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All the Bad Sex I’ve Had, a very, very, very long book (pt 11) |
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Written by Suzy Soro
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Monday, 26 January 2009 |
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  The beginning of Chapter 3 in Suzy Soro's unreleased book.
Chapter 3 SPEEDO and GEORGE
All the Bad Sex I’ve Had, a very, very, very long book (Part 11) Speedo got his nickname from the days when he first left Barbados and came out, trolling the beaches of Miami wearing a tiny Italian bathing suit and a tiara. High on crystal meth. could never remember where we met. We knew it was in New York but the 80's were such a blur. But we eventually became best friends. In the years that I knew him, many things changed. Where we lived, who we dated, what we weighed. But many things never changed, like who we hated, who was hot and the odds of dying in an earthquake. Around and around the topics spun like an old 33 and a third record. Slowly the record turned until the grooves were worn as deeply as the nasolabial lines on Howdy Doody.
Speedo sold makeup in department stores while I sat home and tried to write, or act or anything that would pay the rent. He became like an oversized flannel shirt for me; I kept him around for my fat days.
Part of the problem of having a princess for a friend is that there can't be two princesses in a family. I think both the Hiltons and the Kardashians have proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt. And Speedo was my family. I was vain but if I didn't do a mud mask once a day my life didn't end. He would obsess about something like that for weeks. His life centered on the area from the neck up; his apartment centered on the area from the neck down. It was impossible to visit without cleaning up something, unless you enjoyed sitting on discarded jock straps.
I was afraid to use Speedo's bathroom, which in the female world is equivalent to going solo into a haunted house after dark. There were times he didn't even flush and what unspeakable germs lingered in the bottom of that toilet bowl was a secret someone should take to their grave. Speedo did not vacuum, dust or wipe off a counter top. He also never washed a dish, put on a new roll of toilet paper or did laundry yet he did have six hundred dollars of Clinique product, three hundred of which was dedicated to the delicate eye area alone.
And his home was not the only place Speedo ran amok. The passenger seat of his Nissan Sentra had a huge chunk of foam rubber missing from the top, like a Great White had cruised by and taken off a bite.
He wore tee-shirts from who knows what crime scene and his ripped and sagging briefs were hanging on to the waist band for dear life. Once his best gay friend and I had to do an underwear intervention for our Little Homo on the Prairie, during which Speedo cried and called us both very bad names.
Speedo was the only gay man I knew who had no taste. He thought people should accept him as he was. In the gay world? Don't think so. (to be continued) |
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Suzy Soro
