Hurricane Hazel and I arrived in the cool gray city of love on Thanksgiving day, only to find a surly slacker in our bed. Our host Dirk was a sweet pushover for lost souls–including newcomers like us, you understand–but the Gen-X whiner-dude occupying our room was not only obnoxious, but also singularly unattractive. His poor-me-I’ve-got-a-killer-cold-and-no-money attitude was even snottier than his dripping red nose.

Haze and I were beat, exhausted after our endless drive west from New York, and Dirk had promised that room to us. We’d shared some colorful travel scenes for sure: Haze giving me a sweet oral surprise in the Ohio truck stop, the red-hot threesome we almost had with the cute(enough) waitress in Colorado Springs. Yet truth was, we’d fought all the way west, and I was still hurting from every harsh word.
Fuck-and-fight relationships have never been my style. Conflict pushes my buttons; I immediately shut down, and feel emotionally bruised for days. Fighting, on the other hand, energized Haze.It made her high. Her moods changed fast; the girl could switch from purple-faced anger to [smiling "let's make love"] within minutes.

Haze was happy. Haze was mad. She was tired. She wanted a real bed. Haze was pissed that our promised room was leaking clouds of pungent pot smoke. Shehated pot and potheads and slackers who claimed poverty but always seemed to have all the best drugs. Plus she was allergic to marijuana, and damn near everything else.The couch Dirk had offered as our temporary landing pad was covered with cat hair.

Dirk’s girlfriend, Kandi Kane, bounced out of his bedroom, naked and absolutely gorgeousAs I got a boner, I could feel Haze silently freaking out. Kandi and I shared loads of naughty history, and believe me, Haze knew all about it. Kandi had given me the traditional blowjob the night I got my first tattoo, plus we’d shared several steamy nights on Susan Winter’s darling Mississippi houseboat, and Haze knew all about that, too.

Kandi was Dirk’s girl now, I told Haze. But she was so insecure she was jealous of attractive women everywhere. When we watched tv, she’d suddenly point at a bombshell actress and say “See? That’s the kind of babe you really want, isn’t it?”
Of course Haze was right, I was still nuts for the shapely Kandi Kane, with her big firm boobs and her perfect looks.
“I’ ll ask Kandi to keep her clothes on,” I said.

“Don’t you go near Kandi,” snarled Haze. She rushed outside. Slammed the door.

Later, as we prepared to eat Thanksgiving turkey, a swishy, well-dressed man walked in, carrying two bottles of expensive white wine. He was introduced as Bert, Dirk’s other tenant. The slacker in our bed-to-be was Bert’s ex-boyfriend, Bruce. “Welcome to our little love nest,” he said.

Two days later Bruce moved out and we moved into our new space. Our room, adjoining Bert’s, was medium-large, with high-ceilings, bay windows and a non-working fireplace. Small kitchen, funky old bathroom, long hall full of clutter. Home sweet home.

We unpacked. We cleaned. We laughed. We fucked. We fought. Meanwhile, I asked Kandi Kane to keep her magnificent breasts covered, but Haze was still jealous as hell. “You still lust after Kandi, don’t you?”
“Nooooo,” I lied. “It’s you I love. You know that.”

It wasn’t always easy to change Haze’s cranky moods. Sometimes it took spanking, and sometimes it took hot bubblebaths and long, loving backrubs. Sometimes Haze liked it when I bought into the fight and screamed back at her. And sometimes, when we heard foppy Bert coming home from work, we could diffuse the tension by taking out our frustration on him– making glug-glug-glug and gab-gab-gab gestures to match the sounds of Bert popping the cork on his expensive daily wine and talking endlessly on his phone.

Things got worse. Bert got really mad because Haze threw a kitchen cup at me, which landed in the sink and broke his favorite wine glass. Two days later, during a violent morning rage, Haze knocked over the entire table as I ate breakfast, and Bert got more pissed than ever because we smashed his antique china plate.
Haze and I fought all the way to our first counseling session. Our therapist, Miss James, was a 20-something California blond, and quite a looker in a clean-underwear-yuppie kind of way. My last counselor, Miss Tweedy, the gray-haired wafflebutt who’d counseled me in Woodstock after my DWI arrests, had varicose veins and bad turkey neck, and, believe me, inspired no lusty thoughts whatever. I had no problem, though, picturing Miss James on her well-scrubbed knees, begging for a taste of my pork sausage…

Sadly, our counselling session was infinitely more prosaic than my twisted fantasies.

“Let’s see,” said Miss James. “Hazel, you’re 29, and Charles, you’re 46. Right?”

We nodded.

“And you’ve been fighting?”

“I get mad and Charles shuts down,” said Haze.

“I hate fights,” I said. “My stepfather was a violent drunk. That was thirty years ago, but whenever there’s conflict, I still run away.”

Haze. in turn, called her parents “Icebox Swedes,” saying they abandoned her emotionally, and rarely touched her as a child. “I always misbehaved,” she said, “to get attention. I guess that’s why I like being spanked so much.”
Miss James then asked about our previous partners.

“My last girlfriend was a big mama dyke,” said Haze, “and Charles lived with a new-age zombie for three years.”

“And what are your current relationship problems?”

“Haze picks fights, For no reason.” I said. “It sucks.”
“We live in one small room,” added Haze. “And we have an angry gay roommate who drinks and hogs the bathroom.”

I told Miss James how recently Bert had hogged the bathroom for an hour and a half before rushing off to his job at Macy’s. Usually we indulged him, and once I’d given up and peed in the bushes. But on this morning I’d eaten a big greasy breakfast of bacon and eggs, and drunk too much strong coffee, and I really, really, really had to go.

“Emergency!” I yelled, but Bert yelled back “Just a minute,” in his best sarcastic voice, until I had no choice: I pooped in a Safeway bag, wiped my ass with the Chronicle, and threw the whole stinking mess in a dumpster down the block.

Miss James made a face.

“Charles,” she said, “under things you dislike, you’ve listed: leaky ballpoint pens, flat asses, tax audits and Tom Hanks.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Is that a joke?”

I shrugged.

Miss James looked at us sternly. “Do you think your relationship can be saved?”
Haze took my hand and gave me a big awwwwww look. “I sure hope so,” she said. “Charlie and I have so much fun. Don’t we, Charlie?”

I had to admit Haze was right. Haze was a tiger in the sack, the wildest, kinkiest, funniest girl I’d ever met. And truth be told, she’d had awakened my shut-down spirit and turned me on big time, like a huge hit of human speed. I mean, why do you think they called her Hurricane?

Within a week, Haze had scored a job as a social worker with the Multiple Sclerosis Society, and when I asked what she’d be doing, she became strangely indignant. “I help disabled people get wheelchairs,” she said. “I help little children learn to walk. Just look at you and your artist friends. You think you’re so fucking cool. What are you contributing to society?”

“I’m an artist,” I replied. “I make art. That’s my job.”

“Oh, art,” sniffed Haze. “Like your video of Tornado on the toilet. And your pictures of the tattooed fetus. Like your photos of the guy with 106 piercings in his cock and balls…?”

“I have a hot video,” I teased, “of you sucking my salami in Amsterdam. How’s that for art?”

“I asked you to erase that video,” frowned Haze.

“How about SM for MS?” I quipped. “We could do a tv show, with wild medical scenes, kinky nurses, wheelchair bondage–”

“You’re fucking sick,” she said.

Minutes later, Haze was begging to be spanked. “Admit it,” I said. “My SM for MS idea made you wet.” She grinned.

“Bert will hear us,” I giggled.

“Who cares?” said Haze, stripping naked. “Come on, big boy. Paddle my ass.”

Charles Gatewood is a San Francisco photographer, writer and video artist. This story is from Erotic Confessions, a book in progress. www.charlesgatewood.com.