My Dancer Diary

location: 2005

mood: nostalgic

SO, TELL US A LITTLE ABOUT YOURSELF...

I wish sometimes Diane Keaton was my mother. She laughs all the time and wears funky outfits. In 1975 she drove herself to the Oscars and parked in the theater’s underground garage. Once, on “Oprah” she read boring but cute letters from her kids out loud.

I like parking garages. I used to have sex in my ex-boyfriend’s parking garage, the basement of a fifteen story high-rise in Westwood, Los Angeles. We also did it on the roof and almost on the balcony of his penthouse but the building was fifty years old and I was afraid the wrought iron railing would break.

He tied me up naked to other balconies, hotels mostly. In Florida the sea air had rotted some sliding door casings and ours fell three stories, shattering glass on the sidewalk below. At the Four Seasons in Austin I had a view of the river. At least half the other guest room balconies had a view of me but I didn’t see anyone step out. A security guard had been posted outside our door because my boyfriend’s reputation preceded him. They made us promise not to throw any parties and let us stay one night. They didn’t think to put a guard on our balcony.

We did it in the baby changing room of an airport in Australia once. The employees were on strike and the place was nearly vacant. That was some of the best sex we ever had. We had a threesome with another guy in the bathroom of an airplane once. We picked him up in Coach Class on a long flight to Tokyo. He was going to work on an oil rig for six months. We shared our cocaine with him because my boyfriend had brought too much for a fourteen hour flight.

We had mostly kinky sex, with long drawn out scenarios and roles to play. Often I was a kitten made to crawl and “mew.” Usually I was tied up, hooked to the ceiling or bedposts, sometimes blindfolded. Rarely allowed to move without permission. I missed straight sex a lot—heat, passion, abandon. Connection. For some reason, all that stuff intimidated him. I fucked his road manager for exactly one year. Then I dumped him over dinner at a Greek restaurant on Ventura Blvd so I’d have more time to smoke crack.

I live on the other side of the railroad tracks from Peter Pan – no lie (it’s a putt-putt golf course). This is fitting because I did the opposite of “never growing up.” Instead, I was an old lady by the age of four. I share a birthday with Lois Lane and Evil Knievil.

I shared a lover once with Lois Lane, aka Margot Kidder. He was an artist and a fabulous fuck. He had eyes greener than margaritas, a slight build and a huge cock. He built a sort of mansion with earth and stone floors by the river. He dug a natural swimming hole for a pool where fish would swim with me at night. He lived in a silver trailer in the front yard but when I stayed over we’d sleep in the house. He’d cook me pasta sauce and omelets with herbs from the garden growing out of the living room floor.

I know more about men and women than anyone really should. And I know nothing at all about coupling. All about bondage, but not bonding. By the time I find middle ground I’ll be too set in my ways for anything to grow in it. I don’t have a green thumb. My cat survives despite me.

I’m like my cat, a survivor, damaged but you can’t tell to look at her. A lifetime spent prowling on her own, in the elements, now she just wants a little attention and pampering. Actually a lot, but I make time. She likes when I sing to her. At least I think she does. I sing a couple Bee Gees tunes, also Amazing Grace and Somewhere over the Rainbow because I know the words. Men used to sing to me. Songs have been written about me.

Once, when I saw my ex after a long time apart, we had two minutes to hug and chat before he took the stage at Stubbs Barbeque. He said his wife was too jealous of me for us to remain in contact. When I sat in the audience watching him play, he looked into my eyes, shook his head sadly and sang to me, “Turn your pretty head and walk away.”

A lot of my life is like a movie. One of those really good, obscure dramas that no one rents because it looks like it might involve too much thinking on their part. I guess I’m high maintenance. I should have subtitles, but I don’t think it would help.