Barely Legal Covid-19

It was unprecedented. Saturday was my last shift for the rest of this month because my club and every other club in California shut down to combat the spread of the Coronavirus. I felt as if I was cycling through the stages of grief.

First denial. Tuesday I thought everyone was overreacting. I couldn’t imagine what seemed to be no worse than any other garden variety flu, could put a sudden and encompassing halt to everything from NYC to LA. First Coachella was cancelled. I hadn’t thought it was possible. My boyfriend who works in the music industry texted me in disbelief. No way. Nothing stops the flow of money in our capitalist empire, not even war. Then Trump announced limitations to travel between the US and Europe. There’s nothing America has a greater hard on for than visiting our European ancestral roots. Nobody blinks when we restrict travel to the Middle East or Africa, but Europe? Still, the gravity of the situation hadn’t settled in. I kissed my boyfriend goodbye, expecting to see him again on Monday. By Wednesday, we both realized this probably would not be the case.

Wednesday, denial continued its wanton whispers in my ear as I attended a party that at any other time would have been packed to capacity, but that was attended by less than one-third the normal crowd and ultimately ended early. Those who braved their way to the venue, in the face of every warning not to, sheepishly snuck in and internally debated how to greet their friends while following CDC guidelines. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d hugged everyone. I shook hands and squeezed shoulders as if everything was normal, even though it clearly was not. I don’t normally drink, but that night I drank to ease the internal tremors I couldn’t quite place. What was I scared of? I wasn’t vulnerable. The party was small, but at least there was still a party. We took up space on the empty dance floor, enjoying the music for ourselves, grasping at normalcy when there was none.

On Thursday when I realized my boyfriend would be stuck self-quarantining in a different state, I cried. I couldn’t bring myself to do anything, not even show up to work. I called Matt, one of my regulars, to see if I could arrange an outcall with him. I knew he probably wouldn’t agree to my normal rate, so I agreed to come by for half price. I wrote about him before, about a year ago, and the shopping date we went on when I discovered that what I’d thought was an energy drink was in fact a secret flask. Matt’s been in love with me since the night we met when he told me I looked like Camilla Cabello, which was completely unfathomable to me at the time, and now I think it is to him as well. He knows what my real hair looks like. I’ve taken off my passing costume for him to reveal that I’m blackity-blackity-black, and he’s as smitten as before. He wanted to cuddle and watch Horror Noire with me and buy me dinner. For all the shit I talk about Matt, he’s very attentive and intuitively knows what kinds of movies and series I might like most of the time. I agreed, and after washing my face of all the emotions I’d struggled with that day, I made my way to Long Beach to see him. I called my friend, Melody to vent during the long drive west. She and I have been experiencing similar relationship trials. Being poly isn’t for the faint of heart, and my heart was feeling especially faint. I needed intimate touch, and I realized I’d have to transfer some of that need onto Matt for the sake of providing a proper experience. He wants to be loved and caressed tenderly. He has pet names for me and frets over my well-being. Matt is a longshoreman who belongs to the longshoreman union. He listens to my podcast and knows how pro-union I am, and understands firsthand how much power he and his fellow workers inherit from the sacrifices of their forefathers who unionized decades ago. He hadn’t been able to work for three weeks. Before the Coronavirus affected individuals, it was affecting business with the Chinese trade embargo. Matt and my other regulars who normally depend upon Chinese shipments had been twiddling their thumbs, unsure of when they would get their jobs back. While Warehouse Daddy simply didn’t have any stopgap means of getting a paycheck, Matt had the backing of his union to support him during this time of uncertainty. He was getting paid half of his normal salary even though he had no work available to perform. The payment plan had been written into his contract long before anyone had imagined a situation of this scale actually happening. He didn’t know what the protocol would be if the ports continued to remain closed.

We began the session with sushi. Most restaurants were closed by the time I arrived in Long Beach, so we settled upon a tiny chain spot that was in the process of closing as we stepped in.

Me: Let’s just order to-go. I don’t want to get in their way.

Matt: Okay. I’m gonna get some water.

We flagged a waiter and placed our orders. By the looks of it, our sushi was going to be subpar. I was too hungry to care. Normally a date like this involves eating something expensive, but desperate times call for desperate sushi.

Me: So, what have you been up to during your unexpected three week vacation?

Matt: Well… Honestly not much, babe. Been drinking a lot. Maybe too much, but it’s hard to stop when there isn’t anything better to do. And you know, I live like a minute away from two bars. It’s too easy to just pop in on a whim and walk home.

Me: I can imagine.

Matt: But it’s not healthy and I’ve been feeling exhausted, like constantly.

Me: Alcohol will do that to you.

Matt: Can I get that water please?

Matt directed his attention to a frowning man behind the counter. The man placed a plastic cup filled with water in front of Matt.

Matt: But what about you! How have you been boo boo? It’s been soooo long since I saw you, like a whole eternity! I missed you so much!

Me: Aw. I missed you too.

Matt: It’s so hard to even follow my train of thought sitting next to someone so sexy! Sexy and beautiful. Awwww, boo boo!

He cupped my cheek and tilted his head to the side adoringly.

Matt: Thanks so much for coming to see me. I know how far it is for you.

Me: Thanks for making time to see me. I’m glad we could finally get together.

This was true. I was very grateful Matt was free and down to pay me to hang out. I was so depressed it was like I was wrapped in an invisible wet blanket. It took everything not to shiver and cry. Our food arrived and we prepared to leave.

Me: Wait! Don’t you want your water?

Matt: Nah, I think I’m fine.

The water was to feel less bad about the drinking. But there wasn’t much we could do to feel less bad that night. We stopped by a liquor store on the way home and I picked out a bottle of red wine. I also needed a drink.

After we ate, we set up the movie and cuddled in Matt’s bed. He wasn’t who I wanted to be cuddling. I watched him jerk off talking about how much he wanted to fuck me while I showed him my ass and played with myself. I kept wondering how long this whole thing would take. I wanted to get my check and be alone, as cold as it sounds. When he finished, I went to the bathroom.

Matt: Can I watch you pee?

It was a bit of a surprise. Danny is my pee guy. I’ve always seen Matt as vanilla as a child’s birthday cake, so I was caught off guard.

Me: Uh, sure.

Matt: Yay!

He ran into the bathroom and began washing his hands beside me while I peed.

Matt: I just think it’s so hot! One day I’ll have to pay you to pee on me, if that’s okay.

Me: Uh, sure. We could do that.

The rest of the session was more or less platonic. We finished the movie with Matt pausing it every few minutes to express his opinions. It was incredible to me that Matt had so many undeveloped ideas about black cinema that he felt comfortable blurting out to me.

Matt: Is it really that bad if someone calls you “young pimpin’”? Maybe I should call one of my black coworkers *who I’m close to* that and see if he likes it!

Me: Or maybe you shouldn’t.

Matt: Maybe you’re right. You’re probably right. I wish someone would call me “young pimpin’”.

I left after the movie. Grateful and exhausted.

Friday I debated going to work, but I knew Hassan wanted to spend time together. We met up with one of his friends from law school in Chinatown at one of our favorite Vietnamese spots. The friend shared his bottle of hand sanitizer with us. Hassan joked with the waiter.

Hassan: It’s crazy how empty it is here in Chinatown!

Waiter: Haha, yeah, nobody wants to come out here.

Saturday I went in to work, expecting the worst. The first three hours of my shift, the club was empty aside from strippers and three time wasters. There was a sickly elderly white man who wanted to sit beside the small stage and tip slowly as he coughed into his $1’s. There was a young black man who often lingers around the club tipping nobody, who that day was slumped in a chair, nodding in and out of sleep. Finally, there was an older white man with a visible dark brown toupe, who only tips White American Women. I curled up in a chair praying the night would pick up while desperately texting my regulars to see if anyone might come by or want an outcall. I was also catching up with my boyfriend who was and is still marooned out in Michigan. I was feeling especially vulnerable, and yet absolutely needed to go back into Impervious Stripper Mode. Instead I started tearing up. I paused and took a few deep breaths, grateful that the light was obscuring my red face. Thankfully, fate was my angel. Immediately after, I saw three infrequent regulars one after the other. First was a short man who runs concert venues who told me his whole calendar had cancelled. He was still getting paid, but almost nobody else he worked with would be until the end of the outbreak. The second was a young ghostwriting lyricist. He had cut off things with me nearly a year ago after I told him I didn’t date customers. I’d wanted to try to patch things up with him for so long, and that night we did. Third was Eddie, who I hadn’t seen in ages. Apparently he’d taken a break after his sister was diagnosed with lung cancer. The burden of caring for her through chemo had fallen upon him, and for her part, his cantankerous sister had done everything in her diminished power to abuse his good nature. I was cared for, against all odds. I left early, satisfied with the night, given the circumstances.

I had been planning to set up my spinning pole in my studio with Hassan on Sunday and hoped to attend a few parties afterwards. The pole went up without a hitch, but that was the only thing that wasn’t cancelled or indefinitely delayed. First the lesbian party cancelled. Then the party my girlfriend had invited me to was also called off. Finally, Dinah’s Shore was postponed until September. When the gays gave up, I realized this was it: this would be my new normal. In a last ditch effort to sustain some normalcy, my manager texted to ask if I could come in for a Sunday shift. There weren’t enough dancers working, and they were still getting customers. I considered it, because I’d read something about a possible closure of nightclubs in the coming days. I thought I had at least a few more days to sort everything out and work another shift, but lo and behold, the inevitable finally caught me.

Monday I got a follow up text that even our dodgy, backroom-dealing club was shutting down to comply with federally mandated guidelines. I’d rubbed my ass against the last old man for a while. The text stated that we would be closed until the end of March. Two weeks of vacation nobody had asked for. I couldn’t bolster my friends’ income with the same ease and blasé I’d expected. We all would be guarding our wallets. I thought about my Patreon, expecting I’d see a drop in patrons next time I ventured into the app to post my weekly story. How could we support each other if we were locked into our own solitary scarcity?

My girlfriend in Palm Springs drove to LA to pick up hormones and to see me. She works for a nightclub too as part of a transwoman cabaret. She had just purchased a new car and since her club was also shut down, worried that she might fall into debt. As we sat together, I teared up again. I’m one of the least vulnerable in my little community, but I felt very powerless listening to her worry. I realized how much I depended upon my job for structure and purpose. It has become the lifeblood of my artistic practice lately. I sat alone in my studio after she left, flooded with tearful anger. Fuck it. I’ll just leave, hop on a plane before the airports shut down. Go anywhere. It would be less harmful than the fuckery the government was offering us. A $1.5 trillion stimulus for the banks and somehow nothing for the individual citizen. $1.5 trillion taxpayer dollars for something fabricated while people die, starve, worry about paying rent, stack up debt, avoid getting tested because they can’t afford care-- it was unfathomable to me that we hadn’t all immediately taken to the streets to riot. Riot and spread the pandemic, I suppose. Covid-19 would be to kids today what 9/11 was to me as an eight-year-old, a national crisis of a proportion I’d never witnessed before. The incredible inequalities of our country were all laid out before us. And everyone was handling it in the most American way: fighting, hoarding, persisting in denial, and stockpiling guns. I was one in denial. Then I got news the Bay Area was under lockdown. Residents were only allowed to leave home for essential purposes, and at all other times should remain home. Leaving for nonessential reasons would be considered a misdemeanor. If the Bay was cracking down on movement, Los Angeles would follow shortly. My heart raced. I couldn’t simply lock down at home for the next two weeks. I’d go mad. Hassan told me that since the courts were operating at minimal capacity, the cops had been instructed not to arrest anyone unless it was Absolutely Necessary, no petty offense arrests. There weren’t enough lawyers on staff to handle unnecessary arraignments. It occurred to me that this should always fucking be the case. Why was it necessary for a pandemic to hit in order for the law enforcement system to operate the way it should? Why were unnecessary arrests ever acceptable? I was furious all over again. But I also figured I could skate the law if necessary, because the capacity to issue citations was likely quite limited. Or maybe we’d just fall into some fucked up Marshall Law situation where only law enforcement and military would be permitted to roam the streets. I’d never imagined this scenario. I felt like I was like I was in an apocalyptic web series, and we were still on episode season one, episode one. Was this the future? Superbug Severely Cripples World Order. Tune in next week to find out.