Yesterday meteorologists predicted the season’s first snowstorm heading toward New York.

Their forecast warned of a 6-10 inch accumulation or what I called a Marc ’10 and 1/2 Inches’ Stevens Blizzard.

A real blizzard hit New York in 1978 and I partied with Marc and his tranny girlfriend Jill Monroe throughout the three days the city was shut down like a Siberian Gulag. No one was gong anywhere.

We did drugs and more.

I vowed to both of them to never to say what, but in truth nothing happened.

We were high on blow.

Marc’s vaunted penis was a green bean and mine was a cashew.

And Jill had been trimmed by doctors in Holland. She wanted our worse.

Neither Mark or I could do a thing.

When the icy tempest subsided, I left their Bleecker Street apartment.

“Remember, not a word.” Marc kissed my cheek.

He had a reputation to protect.

Back in my boarding house on East 11th Street I pulled the covers up to my chin.

Safe but not really sound

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