Monday, January 25, 2010

Midnight in the Garden of the Great Prince

I had the strangest dream last night. I was at SATF - the site of my photo shoot with Lindsay Lohan - although it was much nicer than I remember it. It was still institutional. There were still fifty bunk beds, cold steel affairs, but the bedding was 1,000 thread count, and there were leather couches in the common room. And the men were naked. Beautiful and fresh and naked, give or take the occasional towel. It was rehab in a bath-house ... and I was enjoying the view.

Pocahontas was there, as were Ova the Top and Daddy, and Mount Gay. We had this great conversation going ... about the nature of addiction and the pleasure of being naked - getting to the root of our problems, something along the lines of a Greek symposium (without togas). I was about to say something when a very pretty man with delicate features and very long blond hair walked up. He hovered near Pocahontas, and I wondered only if they were going to have sex - which seemed to be moments, seconds away from happening ... and then I saw his tail.

I was not quite vestigial - more like a pronounced, and rather active, bouncy to-do, slightly left of his coccyx. Pocahontas was visibly disturbed, and I was just a little bit less disgusted ... but, of course, he wasn't standing naked in front of me. He turned toward me, and I saw both a very pronounced and pretty member ... and another tail, this one vestigial, on his chest, just south of his left nipple. It was a very odd deformity on an otherwise angelic, lovely man.

And then I woke up.

I have no idea from whence that dream came. I'd like to say it was some sort of manifestation resulting from having just memorialized my gay Dad ... but it probably had more to do with the large amount of vodka I drank the night.

the Czarina is gone; though he died on the 23rd of December - a full month ago - we were not able to have the memorial service until this past Saturday. All the best people were there ... and the Frenemy came, too. I sobbed openly as Warren's niece sang "Wayfaring Stranger" - a song about going home. Pastor Chuck voiced a meditation about going to be with the Lord, and I sobbed, the large lesbian beside me offered me her hand, and her ample bosom, as she held me like a child, and I cried and cried and cried.

The Winter Palace buzzed with decades of friends and stories, and the old stone house was resplendent. Thanks, almost entirely, to Pocahontas - so named because of a self-proclaimed Native American heritage, and his thick, waist-length, black hair. At nearly fifty, he still has the body of a 19 year old boy - which is perhaps part of the lure . the Great Prince has a new lady of the house. Pocahontas was there when a lot of vodka and a little Viagra inspired a night of freakin' and folly. The next day, he moved in - with two duffel bags and two dogs, both Chihuahuas.

My thoughts on the subject are somewhere between upset and indifference. Enmity may be in there somewhere, too; however, it is not my place to judge. As I observed some time ago - my tenure at the Palace is done. It's not the place it used to be, and I doubt it will ever be that place again. As I noted in the eulogy I wrote last week - the Czarina's death leaves a loud, large, loving (drunk) hole in all our lives. So, who am I to raise an eyebrow if the Great Prince needs a little comfort and someone to spoon.


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