Something CLICKED in me when I saw Francis' sign, maybe I was being naive and all, but I thought it might just be true love or at least what they call something to write HOME about, though I have to admit I was confused about where home was:

a. watering the plants in East Boston
b. diving into Lake Washington
c. getting high from dancing

But back to TRUE LOVE, I mean Francis: I was in an ice cream shop on Avenue A but I'm vegan so I don't eat ice cream. I looked at the signs on the bulletin board and FEMALE MODEL WANTED popped out at me, mostly because of the road trip around the world and wondering how we'd drive around the entire world not just from New York to San Francisco and back. I've done that -- I was looking for new adventures and yes LOVE and that day they had coconut sorbet at the ice cream parlor and the sorbet was vegan. But I can't eat anything with too much sugar or I get so sketchy my life becomes one big breakdown. I didn't get any sorbet -- I got Francis.

Now some of you might think that Francis doesn't sound like a French name, but listen I wasn't looking for AUTHENTICITY, I wanted love. Sure I was skeptical, but it was something about how Francis put anarchy and peace and artist together at the bottom of the page that made me fall for him. It's not many people who make those CONNECTIONS.

So I called Francis; we made an appointment for Sunday at Noon. He lived in a penthouse at Red Square on Houston Street. I've always wondered what kind of people live there. Once someone who lived there gave me a dead plant, but when Francis fucked me it wasn't like porn or real life, his dick just slid in. Then I thought wait a second: what am I doing getting fucked again without a condom by someone who I'm not attracted to when he isn't even paying me? I sat right up and when I spoke to Francis I was speaking to every guy who's ever just slid it in without asking. Foreplay isn't the same thing as CONSENT. And with Francis it was even more complicated than the wholesale acceptance of objectification in gay male sexual culture. Because Francis wasn't gay. He was some straight French painter who just wanted a female model and instead he got me.

But when I spoke to Francis I couldn't speak. This wasn't some straight-acting fag; this was the real thing. When I pulled away from him, he said you look like Linda Blair in "Poltergeist." I just stood there speechless because Linda Blair wasn't in "Poltergeist" and here I was in the penthouse of Red Square with a view of the Brooklyn Navy Yard trying to tell Francis that I just didn't love him anymore.

I went home and got dressed. I pulled on my jellybean tights with a woman's bathing suit from the 60s: green palm trees on white. Then I put two curly wigs in for teats. I stepped into my plaid stack heels and grabbed the shower curtain rings out of the bathroom to make a choker. Threw on about fifty fake pearl necklaces, and big dangly plastic crystal earrings. Then I smeared eyeliner from my eyes to my nose and lipstick from my lips to my chin. Finished the outfit with old lady bug sunglasses and a shower cap that had big plastic flowers growing off it.

I looked in the mirror and something was missing. I pulled out another wig for pussy hair. I had a big dilemma about that part, I kept thinking is this misogynist? In the past I would have thought yes, but sometimes I think I'm a seventies lesbian feminist, like how I used to believe all penetrative sex was rape. Then I realized I'd been raped by my father and that was why, how my biggest fear wasn't being raped because that was to be expected. How my biggest fear was ever being in a position where I could be the rapist. I'm still scared to take a self-defense class because then I have to be the aggressor, which frightens me more than being bashed.

I called car service. I said Saks Fifth Avenue and when I got there I walked in like I owned the place, went right into couture. Looked at a few price tags and started screaming I THOUGHT THIS WAS A THRIFT STORE. I couldn't get any help. I wiped my makeup off on a powder pink Chanel suit, then went down to cosmetics screaming LIPSTICK, grabbed a few testers and smeared them across my face, rubbing them into the floor as they broke off. At this point, there were a few people staring. I pulled off my shower cap, took out the pussy wig and moved it to my head, adjusted it in the mirror and said it's all about glamor.

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