Reminiscing on Lezboz in the Golden Age of AIDS

Guys hella heart lezboz.  Not only because of their common interest in hawt chicks but also their common love of snuff, spiting and sports.  They also like a chick that can relate to the drudgery of the daily facial shaving routine.

I hella heart the lezboz too.  Mostly the lipstick variety but I enjoy the company of the bull dykes also.  The main reason I like them so much is because of the way they reacted during the Golden Age of AIDS.

The Golden Age of AIDS is back when there was an AIDS.  The librtards and militant queens won’t allow us to say AIDS any more.  It had a bad connotation in our lexicon so rather than doing something productive like limiting the spread of the disease, we changed the name.  Weak people get AIDS, victims are HIV positive.  And no one wallows better in victim status than gays.

You have to admit gays can sling some hair.  Every hetero man should let a queen do his hair because the chicks will love the doo.  Get hetero chick friends to choose your clothes so you won’t look like a queen but only trust the doo to a queen.  The best time of sit in their chair is just after lunch.  They have had enough booze to be creative but not so drunk they screw it up.  Ignore their glances at your package.  The new doo will will make it worthwhile because of all the chicks you will attract.

The Golden Age of AIDS coincided with the Golden Age of Big Hair.  Not sure if one caused the other but constant contact with bleach and other hair “product” is bound to lower someone’s resistance to infections.  No one does better big hair than southern ladies and during the Golden Age of Big Hair, Dallas was the capitol.  Chicks would spend big bucks and big hours at the salons getting pretty.  This was not the Golden Age of Day Spas.  That came later.  This was the salon.

I had a friend that was on the cutting edge of big hair during that era.  Dead ringer for Joan Collins.  She had a salon that was among the Dallas top three salons.  Raked in millions because she knew how to “work it”.

Everyone knows if you are not a gay man, its a bloody fight to be a top salon.  If you are not a gay man salon owner, you gotta hire butt loads of gays to work in your salon.  Which means drama.  High drama.  Cage up that many queens with sharp implements and you are asking for trouble.  She had her share of trouble.  The better ones would leave every other week to open their own shops and return a few days later when they sobered up.

She thrived surrounded by her queens.  They adored her and she adored them.  Rumor had it that she was a gay man but I dismissed that because she was married about a dozen times and whelped three kids.

Back when we had plain old AIDS, you have to know that a salon full of gays would be hit hard by it.  AIDS equaled death in those days.  In many cases it moved fast from diagnosis to deathbed.

She was fiercely loyal to her friends and her employees.  Having her own share of health problems, she constantly tried to convince enough of her employees to pay part of a health care policy cost.  Few would do that.  Most would drag in hungover late morning, do some doos, collect some cash, take a disco nap and hit the bar that night.

I got a call from her one night.  She had located one of her missing gays and needed me to help her retrieve him.  Seems he had been at a party, got sick and they put him in the corner.  Two days later they call my friend to collect him because looking at a sick guy was putting a drag on tonight’s party.

Two days of no food or fluids would make a healthy man sick.  Add an immune compromised complication and he needs medical attention.  And a bath.  No one would help me carry him to the car because they were afraid they might contract AIDS.

In any event, I got him to the car and we delivered him to the county hospital.  They refused to take him.  My friend told me to get him out of the car and lay him in the emergency room door.  The hospital relented and agreed to patch him up.

How did his life come to this? It ripped my guts out.

One of her favorite gays could not sling hair but would “work” in the salon when he needed money.  Not even the other gays liked this bitchy drama queen.   No one liked him except my friend and his “lover”.

The “lover” was actually a nice guy.  I had met him a few times but would not say we were friends.   He had a degree of success with his business selling fringe in the market district of Dallas.  Now I am sure he would be horrified when I call it fringe, but fact is, he sold fringe.  Generally able to support the two of them.

He got AIDS.  The “lover”.   And knew he would be soon leaving this earth.   His concern was that his bitchy spouse have a condo that was paid for.   So he found one he could afford, which was not nearly glam enough for his bitchy spouse.  But it was paid for.  We cleaned, painted and replaced light fixtures.  The happy couple moved in.

The trouble in this paradise was that the bitchy spouse would not sleep in the bed with his “lover”.  Or attend to his medical needs.   He moved in with my hairdresser friend until his “lover” died.

My sister, my hairdresser friend, me and a few others were left the task of caring for this skeleton.  I recall the look of humiliation on his face when I had to change his diaper.  I doubt he knew who I was.

How did his life come to this?  It ripped my guts out.

In her life, my hairdresser friend saw lots of heartache.  Her gay brother had grandiose dreams of being a “makeup artist” to the stars.  Never really worked out but she funded schools, trips and living expenses for him to chase his dream.  Not long after moving him to West Hollywood, he hanged himself.  There was no shortage of rumors about why he did it, but the police never investigated.  His “lover” was too busy to return to Dallas for the funeral.

How did his life come to this?  It ripped my guts out.

If you knew her mother you would understand why my friend and her brother were so screwed up.  Strong mean old bitch.  But she was included in everything in my friends life.  She told me one time as we were sitting on bar stools that her mother would sniff her panties when she returned from a date.  Her solution was to ditch the panties before she returned home.

In her life, she funded lots of good times.  For family as well as friends.  She made millions, married millions and pissed it all away.  She was generous with her money and the money of anyone she knew.  I learned she was in hock when she had three credit cards declined at the airport.  Followed by the repossession of her leased baby Benz.  The Golden Age of Big Hair was ending.  Booze blurred the pain of looking at an aging face and disfigured boob from a burst implant.

She clung to the Age of Big Hair as long as she could.  When it passed, it took more than her money.  It took her dignity.  Her last gala AIDS fund raising hair show put a fine point on it.  When she took the stage to speak, she was so drunk she kept saying “fabulous” until someone eased her off the stage.

She was a friend that would give you her last dime and feel no shame in taking your last dime.  I helped keep her afloat and though I have never asked my sister, I bet she did too.  Weller and water sustained her and being hospitalized with pancreatitis did not change that.

Rumor was that she sobered up.  A cab dropped her off at my house one night and she said she was going to stay with me a few days.  She rummaged through the kitchen looking for booze and when I told her there was none, she opened my refrigerator and found a beer.  I began opening the remaining beers to pour them out and that set her off.  After reading my beads she set out on foot.  Not sure where.  I phoned my sister to come get her bag and retrieve her from the side of the road.

That pretty much ended our friendship.  I would occasionally hear from my sister that she had another big plan but her heyday never returned.  My sister called me when our friend landed in the county hospital.  Massive stroke.  Her screwup children had her moved to hospice and removed her feeding tube.  When I visited her it was the first time I ever saw her without the big doo, big fake nails and big makeup.  But I could still see the Joan Collins.

Her mother, my sister and I were about the only people that visited with her in hospice.  I doubt she knew anyone was there.  I pretended she did know.  I talked about when I drove her new Infinity Q45 from Houston to Galveston at 100 mph because we were on a mission to hone our tans on a beach.  The time when we sailed her little boat from Port Arthur to Clear Lake.  All of us were sunburned from a hard all day sail in the gulf.  When we docked in Galveston, she appeared in the hatch looking fabulous and said with a tear in her voice “This is camping.”

How did her life come to this?  It ripped my guts out.

Happier thoughts.  Swilling beer with the lezboz.  I had some wonderful Tuesday nights meeting my lezbo friends to swill beer and listen to live music.  Once the lezboz know you ain’t there to pick up chicks or kiss their girlfriends, they adopt you as their fag hag.   Or something like that.   Lezboz generally keep their drama inside the lezbo community so guys are safe swilling beer with them.

My favorite lezbo had a wife, but I was her favorite person that had testosterone.  We only had swilling beer in common so our friendship was pretty much confined to that.  I would occasionally go with her to feed the ducks and nutria at an area lake.  We’d hit the bread store, they would squeeze bread to screw it up, stuff it in bags and sell it to us for bird food.  Shitloads of bread.  One buck per bag.  Shitloads of bags.

She had long, long straight hair and the best skin I have ever seen.  No makeup and still pretty.  Now there was a lotta skin.  She was heavy and knew it.  And always conscious of where she could sit and such.  She insisted on driving her van because she could fit in it comfortably.  Golden heart and reluctant to talk bad about anyone.

Now I certainly had no problem with her size because when we would feed those ducks, the ducks would attack.   They knew her and knew when she arrived, they got food.  Buttloads of ducks.   And those nutria things with huge orange teeth and bloody eyes have to be the spawn of Satan.  Now I ain’t no pussy or nothing like that but I don’t want birds and Satan’s spawn near me.   So my friend would allow me to hide behind her as she battled the insane animals she loved to feed.

Her “wife” was also a wonderful lezbo.   A little shy and she rarely went to the dyke bar with us to swill beer.  Successful engineer in the defense contracting area.  She was the breadwinner in the family and happy with it that way.

I’d like to think I was their favorite man of all time.   Fact is, I was not.  They always had some queen adopted into their life and being the Golden Age of AIDS, they did their share of caring for them until they died.   Each time they would be brokenhearted and swear off having queens as friends.

The bartender at the dyke bar made it into their hearts.   Nice enough guy I guess.  Kept the beers coming and ice cold.  Very popular with the queens because he was tall and rumored to have a bigo wanker.   They wanted it.   Problem was, he wanted bigo wankers too ifyouknowwhatImeanandIthinkyoudo.  In other words, he wanted to be the insertee.   Not the inserter.

Well that was awkward.  And I don’t want to leave the impression that I have spreadsheets of wanker sizes.   I recall this because when my lezbo friend had his wanker in her hand so he could use one of those urinals in bed, she looked at me and said “And to think I have lived my entire life trying to avoid these things.”

No insurance.  Spent every dime he ever made.  Estranged from family.  All equals the lezboz moving him into their house to care for him as AIDS took its toll.  They had tons of offers from the “gay community” to help them.   None of the offers ever panned out.  I babysat occasionally but was very uncomfortable being alone with him.  His mind was affected before his body was weakened.  Very affected.  My friend called one day for help because he was outside eating his own excrement from his diaper.  She needed help.

How did his life come to this?  It ripped my guts out.

In the Golden Age of AIDS, there were tons of stories like these.  No one to feed them on their deathbed.  Change bandages.  Change diapers.  Bathe them.  No church to turn to.  No help from their “community” of “friends”.

Dead queens with no one to claim their body.   No one at their graveside as they were laid to rest.

Now I got two of them buried but never intended to become the grim reaper for unclaimed queens.   Mz Mac saw it differently.   She took on the role.  Her career in life has been to force people to volunteer for her various causes and telling them the amount to put on the check.  No one dared say no to Mz Mac.  If they tried, she ignored the no and expected you to do as told.  And we did as told.

The county hospital notifies her of orphaned dead queens and she makes the arrangements.  We would attend the graveside as they were buried.  Usually together but one of us would always be there.  Occasionally I’d ask my lezbo friends to do it for us when Mz Mac and I would be out of town.   They asked the “gay community” for help with it but got only one broken promise.

Since the Golden Age of AIDS has passed, Mz Mac gets few calls now.   We have 14 unoccupied plots and every time I think we have closed up shop, I get a call.

She called me to wish me a happy birthday last Monday.  And told me of a queen found dead in his apartment.  Intentional drug overdose.  His body had been there for days and his cats were eating his face and hands.  That has haunted me since I heard it.

How did his life come to this?  It rips my guts out.

In my isolated corner of the internet, I want to give some unsolicited advice to the “gay community”.  Stop throwing your sexuality in my face.  Stop demanding my respect.  Stop dancing in “pride” parades long enough to help someone in your “community” that needs help.  You might not be able to change what you are attracted to, but you can change the way you live your life.

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2 Responses to Reminiscing on Lezboz in the Golden Age of AIDS

  1. kris says:

    There was this guy from london that was in California on vacation the same time as me a while back. He was desperate for me to marry him so he could live in the States. He had money when I was broke and said he’d make it worth my while. But I avoid lying to the Government, as I don’t think I’d cope well with jail and or fines. Plus, I could not really picture myself as Mrs Spiros Fuckadopolous anyways.

    I could understand why Spiros loved California and wanted to live there, so I didn’t begrudge him being a bit too pushy on my vacation with my sister & her family.

    A few months later, I asked some mutual friends about Spiros, because I hadn’t seen him since California. He’d died of AIDS. Alone, in a hospital, because his rich father and family had disowned him.

    Then there was Dave, the guy who ran the cafe near my work. It was a shitty little cafe with 70s photographs on the wall of a guy dancing in a show. I found out later it was Dave in Vegas during his hey day. Dave had come back to London to care for his dying mom. His green card subsequently lapsed and he didn’t have to strength to go through the process all over again – so he made eggs and bacon in a London shit-hole. I went back to the cafe after I’d moved on to a different job. It’s now a barbershop. Dave died of AIDS, alone, and never made it back to Vegas. (his example is the reason I got my dual citizenship sorted)

    There were a lot of sad and lonely gay guys dying of AIDS in the 90s. If they were luckly, they knew a kind hearted lesbian who would roll up her sleeves and help. The trouble is, lesbians and gay men don’t always hit it off and don’t necessairly understand each other – so those kind of friendships are rare.

    It’s also rare generally for people to face such harsh realities – like friends dying. Maybe they’re at the movies, rather than at the hospital helping. It’s ironic that the generation who faced the fear and consequences of coming out have trouble facing death. Maybe many of us, gay and straight, have struggled to behave like grown ups.

    Hence, maybe why some people will blow their whistles at the parade but can’t face helping a friend in need. Mind you, straight people are just as likely to make themselves scarce when the shit hits the fan. When the chips are down, you can count on your family – and that’s it. If you’ve no family left, you are fucked. Unless, of course, you live in the land of socialized medicine, where someone gets paid to leave you sitting in your own filth.

    So God bless you Sloop for stepping up, several times.

    I anoint you an honorary lesbian. 🙂

  2. Mary Brockman says:

    What a sad story, Sloop.

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