Woo hoo, I bought an air conditioner, the kind that just sits in the middle of the room like a dorky guest and not the kind of hangs out the window like god intended. It may not seem like a radical step, but San Francisco exists in a temperature bubble of rarely lower than 50° or higher than 75° (10° and 23° for the celsius-minded among us) so conditioned air is just not a necessity for us. R Man and I had lived here several months before I looked around the apartment and demanded, suspiciously, “Where’s the air conditioner?” There wasn’t one and the possibility of living without it verged on insanity to my little Gulf Coast bred mind.
But…. But the last couple of years, September, the time of San Francisco’s true summer, rolled around with temperatures in the 90s and sometimes even over a hundred. Everyone in town was sweaty and outraged. I decided then that returning to the air conditioned habits of my youth was just something I needed to resign myself to.
So now I have an air conditioner, I just need to figure out where to put it. The only problem with living a well-appointed life like mine, is that when I get a new addition, such as an air conditioner that’s about as big as a large-ish laundry hamper, I have to make room for it by jettisoning something else. In this case, I’m getting rid of two wicker trunks full of photographs.
Because I want to keep some record of the happy life I lived with R MAN, I’m editing them down based on the criteria that if the picture doesn’t have anyone in it, it’s gone, outta here. I’ve barely scratched the surface and already have a huge pile to throw away and a very small pile to keep. A trip to Paris, friends from New Orleans visiting, our first apartment in San Francisco; so many pictures, so few good ones.
Daddy, cause isn’t Father’s Day coming up soon?
The guy who causes all that hubbub down at the gym showers.
I do hope he’s happy being a bottom.
She works hard for the money.
Meanwhile, back at the gym.