Taking no prisoners. Including herself.

The seasons are changing.

She’s dressed in a short — what looks like leather — mini skirt, a few straps of fabic dangling down, like seaweed tendrils. She has on strappy heels, a black low cut shirt, and carries a matching purse looped around her thin wrist. She really is the epitome of style.

We call that “tenderloin swank.”

With the trusted SF Party Store as backdrop, ever-loyal in its recounting of the holidays present, Cop Number One questions her. To every question she responds with a defiant shrug, as if to say, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wear this skirt everyday. She points to something in her bag. Her wispy hair glows green in the halo of neon shamrocks and creepy balloon figures — an eerie ode to Saint Patrick. Cop Number Two gets out of the vehicle and stands on the other side of her. She’s flanked. Her broad shoulders are thicker than the taller of the two cops; yet, she appears surprisingly delicate.

All this happening outside the blur of the party store.

For a moment, she looks up toward my apartment, and I swear she shakes her head at me. I think she knows I’m watching. She raises her hands, palms upward, as if to say, what’d I do? She’s still looking in my direction.

The disco ball burns bright behind her.


I turn down the lights of my studio, just so I am less visible in the dark. I’m hoping in this way she can’t see me watching her; that I’m not able to be seen, typing and talking on the phone, and gawking, watching her life as Spectacle.

I take another sip of wine.

Sadly, I don’t move. I continue typing, talking, watching, in this sick perversion. Who am I to be able to watch her tragedy as entertainment? I told myself I’d end this project on a light note — more humor! I kept telling myself funnier is better!

but she keeps looking up at me. I know she sees me; sees the glare of my computer screen. Her gaze pierces through my window even as she’s asked to turn around, put her arms against the wall, spread her legs. I begin to mourn the end of Candy when — suddenly –

“Oh wow, they’re letting her go.”

She turns around. There is some gesticutlating, the cops are indicating to where she can walk, telling her she can’t turn left down deeper into the tenderloin, but has to turn right, up Larkin. She nods in understanding. The cops return to their vehicle, pull away, and Candy takes one last long sip of my presence with her eyes as she walks and walks and walks down Post, further down the block, her hips still swinging…


(what is this?)

§134 · February 22, 2006 · Love Project, Tranny Prostitute · · [Print]

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