Sucking Famous Dick on the Rooftop of the Omni Hotel in Downtown Austin During SXSW 2011

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I really want some smoked brisket on the stroll. Some soul watering pulled pork tacos, BBQ beef sandwich, a Frito pie from Stubb’s, meat sticks on the street corners, deep fried skins with melted cheese and chili, grilled stuff from the food trucks. Wide eyes, it’s my first time in the presence of genuine southern BBQ.

But no time to eat cuz I’m click-clacking the beat with my friend Jimmy. He’s kind of a famous a rock star, tall like me– taller even– devilishly handsome with a Manic Panic red bouffant and a tight-leopard print, bon-bon Paul Bunyan vibe.

We arrive at this dust-caked drive-in movie theater venue where we’re shuttled backstage. Street style bloggers take our picture and ask what we’re wearing, make us smooch for the camera. Front of the line, side of the stage, comps, stamps, wristbands, red faces, green rooms… I feel famous: a moll, a basketball wife, a girl next door. After the show he has some real photoshoots and interviews to get to, so we exchange numbers and let’s hang out later? I feel the nipping giddiness, but past-Jimmy-precedent has taught me the value of managing my expectations. Giving into excitement feels like a set-up.

We met last year when I interviewed him for this homo culture mag CROTCH. We’d talked about the importance of pop hooks while hungry fans snapped photos and his manager bought us whiskey cokes. He’d said his father was a preacher in a small town and I’d confided that my dad was the chairman of an Indian reservation, so we’d both lived these weird public lives in rural communities where our gayness had the safety net of a well-respected, supportive core.  Not a broad acceptance, but sort of free to be queeny at home, at least.

Like an idiot I fell the fuck in love with this guy. A touring musician. From out of town. He was living city to city; his world growing, getting more exciting– he was doing exactly what he wanted to. I was on the isle of dead end dates with our transcript, moleskin, tape recorder memories. The article I wrote never even went to print, and with Jimmy out of touch, I thought: maybe I’d dreamed the whole thing. Maybe I’d made it all up? Without consistency, everything seems like fiction. Somewhere, trees don’t loose their leaves. Somewhere we get In-n-Out every day, and snow only happens in our imaginations.

I’m vegged in bed with some pork shoulder and a bottle of white wine, watching a Golden Girls marathon on the Hallmark channel, when I get his text.

-finished my last show wandrin round downtown. where u b?-

The bars are spilling over, so we walk and talk. It’s almost last call and groups of sun-pummeled dudes who’ve been drinking since noon roam the streets, giving the city a post apocalyptic vibe. They laugh, ask us what the hell are we wearing, are we girls or guys? I get panicky but Jimmy is unflappable. He squeezes my hand, brushes away his one rosewater bang, laughs. Isn’t this hilarious? Aren’t people so funny? He tells me that seeing us lifted makes men want to take us down. That this is never going to change, so why wilt? Head up. Shoulders back. Chin strong. Legs out.

He says there’s a pool on the roof of his hotel– 60 stories, opulent, made of marble and silk and flower stalks. It’s 3am and I peek over the ledge, hold my breath as Austin unfolds for us: Highway lights, bridge lights, a river, the sky– there are so many things. We lay poolside and chit-chat while I nuzzle and swoon, the little spoon.

I feel honey-braised. Magical. Swelling. Full.