#but he did another piece where he photographed the same bus stop near castro street for 24 hours

[foxmulderautism]

mid-scene and might repost this on main in the morning if i feel comfortable dropping the Vomit  Blood Saliva Cum paragraph on there but i’m proud of this and think it’s like. SO lover boy

They’d dance together and kiss men and sometimes they’d dance with men and kiss each other. Anything could happen when everything was dark and disco rushed. They’d stay out until time stopped being about movement and started being about presence, until dawn pulled them back outside, when they’d stumble to the bus stop on 18th Street because they always thought a 4am Castro Café breakfast would make them vomit, and because Bobby liked to drape himself across the brick wall and put his sunglasses on, like he was sunbathing to lure out the sun. And Beau always sat on the bench, their heads next to each other in their separate spaces. They never memorised the bus times. Some nights, or mornings, they lay and sat in needed silence. But most nights, here was where they talked about Beau’s cinematographer dreams or Bobby’s fascination with volcanic eruptions or looped discussions about Harvey Milk, the council’s response to the bathhouse fire in ‘81, and their burning hatred of the president, whom they would not name out loud until he could mention AIDS out loud. Here, was where they confided about Beau’s sleep problems and Bobby’s claustrophobia. Here, was where they once discussed the practicalities of a ghost hunting tour of the country, tried to map it out by designating a brick for each state. Here, was where Beau can’t remember all the conversations but remembers all the times they laughed until it hurt. Here, was where Bobby once laid on his stomach and Beau sat on the bench and they kissed once, like that, because the sun had not risen and technically anything could still happen. Here, was where Bobby once cleaned the dried remains of a poppers nosebleed from Beau’s face with his saliva and jacket sleeve. Here, was where one of Beau’s last memories of Bobby before he was sick lived, when he was sick but neither of them knew it, so maybe they can say he wasn’t; when Bobby was sick but not ill, a fuzzy limbo they’d soon be familiar with. Bobby, as always, draped over the wall, his hands over his eyes because he forgot his sunglasses, an elbow in Beau’s curls. Beau sat with his eyes shut before the sun could give him a headache. Somewhere, birds had begun to sing. And Bobby, out of nowhere, his voice hazy, drawn out, “Dude...I think cum might have skin healing properties.”

weird accidental record: four bodily fluids mentioned in a 355 word paragraph