I Think it was Anderson Cooper

Fridays are filled with skinny boys, faux
girls, a group of Mennonites, costumed
nuns and priests at Joe Allen's bar. Rampant,
married drag queens- Celine Dion and Gloria
Estefan, otherwise known as Bob and Will,
fought their fear of bashing audience members.
I tried not to cry at the bar; my fear of drag
queens comes from when my Mom took me
to Barnum and Bailey's circus. Celine and Gloria
couldn't stand the crowd so I discovered
when drag clowns sob, they are like when you found
out J.F.K. died. You never left the television
set because you needed to know if Jackie was stable.

Andy slouched towards me like a big, stray, white,
dog. Nuns looking like Sally Field rubbed my back.
Did I mention Mom let the clowns toss me up
then down? His dotted, cerulean eyes doted
at the faint mole on my palm. Hey... he nodded
at me like Fonzie without caterpillar eyebrows.
His bleached, eggshell hair only hallmarked his honesty.
The satin bar stools, a secular requirement in Hell's
Kitchen, itched against me. It came out of nowhere;
he squeezed my thigh fiercely. That's when he killed
God. My leg was his Ring, his precious-he caressed.

We rode the shallow cab over the river; he kept
his finger on my mole. Our driver Morris listened
to Indian funk pop- Linkin Park's translated In The End.
Andy asked: Are those from Banana? noting my coffee
loafers. Off at 14^th, the former Catholic school
boy in me saw the little chapel near the basketball
courts. Went once, he chimed in. He told me he sat
in secular pews on Easter with his Mom. I imagined
Mother's Day with Andy. You play?, he asked.
He dribbled every Saturday.

His fourth-floor penthouse: the air smelled like Yankee
Candle's Apple Cinnamon and a pair of year old
socks, Axe body spray. Maggie, his Mexican maid, left
red pleather heels outside his patio near the elliptical.
I nestled my Goodwill-loafers near his platinum
television. In his kitchen, Chinese comfort food rotted;
shrimp, low-maintenance, blurred
broccoli smelled of unendurable sadness.
Martha Stewart dry cleaned Nyquil-aqua
curtains hung free-of-charge from Martha herself.
A collection of Marie Osmond, The First
Wives Club, and Oprah's pick of the
week were stacked on his nightstand.

He led me to his king-size, Serta
mattress. From outside, the view of those Rocky
Mountainous office buildings made tacky
fountains at the mall look like Lucy Liu's hangover
after acid. The Crucifix Jesus his Mom
gave him hung over us, Jesus bleeding
from the scalp. If perverts got a glimpse
into Andy's bedroom, Hollywood's man would be left
with only long, white socks and imitation turkey
meatloaf. We laid on the bed watching
his show on CNN,and then he brought my hand
into his own.

So what's your name?

Down 14^th, I rode the metro home with red pleather
heels in tow. Collateral for an evening flown
in 360. Trouble with Joe Allen's is there's always
some anchor to drag me back home.