MFUC & The Trash Aesthetic

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About, and out, three years ago. I see Annie again today. She looks warily at me as she descends the stairs. She is warm brown skin, long straight hair, and tired beauty. It’s a beauty as fragile as a middle aged fag’s ego, although, missing the latter’s serrated edges.  Gripping my hand to greet me, she massages and holds it firmly. I momentarily forget I am gay. She speaks English with a Vietnamese accent. "Oh, I know you."    She asserts, and I nod , "You were …", she points up to the 2 nd floor coffee house where we met. "You are Goy?"  she asks. "I am", I say, as it is true: I am Goy and I am Gay. She sighs, in a seemingly tranquil way, and tells me, again, a little of the story of Annie. Afterwards, she questions me: "You have boyfriend?", and continues,  "I not have boyfriend, life is hard, but with boyfriend: life is harder." I laugh a little . "I no like man. I want…” she uses a hand sign fo