Today May and I, along with two fellow scene folks, walked three miles in the Pride Parade cracking whips for the crowds. I have a bruise the size of a walnut on my hand, am having involuntary muscle spasms in my arms.
I have to write about this more, when I am not feeling similar to a chicken on a frying pan. For the moment, I want to remember the way I have to brace my feet when swinging circus cracks on the 10 foot snake whip, and how every time I let a loud crack off the crowds would cheer, especially the women. I want to remember the cavernous emptiness of Fifth Avenue cleared for a block, with the four of us standing alone, filling the gap in the parade with thundering snaps and pops from the ends of our whips, while on the sidewalks the people spilled over each other to see us. I want to remember Rob hamming it up for the crowd, picking cute boys to flirt with in a dance of loud noises and comedic facial expressions. I want to remember Thrash spinning in circles, a whip in each hand, so talented that he could have been dancing. I want to remember May in chains. I want to remember the looks on people’s faces when we walked by and they saw his back ripped up, red as cherries, red as my sunburned skin. I want to remember the bone drenching exhaustion at the end of the parade route, as he and I walked the last few blocks of Christopher Street hold hands, skipping, grinning, overflowing. I want to remember the shower of rainbow feathers that stuck in my hair, that fell from the rooftops and gleamed in the light over our heads.
Happy Pride.
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