Memoirs, a Narrative. Part Six

I knew Wayno was going to die from the first time I met him. AIDS. The scourge of the times. I knew better. I really did. But I was charmed by the dude from NYC, I just couldn’t help myself.

It was just short of seven years. I guess if you think about it, it wasn’t a long time. But it was a great time. Passions and emotions ran high. So much was done… so much happened.

Wayn was a bon vivant. If you are mortified by my sexual behavior, you should hear about his. But you won’t hear it from me, and I don’t know if anyone alive knows as many stories as I do.

I have a phone booth on my back porch. It came with Wayno. He wasn’t really sure how he got it, but after a night of copious amounts of coke it was in his apartment in New York. Maybe I should be embarrassed, but it endears me to the booth even more. Damn, if only he lived in London, I could have a red phone booth on my porch!

I want to keep this of moderate length, but there are so many avenues to go. I loved Wayno dearly. He was a good man. There will be many touchstones to come.