I met Gina Tucci at Girl Bar years ago.  I was trying to pick her up only because she is stunning and my Reputations Contract with CAA requires that I act out promiscuously twice a month or I lose my Slut Health Benefits.  I knew we were both wolves and anything that might develop other than friendship would be cannibalistic.  Cannibalism does happen in the lesbian community, but only in rural areas where scarcity of the species dictates inbreeding.  In an urban setting, where there are bunnies, wolves and hoards of farm animals, it’s frowned on for two assertive types to prey upon each other.  Tops are in high demand and shouldn’t tie themselves up in each others snares.  Basically, Gina wasn’t into me.


We became fast friends.  I was fast and she was my friend.  The first thing I learned about Gina is that you’re not allowed to call her Gina.  You can call her Gina Tucci, Tucci, ho, mack daddy, daddy mack or Gee.  I prefer Gee.  The second thing I learned about her was that she is such a chick magnet that any single friend within a six block radius would feel like chick repellant.  The up side, she’s picky.  Although, no woman that just got shut down by Gina was in a mood to chalk your stick immediately.  You’d have to give ‘em a few months to recover.


We started hanging out.  We’d go to bars, dance clubs, movies, but mostly, we’d play pool.  Gee’s a mean-ass pool player.  You don’t think she’s gonna be that good when she signs her name on the board, but she is accurate on so many levels it’s like she’s peeling an onion; and when she beats you, crying over that onion.  Gee’s gracious when she mops the onion peels up with you.  It is the most important aspect of good pool playing.  Even if you suck, be kind.  Nothing worse than a suck-y pool-playing-homo with attitude.  So one night at the Fish, the local boys dive in Venice, me and Gee were playing the `dreaded cheating lawyer.’  I’ve heard rumor that all lawyers cheat in pool, but I only care about their defense.  Me and Gee hate to play lawyer boy because his cadence is so slow it throws off our game.  The guy measures each shot with a protractor after referring to his schematic.  By the time he gets a shot off, Gee has broken three hearts and siphoned off two Coronas and my Tequila shot.  So Gee’s playing singles with him and they’re almost tied down to the end.  She has one striped ball left sidled up tightly against the eight.  The two balls are center stage at the middle third of the table.  It’s lawyer boys’ shot.  He hits both balls squarely moving Gee’s ball nine inches and sending the eight into the called pocket.  He jumps up and screams as if he’d won the game.  The eight ball is a neural ball and can’t be called off another ball.  If we were playing by the technical rules of pool and not some amorphous floating cloud of cheating lawyer pool rules, he should have lost the game.  But Gee didn’t want to create a scene so she deferred the game graciously while I stewed in my juices making a nasty jam.

I was up next, so after I racked, I whispered in his ear, “Way to sell it Tex, but if you pull that slop shit with me, I won’t be as gentle as Gee.  I use a heavier cue, if you get the inference’.”  He lost his game with me.  I psyched him out, which is basically on the same level with cheating.  I have since meditated on this incident and washed my karma clean.  Well, I gave it a rinse.

I think Tucci has secretly always wanted to have a dick.  The reason I believe this is because she told me exactly that.  She said, “Wouldn’t it be great to have a dick!  I’d put it everywhere.  I’d put it in the sand.  You know, just stick my big old dick, cause I’d have a great big giant Italian salami cock; I’d just stick it knee deep in the sand.  I’d put it in a coffee mug.  Can I stir your tea for you?  I’d run it along my keyboard while I was at work.  I’d freak people out with it.  I’d take it out by the water cooler and swing it, woooo hooo!  Here’s my dick!  Touch my dick.  I’d play with it all the time. I’d pull it out of my pop corn at a Lakers game and scream!”  Well you get the picture.  I think she wants one.  She doesn’t have a dick though, thank God.

One night I was trapped in the valley, unable to escape.  I called Tucci and she met me for pool and cocktails.  It was so bizarre because we were both limping.  For some odd reason we had both been doing some jock type activities, and neither of us are jocks.  Gee is the comic relief position on the Volleyball court at the beach.  She makes noises when she hits the ball like “Doof,” or “Oooh ahh!” or “Ddayyaaaa,” sound effects, and the other team falls down laughing and loses.  She’s not a jock.  I mean, she’s tall and if she happens to see the ball coming over the net and mistakenly stretches and yawns, she might spike the ball.  But jock, I don’t think so.  On the Volleyball court she sports these cute little Italian skivvies that look like blown out underwear and a wife beater T-shirt.  So, not a jock.  Anyway, we’re both limping around the pool table taking shots and whining cause our ankles are fucked up.  And Gee says, “You ever notice how in every gay bar, there is always the at least one obligatory limping dyke?  Really, look around.” So we do and we see like four other ladies hobbling around.  I haven’t been to a bar since when I don’t see some old broad limping or some girl in a cast dragging one leg.  It’s inexplicable.

Whenever I go to see my family at some periodic gathering, I’ll make my entrance expecting warm hello’s and hugs and they’ll all invariably look behind me and say, “Where’s Gee?”

One time I answered, “We got in a fight.”

They frowned and said, “Wha’d you do?”

“Why do you think I did it?” I said.

They just looked away disappointedly.

I guess they know me.

She can be bratty too, though.  She’s no saint yet.  One time we were at the Normandie Room and we were gonna cruise over to the Palms to hunt for chicks.  But just before we were gonna take off, I met this really nice, cute girl who said she’d walk over to the Palms with us.  Well I knew enough about Gee to ask her if it was okay if the girl join us. She says, “Ah Hoff, I wanted to spend some time, just me and you.”

So I say, “Okay, that’s cool, I’ll go tell her something and meet you outside.”

She says, “Cool.”

I talked to the girl and told her something that wouldn’t hurt her feelings or piss off Tucci.  She takes it well and wanders off.  Ten minutes later Tucci comes outside with this girl.  She says, “Trina’s gonna walk over there with us.”

I said, “What’s up with that? That girl wanted to come and you nixed it.”

“Ah Hoff,” she said, “That girl just wasn’t right for you.”

I know all this may seem like disjointed stories with rough segues probably due to the fact that I’m writing this last minute, trying to remember things that happened while we were drinking, and definitely because I have lapses in my synapses.  I want to round this up by telling you a not funny story about how when she and I first became friends, I was heart-broken for two years.  I was constantly yakking in her ear about what I was going through.  She would listen to me.  She never told me to get over it, even though it was self-indulgent and excessive, she just listened to whatever I said.  She even accompanied me on drive-by’s of my ex’s place.  ”Let’s hock a garden gnome at her front door!”  She’d say to show her solidarity.  We both knew she didn’t mean it.