Oh Gavin, how could you? she thought, as she stared at the shrine she had made of him long ago, around the time he was still married to that fucking cunt, Kimberly Guilfoyle. She didn’t want to believe it. That he could be capable of such hypocrisy after she had worked so hard to forgive him for being with Gargoyle in the first place. It was a contempt that began to settle down in 2005, when Gav came to his senses and announced plans to divorce from Gargoyle. After all, being the mayor of San Francisco likely made him see the light (the one she was very clearly dimming). A liberal mecca like that cannot have Gargoyle as its “queen.”
Roberta could always tell they had a connection, if only he would cast a glance in her direction in those moments during his public appearances. Yes, she orchestrated them to be at the same place at the same time. She would often take off from work at a moment’s notice if she heard Gav was going to be somewhere. She even endured the goddamn gay pride parade in 2006 in the hope that he might spot her among a crowd of fruits. It dawned on her afterward that, with her luck, he would see her in that instant and write her off as just another fag hag. She should have taken her top off and shown her tits, that would’ve gotten his attention, undeniably. Then again, he was probably still boozing, too “tipsy” to process such things. He didn’t feign attempting to become sober until that year, and she couldn’t imagine why he would try to abstain from alcohol during the Pride parade. That was when one needed the drink the most. If nothing else to blend in with the aura of “merriment.” Celebrating through the pain of what led them here: commemorating a police raid on an unspoken gay bar run by the mafia. But Gav was all about gays. You could say Gav = gays. That’s what he was expected to equal as the mayor of San Francisco. But Roberta loved him long before then, before that moment he became truly famous.
She first laid eyes on him as a volunteer for Willie Brown back in 1995. While he was in the upper echelons—in Brown’s close inner circle of volunteers thanks to, well, the fact that he was Gavin Newsom—Roberta still caught plenty of glimpses. Made her fair share of shy glances. She was even almost, practically sure that he had glanced back at least once. Or maybe he was glancing at someone else behind her. But either way, there was no denying that he did gaze in her direction. She gave herself a paper cut when he did, she was so completely aroused. It was like one look from him could make her cream her panties. She supposed it was that day when she believed that their eyes had met that she started the shrine. She went right back to her small Green Street apartment, rented at a time when it was still affordable for someone like her to live in North Beach (still was, in fact, thanks to her beauteous rent control), and tacked to her wall a campaign newsletter that happened to mention his name. There wasn’t even a photo. Just his name. But that was enough to commence her altar to the man she knew she loved. And would always love unconditionally.
When he became governor, all those many years later, Roberta was obviously thrilled. She, by now, was forty-eight to his fifty-one when he took office that January of 2019. The year before the world decided to go apeshit. Or rather, batshit (or maybe it was pangolinshit). While the liberals of the state continued to berate him for being a business-oriented sellout, he still obviously wasn’t “good enough” for the Republicans anymore without Kimmy at his side. Indeed, Roberta felt that Gargoyle was an overt political machination the whole time. Even though the pair played the part of “California Kennedys” as best they could, it didn’t work with that conservative psychotic who would never hold a candle to Jackie. Not even a candlestick.
She felt once he tossed her out as the dead weight she was, he was able to truly ascend through the ranks that would lead him to become governor of this fair and Golden State. Roberta watched with bated breath all the while, hoping that somewhere along the track (that’s a railroad allusion… this being California and all), he might notice her again. After all, she was a loyal and steady donor, a volunteer and lead advocate for homelessness prevention in the city. Yet still, their paths never seemed to cross.
As she watched him bear the brunt of the vitriol from a conservative, business-obsessed constituency railing against his concern for the public’s health and well-being, she wanted to hold him in her arms and tell him that it was all going to be okay. Not only that, but he was doing the right thing. The morally sound thing. She even wanted to cry. For his pain was her pain. She knew that if he just stayed the course and stuck to his messaging, the state would pull through the mounting numbers that were ravaging counties throughout its jurisdiction.
Then came November 6th. After a fresh round of chastising those Californians who would stoop to flout the guidelines put in place for their own safety, lo and behold, Roberta was among the first to catch wind of a rumor that Gav attended a “little” birthday soirée at The French Laundry in honor of a certain lobbyist. His name isn’t important here, and all lobbyists are ultimately the same. What is a bit “special” about the scenario is Gav essentially partying it up with more than three households and being so “gay” (in the 1950s “jolly” way) that the loudness of their joy prompted the staff to close the outdoor dining space with its glass doors so the neighbors wouldn’t complain, effectively turning it into an “indoor space.”
And while we all know that rich people either don’t get COVID or aren’t too worried about it as they’ll have access to the best health care, this was, even to Roberta, an unfathomable act for Gav to commit right in the thick of California’s ever-cresting second wave. That he would risk his credibility and reputation for a goddamn bougie dinner with an oil lobbyist represented everything Roberta could not abide. It was excess and privilege at its most foul. She worked to fight such injustices—as she once believed Gavin did—in her work with the homeless. And hadn’t one of his most influencing pieces of legislation, after all, been the Care Not Cash initiative?
Roberta’s labia practically fluttered nonstop throughout Gav’s vehement and unceasing support for it. Knowing full well that he was risking so much contempt not only from the homeless themselves in quote unquote taking their money away (by ultimately giving them something more valuable, like psychiatric attention), but also, as Gav put it, “Progressives and Democrats, nuns and priests, homeless advocates…” The goddamn gamut was enraged with his own truly progressive thinking.
She reminisced with all her might back to this moment in 2002 when Gav endured so much to give to the population that Roberta herself had been working her whole life to help. Enough dwelling on that moment and she knew, once again, that she could forgive Gav of any purported wrongdoing. He was an angel sent down to protect California, and that was all there was to it.
It was nothing more than an “intimate rendezvous” (code: a massive, ribald party punctuated by Dionysian flair) with a lobbyist at The French Laundry. Who was he really harming? And as her panties dropped to the floor and she placed the blowup doll (which she had custom-made to look just like him) on top of her, Gav’s abilities in the boudoir made her, once again, forgive even the most unforgivable of sins.