I was starting my third month locked up in the county jail of San Francisco at 850 Bryant street and not feeling very pleased about things. I had a class two felony hanging over me, but all I needed to do was find a drug program that would accept me, and then the judge would dismiss the charges upon receiving a favorable report. Unfortunately, due to my history of 24-hour psychiatric holds for PCP psychosis, of IV drug use, of being a whore and a drag queen--but mostly due to my honesty--I was, as one social worker termed me, a difficult placement case. Just why the staff of a rehab program would think its other patients might feel a tad uncomfortable about living in close quarters with a dope-shooting, drag-wearing, cock-sucking, borderline psychotic with narcissistic and other personality defect features is still somewhat of a mystery to me. I guess they just hated the fact that I'm not ashamed of this stuff.

Worst of all, I missed my lover, a preoperative transsexual who I loved more than anything. I had gotten myself placed into the "gay" tank of the jail, a place where they put homosexual males, pre-op transsexuals and other transgender types who have a penis, men who are unable to defend themselves, and hardened cons who lie about being queer so they can be top dog in the tank. I didn't really identify as gay, but since I had quit taking hormones just a few months before and my breasts hadn't gone completely down yet, I had decided that the gay tank was the safest place for me unless I wanted to become some felon's bitch.

I was so lonely for my lover, and she for me, that we decided that the only way we were going to get to spend some quality time together was if she got herself arrested on a Friday on some minor charge. Accordingly, she would be released on Monday and only have to do a few hours of community service along with time served. Being just as fucked up on drugs as I was, she also thought it was a great idea, and so she set out to get herself busted.

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