I woke up on a polyurethane mattress designed to prevent bedbugs. It stuck to my skin like adhesive and left bright red marks on my face. My three bunkmates and I shambled out of bed as the warden shouted that it was time to leave the shelter. Breakfast would be over in 30 minutes, and then they would kick us out by force if necessary.
I stumbled into the common room that smelled like bleach and choked down a breakfast of donated cold cereal. Some fellow guttersnipes chatted nearby.
"Hey, new guy," an outgoing transgirl at the end of the table called to me. Her name was Faerie. She wore lots of dark eyeliner, hot pink lipstick, and torn clothes. Her hair was dyed cyan. "We're having a friendly disagreement and need a third party tiebreaker. Who would win in a fight, Batman or Iron Man?"
Behind her, a grainy bootleg copy of Iron Man was playing on an old television, likely what prompted the discussion. Both Tony Stark and Bruce Wayne were billionaire tycoon vigilantes. As a comic book geek, I had already given this question a lot of thought.
"That depends on too many variables; location, context," I responded.
"No, no," spoke Faerie's friend, Alex. His voice was soft and deliberately lowered. He had no facial hair but short brown hair on top. Both of them were early in their transition. "Colosseum fight to the death. No reasons. No explanations. Who wins?" he demanded.
"In that case, probably Iron Man."
"That is horseshit!" Faerie slammed her fist on the table. "Batman would set off an electromagnetic pulse, kick Tony Stark's little bitch ass, and call it entertainment! Without his suit, he's just a narcissist."
"Sorry, baby, but that's Iron Man 2, Batman 1." Alex's taunt was said with affection, which confused me, but then I figured it out. They were two trans people going in opposite directions together. It was so charming I couldn't help but smile.
"You, sir, strange new person, are so wrong!" Faerie pointed her finger at me, but I wasn't ready to concede yet.
I responded, "In a sudden death cage match, the Invincible Iron Man would blow up Batman with his many guided missiles. Tony Stark is a genius, but Bruce Wayne is a mastermind. If he had the time to devise a plan of attack, Batman would win."
"That sounds like Bruce Wayne 2, Tony Stark 1, peach," Faerie shot back at Alex.
"He said both and neither. Screw it. It doesn't matter, anyway."
They went back to talking to each other and ignored me. I stretched my neck to watch the movie; when a small tangle of a girl, who happened to be in my line of sight, looked at me and yelled, "The fuck are you looking at, bitch?"
"Nothing." I twitched and tried to act normal. "I was just watching the movie."
"It's a piece of shit." The girl stumbled to sit across from me. Alex and Faerie got up and left, and I thought about following them. Instead, I tried acting casual, like I get verbally accosted all the time. I'm an expert at this, my body language said. The effect seemed to make the crazy girl both unsure and derisive, but she was too dull to notice. We locked eyes, and I asked her name.
She blinked several times in surprise but finally said, "Jesse. Jes. Call me Jes."
"I'm Sebastian. You can call me Bastian. What are you in for?" I asked, trying to be jocular.
"Ran away when I was fifteen. Been homeless ever since." Her head bobbed, and she glared at me as she said it, daring me to offer advice or condemnation.
Instead, I asked her about her life. Jes told me when she was twelve, her father gave her meth and then raped her. It went on for years until she ran away. She made friends with a string of sleazy men and kept to herself over the next several years, rapidly losing her grip on sanity.
She had been an addict since before she knew what the word meant, her life was destroyed by the very person who should have protected her. To compound the injustice of it, the world feared and avoided her. I might have been the first person in weeks to ask her about her day. She didn't make sense all the time, but I think she was grateful for the company. She needed help, someone to love and take care of her. In a few months, I would see Jes' picture on a wall and discover that she had died of a heroin overdose.
Most people look away from poverty. I didn't have the luxury of looking away. It was my existence. Fortunately for me, I've never felt at home. My sense of 'otherness' worked in my favor on the streets. I wasn't like them, or so I told myself, so I didn't stay long or make friends. The few I was friendly toward, I kept at bay. Instead, I spent more time on Castro Street, cruising and meeting people.
One night I went to a toga party at an acquaintance's house. Only men attended, and all were nearly nude. "Paper Planes" by M.I.A. was playing over the house speakers, and young men were dancing in the open spaces between furniture.
I didn't know anyone there, and I was still shy and soft-spoken, so I kept to the edges and sipped from my red Solo cup, feeling nervous and full of adventure. It wouldn't be long before someone came up to talk to me, so I watched the dancers and tried to act bored but not too bored.
Before long, a dashing young man stepped forward to greet me. He was handsome in a way I'd never seen before, with narrow, golden eyes and short, auburn curls.
"Hi, I'm August," he said and thrust out his hand formally. His voice was low and precise. He wore a toga made of military camouflage material.
"Hi, I'm Sebastian," I said softly, and my heart skipped when he smiled at me.
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"Are you here with anybody?" he asked.
"No. I don't know anyone here. The owner just invited me online. I wasn't sure I'd come."
"Well, now you know someone here."
I blushed and smiled. He scared me, he was handsome and friendly. I so wanted him to like me.
"Are you here with anyone?" I parroted. I sucked at making small talk, but I knew to ask questions. People love talking about themselves.
"Yeah, I'm with my boyfriend and our friends," he answered. My smile diminished imperceptibly. "We noticed you over here sitting by yourself, and I thought I'd lend a hand. Come, sit by me."
He was so gracious, I could hardly refuse. So I followed him to sit on a curved, white, leather couch. Multiple gay boys were sprawled out and nuzzling each other in a way that sent blood rushing to my dick. Introductions were shared, and August sat next to me, his thigh touching my thigh. Many of the men looked me up and down. August's boyfriend, Travis licked his lips and leaned forward to speak. He was nearing middle age, with a pale, pinched face and a confident voice.
"So, Sebastian, we were just discussing how Mayor Gavin Newsom signed a bill into effect, and we can get married now. Isn't that wonderful?"
"I suppose. I read about it some, but to be honest, it feels weird to me that marriage is our main political issue. From what I've seen, Queer communities are crippled by medical expenses, drug addiction, and homelessness. Did you know over 40 percent of the homeless youth in America are Queer? Their families disown them, or they run away, and then they fall through the cracks. Or worse, they're sent to gay conversion camps, which are effectively torture centers. Why aren't we focusing our efforts there, instead of on an issue that mostly affects affluent people?"
Travis blinked and cocked his head to the side as if he heard an unfamiliar noise.
"I think as you get older, you'll understand that we're fighting for dignity. We're demanding a seat at the table. We can't fix those issues if we aren't respected and a part of the decision-making process."
I flushed with embarrassment. The first thing I said at a party was childish. I sipped my drink and shrank into the couch. Dante, a sharp-dressed young man with luscious black locks and a roguish face, spoke up, "I think I hear what Bastian's saying. Marriage doesn't help homeless teenagers."
"Yes," admitted Travis, his voice rising, "but that's beside the point. Our fight is about common law. It's for human dignity and being heard-"
"Let's change the subject," loudly interrupted a bleached blonde chubby man who called himself Starr. As he spoke, he caressed the thigh of a nearly unconscious man who rolled his head away and grunted. "Sebastian," he continued, "You're new here, aren't you? Where are you from?"
"Farmville, Washington. I only arrived in San Fran two months ago."
"Whoa," Dante interjected. "First thing you gotta learn is, nobody says San Fran. It's San Francisco or The City. SF is acceptable, and Frisco might be okay, depending on who you ask, but never San Fran."
"Oh," I said meekly. "Thanks for letting me know."
"No biggie," he smiled, and our eyes locked. "Do you smoke weed?" He asked.
"I've smoked twice before. I like it, but I also kind of don't.
"Well, I've got some smoke if you want to join me outside."
"Yeah, okay." My heartbeat jumped and skipped. Dante seemed effortlessly charismatic. His every word and gesture had style. I liked him at once. We went out to the veranda, and I smoked for the third time in my life. My vision was beginning to sway. My fears and inhibitions melted away. Dante and I flirted for a while. I can't remember what we talked about, but I know I dodged most of his questions. He was so charming and attractive. I wanted him to like me. If he knew the truth about me, he would find me a fraud. I didn't belong in his world any more than I belonged in Jes' world. Indeed, I had more in common with her than I did with him.
When Dante noticed I was being evasive, his questions became more pointed. I was a game to him, a mystery to solve, but I wasn't having it. When he asked where I lived, I leaned in, kissed him, and said, "your place is closer."
He toked his joint and looked at me bemusedly. "So eager. You don't want to wait a little? Aren't you afraid I won't respect you in the morning?"
I thought about it for a moment and took a step toward him, grabbing the joint from his fingers. "I don't much care either way," I bluffed and puffed. "It's up to you. I turn into a pumpkin in a few minutes, anyway."
"How come? You gotta curfew?"
"Something like that, yeah. I could spend the night over there, or I could spend the night with you. Which would you prefer?"
He took the joint back and considered me with curiosity and fear. "I just met you. What if you're an assassin or a spy or something?"
I laughed. "That is ridiculous. Do I look threatening? What, you wanna frisk me? Pat me down?" I said with a wink.
He laughed with me. "That might put my mind at ease, yeah."
So I took a step closer, held his hands, and put them on my chest. "Let me know if you find a wire. I'll be so embarrassed."
He grinned nervously and let his hands explore my body, my arms, my back, and finally grab my ass. Dante pulled me in and kissed me right. I felt his erection through his jeans.
He lived a mile away up a hill. We stopped several times to kiss and grope each other. The sex was fantastic. It was the first time I enjoyed bottoming. All the other times, it was hot but uncomfortable, but with Dante, he fit. It felt great. We did it three times that night and into the morning. In the afterglow, I told him the truth about me. I was afraid he'd move away, but he didn't.
In the morning, he woke me with breakfast in bed. Homemade french toast with maple syrup and a side of fruit. I was mystified. Never in my life had someone done such a thing for me, and I fell madly in love with him in that instant, though he never knew it. He showered while I ate and inspected his collection of books. I recognized a few. I knew one from TV, The Audacity of Hope, Barack Obama's campaign memoir.
The 2008 US presidential election was in full swing. On the right, John McCain, war veteran, maverick (whatever that meant). On the left, still unfolding, an epic primary battle between the future first Black president versus the future first woman nominated by a major party, a clash of titans, Barack Obama vs Hillary Clinton.
Political journals, magazines, biographies, and studies were scattered across his desk, coffee table, and bookshelves. Dante was a news junkie. He returned wearing nothing but a towel and a thick mane of chest hair. Noticing my curiosity, he asked, "Have you been following the election?"
"A little. Not much. Seems everyone is sick of Bush and the Republicans, so whoever the Democrats choose will probably go on to be president. Who do you think will win?"
"Oh, Clinton, definitely," he said with confidence. "All the polls, everyone says the same thing. Obama won a few early states, but Clinton will sweep the western states. She's got the political influence. It's all about who you know."
That sounded right. He was so well-read and mature, though only twenty-nine. I thought he was everything I wanted to be. He knew people. He knew stuff. He read things and brushed his teeth every night and morning, just like you're supposed to.
"Anyway, I've got a class in an hour," he dropped the towel to the ground and pressed himself against me. "Plenty of time." He kissed me. I leaned away in his arms.
"I need a shower, too. Plus, I just ate, and I haven't used the bathroom yet. I'm not ready."
"That's okay," he said while bouncing on the balls of his feet, "I cleaned out in the shower. It's your turn to fuck me."
I was an insecure top and didn't last long, but Dante was kind about it. I showered and left, and we didn't talk for over a year. He ghosted me over text.
My imagination went into overdrive, offering explanations why he didn't want me. Why I was unworthy. I would lay in bed for hours with my mind screaming. The only peace I could find was when I closed my eyes and returned to Eden.