The Goddess’ Chosen People

I was at a party last night, and there were all these Radical Faeries there. It was at this really swanky place near Gramercy Park, where none of us belonged. But the place smelled of cat piss, like some senile 76-year-old lady’s apartment. People kept complaining and wondering if maybe there really was a cat somewhere like at the corner bodegas, you know? To catch mice and rats and whatnot. But then I realized, no, actually it was the Radical Faeries and all their unwashed beards and fake feathers and cheap fur. Cause you know these guys glam it up—they turn. it. out.—but they don't wash the shit!

This guy came up to me and started talking about something or someone, and I was just baffled by what he was saying to me—I don't even remember what it was.

"I'm not a faerie," I said.

And he looked at me and said, "You're not? You don't feel a deep centered, primal connection to the earth? You don't feel the goddess calling you and manifesting herself through you to be a gatekeeper to the spirit world on this plane of existence? You don't feel that in your heart?"

I said, "No. I live in New York."