Now I know how she must have felt that summer when she took
coffee up into an orifice other than the one for her morning ritual, without
cream or sugar.
Or how I might have felt had a taken up any of the countless
invitations from my visits to Stonewall in New York that summer of my induction
to the army or the Golden Cup on Hollywood Boulevard where all the men looked
like girls all looked at me like I was one, too, something grand, they told me,
had I felt the urge to go that way, the deep plunge and then release, only this
time not for pleasure, but to pave the way for the man with the stethoscope to
see what it is that goes on in that remote part of my anatomy, pain without
pleasure, coffee without the cream, a desperate hope for what comes out in the
end will bring salvation.
Now I know how she must have felt, clinging to this desperate
act to cure this ugly thing that has taken up residence inside, this act of
pain without pleasure, this coffee without cream.
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