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Sexuality
Fiction
The Woman With Hair
The first time we met, she didn’t say much but instead let her hair do the talking. Her hair had a lot on its mind. It went nearly down to her knees. This was in July, at a Hollywood Hills party thrown by the friend of a friend.
November 2005
Essays, Memoirs & True Stories
My Pink Tombstone
In spring of 1988 I became the caretaker of a twenty-acre plot my sister and her husband had bought as a prospective retirement location in the Black Forest of Colorado: elevation 8,200 feet. It was a great opportunity for me to write and reflect and rest up from the roaring hellfire on earth.
November 2005
Readers Write
Taking A Stand
Facing a flock of cowards wearing sheets, caring for a parent, making a new friend
September 2005
Essays, Memoirs & True Stories
Remote As The Moon
I was fucking a near stranger in northeast Chicago when my mother died. His name was Jonathan. He was tall, long-limbed with enormous hands and prematurely gray hair, an activist who lectured on “the struggle” so genuinely I almost believed him: that we would win this, whoever “we” were, whatever it was.
August 2005Essays, Memoirs & True Stories
Being Frosty
I was a shy, awkward sixteen-year-old. I hated the mall, the holidays, and commercialism in general. But for some reason — the money? the challenge? the sheer stupidity of it? — I told my sister I would do it. Being Frosty became my first job ever.
May 2005
Fiction
Sawdust
Sugar suspected I was a fruitcake because of my friendship with Mr. Quick, which began during my freshman year. Sugar had learned about it from my mother. (My father was dead.)
April 2005
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