a certain pond until one year the ice cracked and he drowned. “The ice didn’t know a great poet was walking on it,” the rabbi said. “You see, the ice never knows. . . nature is completely unaware of us.”

A Writer’s Diary Entries From Early October, 1986

There’s a very pretty girl – about 22, I guess – who lives here. Last night her mother said, “My daughter thinks you’re very handsome.” “Has she seen an optometrist lately?” was my lame reply, but when I spoke to Delia today as she was sunning herself in front of their townhouse in a red bikini, I felt excited. I mean, I’m gay, but I’m not that gay.

A Writer’s Diary Entries From Late September, 1986

Superstitiously, I would always imagine every conceivable disaster before an event, and I’d drive myself crazy, hoping that would take away any real disaster. How many times in my life have I approached a situation that made me anxious and got so crazy beforehand that reality could never have been so bad?

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