Fisting Patrick, With Crisco

Bumping into an old queen from the days of the Christopher Street piers and gay bath houses is not a sight for sore eyes. It’s like getting splattered by hot grease while frying chicken.

"I know that’s not you," shrieked a voice from aisle one in Gourmet Garage.

I pretended like I didn’t see ‘her’.

I remember watching the bitch get fist screwed on a bar in the meat packing district decades ago and now ‘she’ wants to swap corn bread recipes.

"My heavens, how are you?" I asked.

"I’m alright. You look great!"

I gave ‘her’ that look that says, "I know!"

Patrick, the bath house ho, lost a lover to AIDS like I did.

‘Her’ boyfriend passed about a decade ago. ‘She’ inherited a ton of money from the dead ex and decided that while ‘her’ lover was croaking that ‘she’ was going to explore marriage and heterosexuality.

Patrick got married to a real woman (a dyke) and they had two children.

They remained on the ‘A’ list of New York’s most gaily elite for years.

"How are Helen and the kids?" I asked as if I really cared.

"She got a wild hair and left me."

I didn’t have to ask if she took half of Patrick’s dead lover’s money.

"I’m moving out of the city, Patrick. This town bores me," I said as I picked up a delightfully red bunch of rhubarb.

"I hate it here too. I really can't stand people in New York now, they are all so superficial-- especially the younger queens," ‘she’ said.

"Oh, I do too. They are not freaks like we were," I said as I threw the celery like fruit into my basket, dangling from my arm like a Gucci bag.

Patrick licked 'her'lips and wondered why I never fist fucked him in that closed down bar along the Westside Highway as I headed home to bake a pie, in memory of my lover who loved when I baked pies with Crisco, flour, salt, rhubarb and lots of sugar.