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Paul is accustomed to these reactions, these ministrations; his body is public property, his face a test.
How could straight people, for instance, have real friends when their entire lives were an inhabitation of a myth?
Anyway, by the way, yes, I am a giant queer who threatens your pathetic sense of knowing anything about the world, tiny asshole?” Not catchy.
sometimes he did wonder if she liked liking what she liked.
Paul couldn’t understand desire that could be turned off, a circuit breaker routed through particular body forms.
Paul understood the feminist critique of the fashion world. He too was anti-fur and pro-positive images. He agreed models were too white and too skinny, but he loved these strange beings, their lost boyishness and their ennui and their dioramic emotional rearrangements.
What do you do after you fail the test and you’re still alive?
“You’re a changed man,” said Ruffles one morning, desultorily pouring cornflakes into a bowl. “I’m not a man,” said Paul.
Oh San Francisco, land of treats and portals.
Robin was more a portal than a person; if Paul could get through Robin he’d know something new on the other side.
He didn’t have time to read straight poets but he wanted to be nice.
