Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

said. “I’ll keep my pants on. I don’t like that thing any more than you do.” But Connor, apparently, was attracted to Buck Angel, at least in part, because of his vagina and the immense pride he took in it. And there, as they say, was the rub.
    “So Connor…” I began.
    “…wants to fuck me,” said Jake.
    “Okay.”
    “No…it’s not okay. I don’t wanna get fucked.” Jake gave me a bleak little smile. “At least not there .”
    “Gotcha.”
    “What should I do, boss?”
    “Have another éclair,” I said.

    I could hardly wait to get home that night to Google Buck Angel. I found a video clip that featured him in a witty scene at a laundromat. He was buff and tattooed, a completely convincing biker dude with a shaved head and a red mustache, and he was slowly feeding his clothes to a washing machine while a trio of beautiful women ogled him delightedly. When he was totally naked, he sat down to read a newspaper, so the women leaned closer to catch a glimpse of what lay beneath. It was a vagina all right.
    I was cruising a gallery of still photos when Ben ambled into the office with a mug of tea and looked at the screen. “Is that him?” he asked, leaning forward.
    “That’s him.”
    “Fuck. Look at his pecs.”
    “I know. And check out the ass. He’s got those little dents like you do.”
    “Is there a frontal shot?”
    “Oh, yeah.” I found it for him.
    “Jesus.”
    “Shaved and everything,” I said.
    “You know what?” said Ben. “That’s fucking hot.”
    I shot him a look.
    “I’m serious.”
    “I can see that.”
    “It’s a little…unsettling, but…under the right circumstances…”
    “I swear,” I muttered. “You young people today.”
    I was joking, but not really. The world is changing way too fast for me with its Podcasts and pregnant strippers and macho manginas. No sooner have I mastered one set of directions than another comes along to replace it. It’s getting harder and harder to keep up with what’s going down. My only solace lies in something Anna once told me:
    “You don’t have to keep up, dear. You just have to keep open.”

    I saw Anna two days later, when the weekend rolled around. I picked her up at the apartment and drove her to the SPCA on Sixteenth Street in search of the cat she wanted. The adoption center there is a well-designed modern facility that’s considered a model for the rest of the country. It’s what they call a “no kill” shelter, where animals are guaranteed a home until they’re adopted. The dogs live on “Lassie Lane,” each in his own sunny private apartment. They have couches, potted plants, and TVs playing cat videos. The cats have a separate “condo” facility, complete with aquariums and picture windows, so they can stare at the birds outside. I went there once between marriages, five or six years ago, thinking that a pet might make a decent standin for a husband. As I wandered the halls, peering through doors at recumbent wretches with longing in their eyes, I might have been back at the Ritch Street Baths, where love (or at least a warm body) was potentially waiting around the corner.
    You just had to keep looking.
    “Where do these kitties come from?” Anna was standing in one of the cat condos, stroking a handsome longhaired domestic on a perch.
    “From Animal Control, I think. They find the ones that are adoptable.”
    “What about the unadoptable?”
    I shrugged. “I guess they don’t make it here.”
    “Where is Animal Control?” she asked.
    It was barely a block away, so we were there in a matter of minutes. This was a city-run operation, the front line of animal rescue, and the difference was palpable. The rooms were more like cells than condos, and some of the animals were howling in panic and confusion. “This is more like it,” said Anna, surveying the scene.
    She found a small black cat she liked: a timid war-torn creature with a notch in its ear. A sturdy lesbian staffer let us into the room, where Anna sat in a folding chair and waited for the cat to approach her. It took a while, but it happened. The cat rubbed against Anna’s leg, emitting a feeble throaty noise that was closer to “ack” than “meow.” Satisfied, it sprang into her velvet lap and curled up to the size of a dinner plate.
    “She fits,” said Anna, smiling at the staffer.
    “We call her Squeaker,” the staffer said. “For obvious reasons.”
    Anna nodded.
    “You could name her what you want, of