Kate Bornstein, my writing mama
I think I fucked 4 people by dinner time. I was set to meet my friend and writing mother, Kate Bornstein, an old school transsexual author who I met around Halloween of 2009 in Las Vegas. We met at a place called Caravan of Dreams, a hep little vegetarian place in the East Village. I got there early (as I always do) and took to kicking around the streets, looking for trannies amidst the scensters and fags. Eventually I stumbled across a flower shop.
I’m a romantic, and have a flare for the theatrical, especially if it’s sexy. I asked the nice Korean woman for one deep red rose, and told her to leave the thorns on. She asked why and I told her, my girl is a bloodsport masochist and she might get bored during dinner. She smiled having no idea what I had said, and handed me the flower.
Kate found it a touching gesture. It seems she is very taken with an idea of me. Young and hot and capable, with a flare for art in action and words. We gave friendly smooches and headed down into what looked like an opium den for dinner. I told the waitress to have the chef order me something. Kate got a baby cocunt full of milk to drink, and I was brought some sort of vegan paella and a silly blended juice drink that took my nailpolish off.
We sat and spoke at length about art, and writing, touring, teen suicide, sex, love, and all sorts of horribly indecent things, unabashedly. We should have been arested for thought crime, I swear. I picked up the bill and my phone rang as we exited. We bid a fond adieu in the streets and I took off in a cab for the Times Square Martiott where a charming young man promptly came on me. We spent the rest of our time Casually chatting about musical theatre. I pretended to know what he meant while offering as insightful a retort as I could at each interlude. I shot a bunch of tour footage on the way back to my hotel, and promptly passed out.
Bus to Philadelphia in a few hours.. gonna try to sleep. PEACE!