The sun began its slow descent to the Pacific. I wandered the few blocks to the #28 stop on the Trolley hoping to make it back to Joel’s before dark. At twilight, downtown sweats unsavories in beads, the others who cook, clean, run errands. Walking by you tense a little. I put my cell phone in my pocket.

6:36 P.M. and the tail end of rush hour pedestrians were grouped in stations at the ends of the trolley platform on both sides of the street. A man in a blue, pinstripe, shortsleeve button-up looked at someone not there, talking, angry. I crossed the street to the other platform, the one that would take me North to Joel’s. His voice followed me.

“Feel sorry for you …. cellulite …. Maniacs…”

He paced the platform, tired humans made show to not notice, buried in books, trolley maps. A black man watched, bemused.

Usually, ravers have an arm on their hip, a Bible held close to their kidney (purified by osmosis). He grasped a baseball cap.

“Thank you very much …. FUCK OFF! …. bastard sharp …. if you don’t believe it …. sun rises and sets …. son rises back again …. FUCKERS …. I don’t …. no kind …. including you…”

I scribbled madly, trying to write it all down, every word, prophecy-tainted, yelling at the world, at me.

“…. STEALING MY THOUGHTS. STOP IT …. you think I don’t know exactly what you do …. keep them …. hide more…” He yelled across the tracks towards me. “FUCKING FORGET IT YOU STUPID SON OF A BITCH … shoot me … FUCKING WORLD…”

I put my notebook up and buried myself in a book. He paced back towards the other end of the platform.

On the trolley, I glanced from face to face, guilt drawn like shrouds across commuter countenances, everyone complicit in a collective sin of omission. The trolley rocked gently. Staring out the window across the aisle, the sea bled gold where the sun sliced downward. Tomorrow, I’d leave at dawn, hop a plane for home: the son rises back again.

“Oh fuck me now I’m hot”

There’s some punctuation in there. A comma, maybe. A period. Not things normal man considers once such sweet sounds of sluttitude slither into your consciousness.

But I am no normal man, and I lay there wondering what kind of punctuation she had intended; who was the subject of her imperative?

I was half asleep when I heard her. It was the first night Debbi stayed over and we crashed innocently, sleeping next to each other, spooning. She smelled so good, felt so warm, and it’d been a while since I’d been laid, a long while. It’s no surprise I slipped into a dream filled with Debbi performing various adult situations. I woke to find myself grinding against her backside.

I’m not necessarily a prude. I prefer to consider myself polite, so I hoped to all hell she’d slept through the humping, and then, just as I was hoping, for the sake of politeness, that she hadn’t noticed the vibrant swelling pressed against her ass, she called out:

“oh fuck me now I’m hot”

I really wasn’t sure what to do. I mean, I know what I wanted to do. But, did she mean “Oh! Fuck me, now. I’m hot.” She said it in a distant manner. Had she wakened to some timid, undersexed, fool dry humping her ass and felt pity, casting off some dirty talk so I’d spend myself as soon as possible and she could go back to sleep?

Or maybe the pseudo-apathy was because she was half asleep, and she really did mean “Oh! Fuck me now! I’m hot!” I let this thought dance in my head, and though I don’t like to admit it, I pressed against her closer, seeing if she would send some secondary signal. Like maybe something equally slutty to really get me going.

And certainly, if she’d meant “Oh fuck me now! I’m hot!” and she’d have rolled over and presented herself there would’ve been no question, but the night was hot and humid, the end of summer in Houston…

What if she’d meant “Oh, fuck me. Now, I’m hot,” as in it’s hot and humid in here; and not, some non-aggressive loser humping my ass turns me on.

Was it “…fuck me now. I’m hot…” or “…fuck me. Now I’m hot…” Or worse yet, I was half-asleep, when I heard her. Had it been her, or had it been Adult Situation Debbi from my dream, the fantasy bleeding over into reality during those twilight moments between sleep and waking. And then an even worse realization tip-toed into my mind: what if she’d been dreaming, and called out in her sleep. What if it was she having the erotic dream? But, then again, I was struck with punctuation and whether “fuck” was used imperatively towards me, begging sweet, hedonistic action, or more colloquially, intended for an uncaring world and the oppressive humidity.

The room was turbid, and I was turgid. Her breathing remained deep, slow, and the humidity drew a thin skein of sweat over our skins. I leaned across and hovered over her, glancing myself across her thigh, watching closely for any sense of waking, any sense of desire, any longing stretching across the distance to meet mine.

I reached my hand out and turned on the air conditioner. As the window unit shuddered to life, I lay behind her and inched my groin a polite distance away from her ass, smelled her hair once more, and drifted back to sleep.

Gene Loves Jezebel followed. After five decades on the stage, the lead singer played the crowd like another instrument.

Fantastic energy. And despite the age gap, the kids seemed to know the catalog, surprisingly.

Third time I’ve seen them and best show yet.

This Cold Night was next. Sad old beanpole (in a beanie!) was surprisingly spry and chipper.

Just him on stage, so the energy lagged a little.

DI played “Blasphemous rumors” after his set, and I think that God has a sick sense of humour.

First band: Rosegarden Funeral Party, dark rock from Dallas. Took the sound peeps half the set to de-muddy the sound, but they were great regardless. (Still couldn’t hear the guitar.)

I’ve wanted to see them for a while and am glad I got here early. Hopefully they’ll play Houston again soon.