Lifelong neglect wears down the most brilliant spirit.
--Garbagecan Sally, circa 1979
I have fought for a seat @ the table & now their taking away the table.
There is a thing called Justice. This concept was imparted to the dim minds of human beings @ least 5,000 years ago—or much more. It is a spirit sent from God, (Goddess, Allah, Shema, Great Spirit, Higher Power, The Light, et al.) This is a most precious, and powerful spirit. All throughout our nation America, we see the grey stone courthouses of the city, state, & federal jurisprudence, dedicated to administering the law, in the pursuit of Justice. Sometimes, Justice is circumvented---prevented from materializing itself, because of corrupt lawyers, or judges, or witnesses to the case who have been bribed, intimidated, or other roadblocks. We should cherish this spirit, we should weep for her, love her, uphold her honor, —this Justice! The day Justice disappears from the land, it will be like the sun going behind a permanent cloud, never to shine fully again, leaving the land dark, gloomy, and unfruitful—and remaining so, until once again Justice appears to show her shining face!
My Dear Children, 500 years ago we, The People, were talking in secret of how to depose Kings & Queens. Today, it’s the Korporate Kapitalist Military Complex, The Rich, and Dictators whom we must depose for they are anti-life.
Ok, well, enough of the serious stuff, now, here’s a note on the lighter side. I remember the Great Sex Club Raid. Here is that story of the Flaming Cake:
Him, & his partner of those days, Jasmin, went out for the night; they drove across the Bay Bridge headed towards the Big Bright Lights of the City of San Francisco—and their destination was a Women’s Sex Club. It was a floating club a dike held @ different venues, most owned, or leased by Gay Men for their own sex parties, which the dikes would take over for one evening a week-- in the SOMA (South Of Market, warehouse district). This was the second time the couple had attended this particular location of the club for it moved around frequently. A floating Sex Club. The couple was in for a shock as they went up to the entrance for there on the street, some dikes told them: THE POLICE ARE GOING TO RAID THE CLUB—THE POLICE SAY THIS CLUB IS ILLEGAL! Well Red wasn’t having it, and grabbing Jasmin’s hand proceeded to stomp all the way up a long flight of stairs of the old warehouse to the club on a high-up second floor. Near the top a line of women was going in, paying their admission money to a leather dike bouncer. Once inside, there was a thick throng of a few hundred women milling about in a common area; there again they heard this rumor that the cops had been thru earlier to tell them the club was being shut down—because of a Fire Marshal ban—and Red was pissed. This sex club took place on two levels. The first level was a general space with lockers down a hall if you wanted to check your stuff. There was a stage in back w/bawdy entertainment. All the serious sex play was up one more flight of stairs. Up there were several huge industrial-sized rooms. The floors covered w/dozens & dozens of mattresses, and women sexing on them in various positions & doing various nefarious acts. In one wall of these rooms, windows faced the bleak hollow night of the factory distinct outside. Upstairs here, a few couples and groups had begun to play, but the majority of women were still back down on the second floor; a great amount of them, still walked around in a state of uncertainty, due to the rumor. A strange sight could be seen outside the parameter of the milling crowd of lesbians talking, gossiping, making plans for what & who they intended to do later that evening; -- against the wall in a corner on a tiny triangle size table was a miserable cake. A sad, 2-layer fallen cake, w/icing sloppily applied—pink, turquoise & yellow. It had a handful of candles stuck haphazardly in it, which were on fire.
A crowd of women had gathered around the young owner to question her about what was happening, about the Fire Marshal and the police and the threat of a raid. She said:
Aw hell, just ignore them! They’re just posturing! They won’t arrest anybody! They can’t! It’s a trumped-up charge! I’ve got my business license—its right over there! It’s hanging on the wall over that cake! The police want to shut down all the sex clubs in the City because of HIV-AIDS. So they sent the Fire Chief up and he says there’s not enough fire exits, but I think there’re enough. If there was a fire there’s the front stairs, a fire escape on the side, and you can jump out of the windows in back onto the roof of the place next door to escape. Its just a harassment tactic. The fire department & the cops hate lesbians!
But they’re saying this sex club is illegal!
That’s why were not calling our event a sex club!
No! We’re calling it a Birthday Party!
A birthday party?
Yeah! See that cake in the corner!
And there was the sad miserable cake, it sat, slowly it’s candles were burning down, everyone was ignoring it, and nobody was singing Happy Birthday.
The girls were talking about this police raid business, nervously shifting from one booted foot to another, aimlessly slapping their riding crops against their chaps; however many of them, duffle bags of toys slung over their black leather jacketed shoulder begun to make their way up to the 3rd floor to begin play.
And there in the common area, this pitiful cake is sitting all alone by itself against the wall; and here’s hundreds of women carrying handcuffs & chains, and clanking around in big boots & biker caps, trying to figure out if they should stay & play, or be cautious and leave, & just go down the street to a dike bar & drink themselves silly. Then in back, in the show room, on stage the show had begun —it was a Fisting Demonstration, so called but actually it was a Fisting Contest. A helper was passing out lube & gloves. The first contestant climbed up to the stage, took off all her clothes until she was naked but for a pair of orange sox, then pulled on a pair of blue latex gloves, made a fist w/one hand—thumb under fingers-- and making quite a production of slathering lube on it, & began fisting herself.
Then the next contestant climbed up, and then another one, and soon their naked bodies contorted on stage gyrating & groaning accompanied by garish music, like a circus, like a Fredrico Felinni movie. So the whole crowd who was left, who hadn’t gone upstairs to play, had rushed off from the front, back here to watch, abandoning the sorry cake and its flaming candles—when suddenly a loud commotion broke out down in the street, some gals rushed up front and gazed down the wide staircase, a crowd of dikes downstairs was hollering:
IT’S THE COPS!
A phalanx of police officers—in blue uniforms—including a lot of female cops came storming up the wide front steps 3 abreast, women were squealing, hurrying out, running back down the stairs pressed against the banisters, but no cops attempted to stop them. Line after line of cops charged up the stairs; about 50 of them, they were prepared for trouble. They marched into the common area, grabbed the owner & cuffed her, and read her her rights. By this time the entire floor of women was pouring back down the steps swinging their toys, floggers, accouterments, racing back out into the night.
–The police didn’t buy her story that it was anybody’s birthday party! –Not to mention 400 women inside w/another 75 milling around downstairs in the street—all for one little cake!
So that’s what they got the owner on charges of running a disorderly house, being in violation of the Fire Marshal code—and creating a fire hazard by having an untended Flaming Cake burning against the wall!
Am so exhausted editing HO STROLL, and neglecting daily NOTES —& that’s how I make a living! Urrhguhh! A pile of ‘em sitting waiting to be typed, worked, edited, & added into the chapters of my Journal—currently, BLOSSOMING #3. Aughrrrughhh!!
All that writing all those years, technology has caught up to me. Release my work en-masse. Now all that is needed is to raise money, bit by bit, to OCR/PDF all those remaining manuscripts typewritten prior to 2007, & turn them into digitals. 53 of ‘em. More or less invisible & unknown, and the world must be facilitated in seeing them—on ebook--cheap!
All material copyrighted by Red Jordan Arobateau. 2011.
Excerpts from his ongoing Journals.
(See lulu.com to get a copy or read some of it for free on Google.)
Buy Red Jordan Arobateau’s books on Amazon.com; Lulu.com; his art books
w/paintings & text at Blurb.com, and his fine arts prints at Fineartamerica.com.