Free Valencia by Michelle Tea

I dragged Iris with me. She collapsed on my futon with an astrology book. She was reading Aquarius and verifying my personality. She wanted to take a nap. No Way, I said, and put on Live Through This , loud. There was a free Tribe 8 show back at the parade, we had to catch it. Come On, Get Up, You Just Need Some Coffee. I threw on a housedress with a Strawberry Shortcake pattern. You know, the cartoon character. Come On Now, Get Up. Iris looked kind of sick, but I was determined to get the most out of this weekend. We got tall cups of iced coffee and headed back down toward the water. We stopped at a liquor store, which was out of beer, amazing us, but I grabbed some whiskey and stuck it in the pocket of my housedress. I can’t believe I’m with a girl in a Strawberry Shortcake housedress with apint of whiskey hanging out of the pocket , Iris smiled, like she was dreaming an entertaining little dream. I was happy to be with a girl who appreciated such things.
    What a blurry weekend. We missed most of the concert, went back to the Mission for more beer and coffee. I changed again and we went to Willa’s bar in the lower Haight. A real dive of a bar, dark and cramped with girls. Something was always wrong with the toilets. You’d wait in line forever, bursting with piss, and once inside the smelly little room you’d see that the bowl was thick with soaked clouds of tissue. One time I pulled up my skirt and sat on the little porcelain sink to piss there, and it fell right off the wall, a heave and a croak and I fell onto the mucky floor, the sink hanging from a broken pipe that spurted water. I pulled down my skirt and left the bathroom. That particular bathroom also had a urinal. One time a girl named Robin Hood tried to teach me to piss into it standing up. It was gross. She did it so well, whipped down her jeans and reached into her pussy like there was a secret button hidden among the folds. She pulled the skin tight, bucked her hips, and piss shot out in a fine, strong stream. Wow, I said. I knew I couldn’t do it. Robin Hood was telling me about a certain muscle up inside me, groggy and underused. If I could find it I could piss a hard arc like she did, and I’d also be able to ejaculate during sex and all kinds of fun stuff. I pulled down the black cotton leggings I wore beneath my dress, a fashion staple since high school. They hung in saggy loops at my ankles. I reached down between my legs and grabbedfingersful of skin and hair, yanked it taut. Come on girl, you can do it! Robin Hood and the five other drunk girls who had crowded inside to witness the spectacle cheered me on. There was an initial, promising squirt and then an infantile dribble of pee that splashed down my thighs and puddled into my leggings. Eeew. Someone handed me toilet paper and I mopped up. Keep practicing , Robin Hood advised, and I did for a while, in the shower and stuff, but I couldn’t get my parts to work right.
    But that night, after the Pride Parade, me and Iris walked gutsy into Willa’s bar, her territory. She was there lining up shots of tequila, she smiled at me all pleasant and friendly. I was dressed up like a superhero, big boots, Wonder Woman underwear, a wig and a gun. I shot Willa. Did I call you last night? she asked innocently. Yeah, You Sure Did. Well, she was blacked out. She didn’t remember any of it. She was full of shit. Ok, Sure, Whatever. We had to have a talk, it was more of a fight. She didn’t want me at her bar with Iris. She wouldn’t come right out and say it, she just made all these impossible rules, like that me and Iris couldn’t dance together or kiss or do anything. I started yelling at her. Why do you always pick a fight with me when I’m working?! she cried. Forget It, I’m Leaving. I grabbed Iris, and we split for this S/M fag club South of Market, very LA and pretentious. I was winding down and beginning to feel sick so we didn’t stay long.