What’s up? You

might well ask. Well the world is turning, and I love my little spot by the window in Toronto. Yesterday three meth addicts were doing stuff just outside my building. The woman was wearing an odd long coat and a white leotard. She was distinctly mad, she was making little piles of stones in the dirt beneath a tree; but very intent as if what she was doing was terribly important; very much like me with these blogs. One of the meth-heads was adorable and had a big dog that he was stroking in what seemed to me an erotic way. (Once I knew a boy who wanked off his dog; he wrote a play about it, I produced it; he was in a rock band. I was briefly in love with him — but he was straight as well as being into dogs, so it didn’t work out.) The third member of the meth trio then lit up right outside my window, the pipe and all — and the smoke. The police were just down the street monitoring something, but obviously not this. Speaking of police, there’s an interesting thing happening in Toronto, the underclass is rebelling in their own quiet way — they don’t have direct access to Doug Ford like all the rich golfers and tennis players do, so instead of complaining they just get things done. The police apparently are ignoring people who drink beers in parks, they actually said to a friend of mine (who is also part of the sexual underclass) ‘We’re not going to bother with this, there’s no point' so a state of ‘lawlessness’ exists in the parks and streets, The police seem to know that we are drinking everywhere (I was doing it in the middle of Church Street the other day) and are in cahoots with us, the underclass. (Apparently there are small stores opening their doors on Queen Street as well, I mean why not? Is someone going to count the people in there, looks like they won’t.) I call myself part of the underclass because I am the lone survivor of a largely extinct species —those who admit to enjoying sex without love. On that subject, I’m really enjoying my little Iggy Pop — since you asked about my sex life (or maybe you didn’t) but I know you are eager to hear. What I like about him is he has more than enough gruff uncaring masculinity for a tiny man with an enormous penis, he is in other words, monosyllabic on the outside but actually quite cuddly on the inside (like most masculine men and most butch dykes). On Friday we did it while occasionally watching endless rock videos of The Doors — starting at Monterrey where Jim Morrison doesn’t move much, he just sings. (But there were earlier shots of Jim Morrison moving about as well, which made it almost like pornography.) Let’s see, what else? Oh! A friend of mine revealed that his cat is an heiress. I don’t know quite how to feel about this. He has always spoken of his cat — who is aging rapidly — with great tenderness. He speaks of afternoons with her the way someone might speak of a lover. And now to suddenly find out she is worth thousands of dollars, well  — I want to say that doesn’t put a different complexion on things — but I’m not entirely sure. I trust my friend, I trust he deeply loves his cat, but even I would be find it hard to not to notice my pet was an heiress. Apparently a very rich old woman left the cat to a guy (not my friend), and if the cat is taken care of, there is to be a bequest upon her death, and my friend, because he is taking care of the cat for this guy (who is supposed to do it but his girlfriend is allergic) will get a cut of the loot. This is unsettling for me because although my cat is not an heiress I do nevertheless love her very much — but we may have to get rid of her (don’t worry, she won’t die, friends will take her) because my boyfriend has suddenly developed allergies. I am trying not to be suspicious, but he’s never liked my cat (our cat has always been ’my’ cat). When we first met 22 years ago, my cat at that time had just died. My potential boyfriend gave me a tiny digital pet— a wristwatch sized video game that featured an animated cat that purred when you fed it. I thanked my new possible potential boyfriend for the digital cat and then promptly went out and got a new living cat to replace the old dead one, because that’s the kind of thing I do. Much later my boyfriend asked me “Why did you get a new cat? I got you a digital cat to replace the real one because I don’t like cats.” This indicates his amazing foresight, which I lack, but it’s kind of scary because he seemed to seriously think that a digital cat could replace a real one; this is indicative of some pretty fascinating and weird aspects of his character that I can't go into now. Because all I can think about is Montreal. We're going there soon, but I will honestly miss Toronto and it’s excruciatingly puritan provincialisms, so I promise I’ll come back and visit now and then this summer, because I always look forward to not having sex, not having fun, and yearning for friends who choose to stay home and be safe instead of leaving the house, because well, ‘you never know’. It’s become a syndrome for some; not wanting the masking to end, doctors say such folx are afraid of COVID-19, but I think they are just afraid of life. You know a mask is not so much an abrogation of my rights as a symbol of a certain lifestyle. It’s very much like condoms for blowjobs; they tried to foist them on the gay sexual underclass years ago; it didn’t work because — you guessed it, condoms do not taste as good as penises. A young black man (I mention his skin colour because it is relevant) yelled at me on the street “I don’t care what anybody says — we love you Sky!” And then elaborated: “Everybody knows Buddies in Bad Times Theatre will always be you!” That was gratifying of course (or else I wouldn’t be repeating it) but even more gratifying was my dyke friend Marcy, she is just a little more masculine than my miniature Iggy Pop who I have been lately licking like a lollipop (have I mentioned him? oh yes, I have...). I had removed my shirt (a grim sight —as my tits are gone — the lack of a gym) and Marcy said “A half naked Sky Gilbert on Church Street what a wonderful sight” I don’t think the faggots thought so, but to have Marcy’s approval, at this point, pretty much means more than anything.