by Martin Inane

 The San Francisco Transgender Film Fest had just ended.  My roommate and I threw a party 
 at our apartment in the east bay.  It was supposed to be a sex party, but only a few people 
 actually had sex.  Most people were hanging out in the living room, drinking and listening 
 to Siouxsie and the Banshees.  
  A carload of people materialized; they’d just come from Let’s Get Fucked Up, a party at 
  the Odeon.
Someone was making prank calls: “We’re from the homo militia.  We’re coming for your children.  
What we don’t fuck, we eat!” 
  I noticed a thin guy in a beige beret who was sitting in a corner.  Flanking him were two 
  attractive, androgynous punks...  One had curly black hair, wore over-sized “Lolita” sunglasses, 
  a tight skirt, and fishnets.  The other had bleached hair, bright red lipstick and wore a 
  bomber jacket.   She looked like a drag queen.  When I heard her speak, I knew this was not 
  the case.  No drag queen in his wildest fantasy could have produced such a squeaky voice…  
  It turned out that she was the singer for a thrash-metal band.
  “Hey,” my roommate said to me. “There’s some people in the hot tub.”
The tub was outdoors, and was shared by the apartment complex.  “Uh, it’s locked at night…”  
I protested.
  I walked outside and saw a gaggle of queers squeezed into the sauna.  They’d jumped a big 
  fence and were reclining au naturel.  At one point, a suburban passerby received the education 
  of his life when he witnessed the array of punk fags, dykes, and trannies in all their body-mod 
  glory hovering around the hot tub… 
  The guy in the beret came over and starting talking to me.  He was soft-spoken and seemed to 
  be moderately intelligent.  I admired the tattoos on his arms.  I didn’t feel compelled to be 
  conversational.  
  He noticed the tribal design on my shoulder, and lifted my arm to peer at it.  
  “Are you a Taurus?” He inquired.  I grimaced.  
Oh no, I thought. Please don’t engage me in conversation about horoscopes. I get enough of that 
in California. 
  “No… I was in Spain.  It was my first tattoo, and I wanted a bull,”  I explained.
  “It looks good,” he smiled seductively. “My name’s Justin by the way…”
As it happened, he’d had some travelling experiences himself.  He mentioned touring with Nine 
Inch Nails as the member of a popular alternative circus troupe.
“You were in a circus?”  I asked, interestedly.
“Yeah – I was the Rubber Man.  You know… the contortionist.” He brushed a strand of floppy, 
pretty-boy hair away from his face.  He talked about his friendship with Chicken John, ex-bandmate 
of G.G. Allin and 
progenitor of the Odeon Bar – San Francisco’s watering-hole for carnival folk.  
  That’s when I really started looking at him and paying attention.  Nothing turns me on like 
  carnies…  
I remembered reading about Chicken John’s punk rock circus in Maximum Rock and Roll and fantasizing 
about joining the troupe one day…  To be an exhibitionist!  To live on the road! It sounded like 
heaven to me.   When would they come to _my_ town?...
  “Ever read Katharine Dunn’s _Geek Love_? It’s a totally morbid novel about a circus troupe..  
  I thought it was great," I said as I eyed him lustfully.
  At some point in the evening, I found myself in a bedroom with him…  He and a porn-star friend 
  were groping each other.  The ensuing sexcapade lasted until about six in the morning… 
  I was surprised to hear from him a few days later.  He was doing work on a house near Lake Merritt.  
  Having retired from his circus career, he was now employed as a home renovator.
  I told him I’d be right over…
  In an hour, I found myself in the home of an eccentric, new-age yuppie woman.  It was like a 
  house from a Daphne DuMaurier novel; every room had its own character, albeit of the creepy 
  and unoccupied variety.
The living room was “oriental” – tapestries, tasseled pillows, expensive minimalist furniture... 
“Look at the French doors,” Justin was saying.  He ushered me from room to room like a proud 
curator in a museum of the neurotic.
  On the second floor was a bedroom with clouds painted on the ceiling.  Justin was tense as 
  he pondered how to integrate the room with its furnishings appropriately.  “This room is like 
  a puzzle,” he said to me, rubbing his chin.
  We retired to the entertainment room.  Debauchery seemed appropriate, since we were surrounded 
  by extravagant pieces of stereo and home theatre technology.  I shivered at the decadence before me.
They were gaudy, and they were baubles.  My obsessions seemed almost noble by comparison.
  Justin distracted me with a kiss.  I don’t know how to kiss, so I reached for his zipper.
 I felt up his chest.  He had those extra-sensitive, small nipples. .. They reminded me of something 
 a guy had said to me once, “I have a penis between my legs, and two clitorises on my chest.”
  While we were making out, he bent his arm backwards so that it seemed to disappear.  We were a 
  couple of freaks.  We were fondling each other in a house which was spiritually inspired by the 
  Rococo period. I guess it made sense...
  The next day, it was around one in the afternoon, and I was lying on top of Justin.  He swatted 
  my ass.
“Something has to happen, and it has to happen now,” he stated matter-of-factly.  This was his 
way of saying that we should get our dazed, sex-saturated bodies out of bed.  In a few days, he 
would fly back home to Boise, Idaho.
  If we’d been in a story by Petronius, we’d have stayed and lazed around in that mansion of 
  decadence indefinitely… A rich old monarch telling obscene anecdotes over a dinner of roasted 
  pig would have completed the image…