Winter 2011

The Adventures of Miss Real and Suzy Goodvibes

for Bobby Diaz

Did you come up with the names?
Did I? Half ’60s hippie, half
’70s drag, campy monikers for
our comic-strip adventures.

Still babies really, you and me,
at 22 and 19 prowling the isles
of Fire and Mannahatta, our delights
dancing and “the midnight orgies

of young men,” ones we shared
—Louis Love, Frank Dost—or
didn’t—Steve Lawrence, gorgeous
Julio. I was awed by your dancer’s

body and abandon: “Suzie Goodvibes,
I can’t believe you didn’t let that
man fuck you!” I’d refused sloppy
seconds: a handsome, thuggish, stud

who could barely walk with that plug
between his legs—a raw, blue-veined
tube above its bull-balled scrotum.
“No thank you, Miss Real. When I want

a new asshole I’ll carve it myself.”
You grinned, disappearing down another
corridor at the Baths, circa 1972,
Bette Midler’s year of steamy glory.

We ignored her. It took more than
40s nostalgia, gawking socialites,
to animate bodies that were still
slender, boyish, 25 years ago.



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"I Shall Be Released" by Bette Midler