He was in a car accident and got AIDS from a blood donor, a gay man who didn’t know he was infected. In turn, he infected his girlfriend, who now hates him—a feeling he can understand, he said. What he most wanted was to meet a heterosexual woman with AIDS who would hold him in her arms.
The check that Costas gave me for the cash I lent him did bounce, as I expected. What can you expect from a cocaine addict? Ronna told me she’d seen Costas a couple of days before I did, on line at a Banana Republic cash register where Costas’s credit card turned out to be invalid. People are sometimes sadly predictable.
I met Justin by the PATH train escalators at the plaza level of the World Trade Center, and he took me to a nice Sichuan restaurant on Warren Street. Giving me a copy of his script for an episode of Golden Girls, Justin said that while the William Morris agency declined to represent him, he’s got a lot of irons in the fire and doesn’t seem discouraged.
We made love until about 1 AM, and this morning the alarm woke us at 8:30 AM. It was terrific to hold someone in my arms that early, when I had the pleasure of being in a half-dreamy state. I hate to analyze our relationship; I just know it felt good.
While homophobia is on the rise because of AIDS, it’s clear that there’s a critical mass of gay people who won’t stand for assaults on our rights. One float showed an actor in a Reagan mask leading what was obviously a concentration camp filled with gay men and women surrounded by barbed wire and guards with surgical masks and rubber gloves on.
We walked in and out of half a dozen restaurants. I told him any place he selected was fine with me, for I knew if I ruled out anything, that would be the one cuisine Scott just had to eat, and if I made a suggestion, Scott would find something wrong with the restaurant. We ended up at a decent, inexpensive Mexican place on Eighth Avenue and 18th Street.
Some of the art we looked at was fabulous, some seemed pretentious or phony, and most of it was overpriced. We went to about a dozen galleries in four hours. After we stopped for cannoli and Italian sodas at the Cafe Borgia, Justin and Larry returned to Brooklyn while I walked through some feast (St. Anthony’s?) to get the IRT local home.
The Knitting Factory is a pleasant coffee house/performance space above an Argentine restaurant on Houston, and Josh was wrong when he said everyone would be wearing black. I had my Soho Soda, Josh his white wine, and Pete, in his usual performance suit, came out at 9 PM. His routines about his vain, selfish, unsupportive and greedy mother were funny and kind of poignant.
I got some pizza at Cesar’s (the old Hispanic place, not the shiny new kosher pizza and falafel restaurant across the street). Amsterdam Avenue is obviously in flux now between the world of the old black and Puerto Rican residents and the newly-gentrified boutiques and bars. You know who’ll come out ahead. Yet I feel the day of reckoning for NYC is fast approaching.
Back at her apartment after dinner, we played around with Lori’s Macintosh for an hour. I put on my jacket to leave, kissed and hugged Ronna good night, and one kiss led to another. We were making out as much as you can when you’re both totally vertical until I finally took off my jacket and we went into her bedroom.