So, when we were in San Francisco, Slim and I stayed with this friend of his who in turn sublets from a middle-aged lesbian of the old school. The place was stunning, even if we were holed up in this attic space where he couldn't stand up, accessible only by a treacherous ladder. Further, we were perpetually menaced by the elderly dog, malcolm, who could be distracted by a Kraft single just long enough to buy us time to climb the ladder. He also took a major chunk out of my left thumb. (I am now rabid.)
The dog, the lesbian explained, was upset by the presence of a man in the house. Before I showed up, she was laboring under the pleasant delusion that Slim was gay, an impression cemented by the Greek sailor's cap he purchased in the Marina and has taken to wearing incessantly. When it became clear that he was in fact a member of the Patriarchy, things took a decided turn for the worse and she took to glaring at him belligerently whenever they crossed paths. (She was particularly revolted to find him returniing from the shower one day, in boxers.)
Me, however, she quite liked. On our third day there, she happened to walk in on me (why I don't know, since I repeatedly shouted, 'I'm up here!' and 'just a sec!' as I heard her mounting the ladder) in my skivvies. (Well, this kind of brief jersey romper, which I am in fact wearing right now.) After that, she decided I was 'adorable' and 'charming' and took to gazing at me and saying things like, 'do you love to dance? I could tell by the way you move.' (I didn't have the heart to tell her that I just kind of jerk around spasmodically, like Ian Curtis. Or maybe that's how I move, and that's what she meant. Anyway, I don't know that I love it.)
After about a week, she told me that I could stay, but Slim had to go. So we went to stay with another friend-of-a-friend. As we were going to meet up with him for the keys (for some reason, in a bar), Slim said, 'we were actually supposed to be here four hours ago, so be extra charming.' I tried to be, even though the guy was super lame and kept making comments about how grotesque my glasses were, and drunkenly ripping them off my face. This was all very well, as I thought he was gay, but then it turned out he wasn't gay - or, at any rate, started bringing up being straight vry aggressively in the way closeted/seemingly gay men do; rather the way some of us try to work into conversations that we have boyfriends, so someone doesn't get the wrong idea, and it's always very forced and awkward.
I hate San Francisco.
And the bite still hurts.