Diary of a Darklady:

Diary of a Darklady
March, 2004

Dear Diary. That’s how these things always begin, right? I only ask because – well, I don’t know the answer. I was never able to keep a diary as a child. Or as a teenager. Or as a young adult. Or now. But I’m motivated by fame and fortune, and thus this first online entry.

Diary Dear, when I (briefly) kept a diary during elementary school it was pretty dull stuff. Mostly I wrote about how I’d been sent to the office at school or how I’d managed to get in trouble with my parents at home. Depressing, really. A little embarrassing in retrospect. When I found it years later, I browsed through its mostly empty pages and then round filed it. Maybe it’s a tragedy for posterity, but I doubt it. My biographers will just have to take my word for it that being sent to the office at school and getting in trouble with my parents at home was about it for me back in those days. Well, that and getting into fights on the playground and on the way home from school, but that was part of the being sent to the office thing, right? So I don’t technically have to mention it and only do so now as a courtesy to you, the reader.

Diary, it’s nothing personal, really. It’s just that by the time life got really interesting in a way that I’d want to write about, I was too busy living it to write about it. Then the weirdest thing happened: I received a check in exchange for writing a column about what was going on in my life. The next thing I know, I’m getting paid on a regular basis to watch porn, read dirty books, look at naughty photos or drawings – and tell people what I think about them. I’ve written an adult video script and met the famous performers who appeared in it. I host big pansexual play parties and fund raisers. People tell me their deepest, darkest secrets and let me watch them do unspeakable things to themselves or one another. Sometimes they even let me take a photo. Sometimes they ask for my advice or approval. It’s a little intense at times, but it’s pretty cool.

Diary, O Diary, you should see half of the things that I’ve seen. Theoretically, that’s what a diary exists for, I guess. To catch as many experiences as a person can splash onto its pages before the memory dims to become the memory of a memory and the words are completely lost. Hopefully a person has more to remember than being sent to the office at school or being in trouble with their parents at home. Fortunately, I have more than that going on now. I’ll try to do better about sharing it with you from now on.

Dearest, Most Precious Diary, every time I look forward I look back, too. Is that normal? I think about my March trip to Los Angeles as a judge for the GayVN Awards (http://www.gayvnawards.com) and remember other trips I’ve taken there, other trips I’ve taken to cities big and small. I remember hot New Orleans’ rain pouring down on the streets of the French Quarter at night. I remember the smog collecting underneath the Beverly Hills’ clouds outside of Larry Flynt’s executive office windows. I remember a jagged dagger of electricity stabbing a Las Vegas’ hilltop just before dusk. I remember the precision burn of Boston’s slivers of January cold. I remember a smoldering Manhattan chest wound as seen from Queens in the morning. I remember wheels of weather turning over an eroding beach along the blustery Oregon coast. I remember kisses and confusion, laughter and tears, cramped MIT computer lab sofas and luxurious king sized beds, cockroach motels and fully appointed casino suites.

O Thou Most Honorable of Diaries, I know that the memories of today were once the overwhelming and immediate concerns of an ever-receding present – just as the anticipation I now feel about the future will become the faint recollections of a rapidly approaching past. And you, O Voyeuristic Diary, hope that I’ll stage whisper a few juicy bits in your direction, don’t you? You naughty, opportunistic thing, you. What more will I learn at the GayVN Awards beyond who takes home a statue and who doesn’t? What will lunch with Stan Kent (http://www.stankent.com) reveal? When Norma Jean tells me all about the LA erotic film and art festival – will she tell me ALL about it? Will Michael Raven and I collaborate on a video project? Did the FBI entrap Todd Bertrang? Will Nelson X or Mark Kulkis ever really buy Darklady that drink or meal they keep promising? What’s coffee with Mary Carey like? Does David Aaron Clark (http://www.davidaaronclark.com) have even more articles of black clothing than Darklady? What’s it like to smoke and joke with Brian Surewood? Thomas Zupko? Henri Pachard? And what’s up with Hustler Magazine? What’s it like to attend a fetish party at Gemini Manor? Heck, speaking of parties – what about those Darklady parties and events? What about them, huh?

Is that what you want, Diary Mine? Do you want a rear window-seat view into my life from the safety and snuggly security of your own home, where you eat bon bons and watch soap operas while I brave the myriad horrors that scamper like sinful mice beneath the feet of those who tread the turf of pornography and pansexual activism? Is this just some prurient exploration into alternative sexuality, some sick, sad manipulation in order to get me to confess my secrets to you before you jump in the SUV and get your charkas realigned for the new swimsuit season – or do you really love me, Dearest Most Dark of Dark Diaries?

I guess it’s like everything else in life, Diary. We’ll just have to wait and see if I open up and make myself vulnerable to you – and what it means to you if I do.

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