Sex, Death, and Babysitting


Today I went to the Montmartre Cemetery.

It just so happens to be right next to the sex district.

I understand this, actually.



It is a natural reaction to death, sex, perpetuating the human race after all, we may be logical, but we are just animals at times.

Animals that like latex.

Good lord there was some window displays that I could do without having seen.  That being said, there was a little tingle below on the occasion.

I have not had a lover in Paris.

Although, I was reminded of Philippe from the last time I was in Paris and our little rendezvous in Pere LaChaise.  We did not have sex in the cemetery, he would have if I had said the word, there is no doubt in my mind.

Seems like I could get a little action whenever I wanted, if I was willing to accept the offers that are constantly being lobbed my way.  I actually get more notice here than I did in Oakland, different, the attention is different, but the intent is the same.

Hey, Universe, I am flattered, but I would like a date please, a relationship please, some one to not just snuggle with on the Metro, but someone to talk with too.

I want so much.

A job.



Actually, the happiness comes more often than not.  Especially when I get the hell out-of-the-way.

I said no to an offer today, not of the sex kind, I just ignored the ask and passed the shop the man was leering out of on my way to the tombstones.

No, I said no to a nanny gig.

Despite them being friends of some one whom I treasure very much, some one whom has given me a lot of help.  The ask was too little.  I wanted to say yes and I wanted to say yes to people please, her, not me.

I stuck to my guns.

Uncomfortable saying no.

I do, however, have a little gig tomorrow.

It is back with the family in the 7th.  It is longer than it was to originally be.  They have family in visiting for the holidays and I said, absolutely, I can help out more.

I will be baby sitting tomorrow and Friday.

As well as New Years Eve and the 3rd of January.

I also have an interview for a part-time gig on the 29th.

Then, there is the proposal I want to throw my room-mate.  I want to trade some work with him for rent.  I offered at one time to be an assistant to him, back in San Francisco, another age ago, it would seem.

I am going to bring it up again.

He could say no and I will just have to owe him rent.

Unless a Christmas miracle happens, I will not have rent for January.

I have had miracles happen before, so I will not discount the possibility.

In fact, as I wandered through the sexy sexy area and into the serenity of the cemetery, the sepulchres, the mausoleums, the tilt of tombstones, the moss creeping down the stones, the paths between grave sites, the flowers wilting in stone vases, the caw of ravens in the trees, the whisper footed cats darting in and out of the alleyways, none of my worries are so important, are they?

The death about me.

The sex about me.

I am just a small part of a large whole.

This life, it is short.

I can see that.

I stood spellbound by a grave.



The coin of his face imprinted on the cross.

Did he worry?  Did he have anxiety?  Did he seize the day?

I think he did.

I think I shall.

Of course, I forget this, I walk out the cemetery, back through the loud shouting red leather thrill of furred hand cuffs and Moulin Rouge sex-aterias and flesh shows, table dancing, lap dancing, private shows, and over to the Naturalia grocery store.

How funny.

A bio store right in the middle of the sex street.

I went in, bought a box a tee, a bag of oatmeal, and some soy milk.  I am going to give the dairy a little break, my skin has been a little off kilter and getting that out of my system helps.

See, that’s where I go.

One moment, in the middle of the cemetery telling myself as I look at the sky and the wet dark trees that I am to live and get out there and not worry.

The next moment, in the middle of a grocery store aisle worrying about acne, after all who wants to date a girl with a spot on her chin?

The guy right outside the door leaning out at me with a can of malt beverage and a lopsided grin, “psssst.”

After the walk and the sex and the shopping, that too is a part of denying death, let me buy some things, food, to stave off the dying.

I came home and made myself a nice hot lunch, then I gathered my fears and anxieties and put them in my bag and said, “do you mind waiting for a few minutes?”

I called the person who had recommended the job and said I did not take it.

I could hear the disappointment in her voice and I stumbled about, awkwardly, stupidly, and I acknowledged it.

It was a most uncomfortable conversation, especially when I realized I was trying to please her.


That gets me into such trouble.

She gets to have her experience and I mine, and we can have conflict of ideas and still work together to do the deal.

It is ok.

Upside down and discombobulated by the thought of turning down a gig for 8 Euro an hour.


Remember the death bit?

Your anxieties are for naught, love, now go write.

I gathered the laptop, put on my coat, draped a scarf about my neck and went to Odette and Aime.  I edited my book.  I drank a creme.  I got lost in the world of the Greyhound bus and the bus stations.

Remember when they had television screen monitors built into the chairs?

I wrote about not having anything but $48 in my pocket, a few packs of cigarettes, a can of Pringles, a navel orange, and a Skor candy bar–nowhere to live, not a second pair of shoes, no glasses, no extra underwear, not a bike to ride, not a cup to drink from.

I have come a little ways from there.

I looked up after an hour and saw the darkening sky and realized once again, I am exactly where I am supposed to be and the worry and the anxiety are not worth it.

The moss on the tombstone will be worn to a soft green nap, my bones brittle and broken, my words the only thing that may stand the test of any kind of time.

That is my truth, at least for this moment.



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