Friday, January 30, 2015

Tanya Tagaq - "Caribou"

I had just finished reading an article in The New Yorker right as the subway train pulled into Grand Central, my stop, where I get off for work each weekday morning. I smiled, in a good mood, filled with a rush of hope for no particular reason out of the blue. I told myself that it was the beginning of the day, that anything could happen. I hummed to myself that New Pornographers’ line, “What will be revealed today?”

As I walked off the train, part of a mass of midtown commuters bumbling toward the stairwell, I looked over my shoulder at the still open train doors behind me, and saw on the side of the train the words, “Your Career Will Be” - the banner ad was cut off by the open subway doors, it clearly an ad for some continuing education school. But it seemed like an answer to the question I had just sung.

There’s a porn star that I have been obsessed with for years, this beautiful guy. I started messaging him a couple nights ago. We’ve been texting each other dirty stuff. Supposedly, we are going to hook up sometime this weekend.

What will be revealed today?

I’m going to keep on reaching, being open, asking for things I want, going after them.

Friday, January 23, 2015


I was sitting alone, waiting for a friend. The waitress saw my empty glass, said “Would you like another beer? It’s kinda equivalent to a friend, right?”

I woke up the next day insanely hungover.

Monday, January 12, 2015

Steamrooms of New York

Barry White is playing. He is moaning loudly through my speakers. I am drinking red wine. I am a little stoned. My radiator is pumping out way more heat than anyone could ever need, more than even Barry White would be able to do through his voice.

Basically, what I am trying to say, is that, right now, in this moment, here sitting in my apartment in Brooklyn in the year 2015 (really, two thousand fucking fifteen already? okay.), and listening to good soul music, I am feeling what it is to be a human being, what it is to inhabit a body and to be aware of that, aware of the pleasures that such a thing can entail, all the pleasures that being effortlessly provides when you just sit back and be.

Earlier this evening, I saw the dude I sometimes see uptown, the piss fan. After, because I was in the neighborhood, I went to the gym location nearby. Crowded, it still early January, people still sticking to New Year's resolutions, no open treadmills, I putzed around for a bit before just deciding to sit in the steamroom.

Human bodies, holy fuck! They are such perfect things. I can stare at a foot, a perfectly formed and proportioned foot, of some older man sitting across from me in a towel in this steamroom and believe, know in fact, that there is nothing else, that this is church, what it is supposed to do, a recognition, a momentary and fleeting thing aided by being in a particular physical location - church, steamroom, whathaveyou - in which you get it, in which you know there it is no it to explain, that this, right here, is it. 

The man with the sexy feet left and the guy next to me started rubbing his crotch in a vague enough way so that he could just be a straight dude scratching his balls, a code, a language that only fellow speakers of the language can even hear. And so we started jerking off. His body was gorgeous. To lose oneself in the admiration of the human form is what it is to truly feel alive, to really get what any of this might be about, this time on earth, that it is about pleasures like these. Which is why I was so happy this evening, because I had experienced this particular pleasure that I haven't in so long, the erotic throes of the steamroom, your mind and body slightly exhausted, slightly foggy feeling, from the heat, and so to see, in glimpses of light broken up by tiny particles of moisture, by steam, bodies, defined things, abs, pecs, hairy thighs, stubble, that it's such a treat - such a beautiful thing to lose yourself too.

At some point, some other man, somehow even sexier, joined us. It was a daisy chain of blowjobs, of jerking off. This one guy's cock, this beautiful preppy looking dude, was gorgeous. His cock tasted just as good as I thought it would as I stared at it while he jerked off next to me. He had trimmed body hair and an insanely tight body. I imagined him to be some junior broker or some other type of ambitious and hungry finance dude. Steamrooms are amazing in this regard - your erotic fantasy is allowed to take limitless flight, to follow whatever imaginary fantasies it wants to project on to these people, these anonymous bodies, that it is pure physical attraction, never tempered by something so pedestrian as voice, what one does for a job, how one drinks their coffee, or one's bootcut jeans. It is pure physical attraction.

On the verge of passing out, I left, showered under cold water.

Changing, still sweating, I watched as next to me a gorgeous, wispy, tall guy with a beautiful mop of brown hair took off his towel, and stood naked momentarily before going commando and throwing on a pair of really sexy drop-crotch sweatpants. I watched his ass until the last bit of it was covered and then my eyes traced the outline of his muscled, curved back as he corrected his posture, pulled the pants up, and stood, tall, beautiful man, sexy human form, divine thing.

Monday, January 5, 2015

"Just for the Night" - Evelyn Champagne King

New Year’s Eve, midnight came, I exchanged kisses with various boys, some of whom I have gigantic crushes on. Time kept moving, 2015 did. I got drunk, partied too much. I saw a drag queen sing a song I remember really liking at Metropolitan. Don’t ask me what song it was. The following two days were spent in bed, recovering. Welcome to a new year, a new you.

Friday night, after a couple days rest, he rose again, partying calling out its siren song. I hung out with friends and went to Metro again. Was there til four in the morning. Went over to some guy’s house with some friends, partied more. Migrated to another’s friend’s house, partied more. I had sex with the friend that I have hooked up with a couple times now and stumbled out of his room at nine something. I walked home, zombie loose on the streets of New York, feeling like death, looking like it, respectable people out for their morning coffee looking at me like the gutter monster I felt like. I made it home past the dirty glances, some real, most though probably only perceived, and stood under my shower for a long time. I then went and curled up under piles of blankets and again slept away a couple of days basically, recovering, waking just to watch Netflix and order Mexican food.

And here we are, the first proper work day of 2015, and now I am feeling like the new year has officially started, the starting gun fired.

At what point does partying turn into too excess? By its very nature, isn’t partying excessive? But where is the line that makes it too much so? I am thinking that that line is probably somewhere well before the point where you have a hangover that is going to stretch into two days.

That time in bed was spent devouring lots of BBC-produced small town murder mysteries with female detectives. First, I watched all of Happy Valley, washed that down with Broadchurch, and am now about halfway through Top of the Lake. Despite having some surface similarities, they are all quite excellent in their own ways. What is it about this moment in time that all of these series are being made vaguely similar in their broad brushstrokes? More to the point, what does it say about me, that in this particular moment, first days of 2015, cold snap approaching, that all I want to watch are stories of females with accents out on the hunt for criminals?

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

looking backward, looking forward

"Nevertheless, the death who now rises from her chair is an empress. She shouldn't be living in this freezing subterranean room, as if she had been buried alive, but on top of the highest mountain presiding over the fates of the world, gazing benevolently down on the human herd, watching them as they rush hither and thither, unaware that they're heading in the same direction, that one step forward will take them just as close to death as one step back, that it makes no difference because everything will have but one ending, the ending that a part of yourself will aways have to think about and which is the black stain on your hopeless humanity."
-Death With Interruptions, 183

I finished this beautiful Jose Saramago novel yesterday. It's the first book that I have finished in months. One of my many new year's resolutions is to get back into the habit of reading fiction. It really is necessary. What good fiction can do is insane. It reacquaints a person with the beauty and mysteries of what it is to be human, what it is to be alive, and what it that we are really doing with our short time here on this planet. It both grounds and elevates a person, tying them into what it is to inhabit this planet, bringing forth questions that are otherwise easy to silence with time wasted on social media, time spent thinking about your job, or time playing games on your cellphone as you move about your day. Fiction successfully does this in a way that no other art forms really are capable of, at least for me.

Other resolutions:
-to become more muscular, more fit, to have better posture - all tied together
-to smoke tobacco less, if at all
-to spend way, way less time seeking out sexual stimulation or satisfaction through online methods (porn, Scruff, etc.) - it's all a distraction
-to get employed by an ad agency in a full-time gig with benefits
-tied to the above resolution, is the resolution to get health care and get on PrEP
-to be both more confident and more vulnerable

Thinking back over this past year, I am proud of myself and what I have accomplished. I took a big leap by finally leaving a comfortable job in hospitality that paid decently and had benefits to intern as a copywriter for way less pay and no benefits. And I am so fucking happy I did. I only wish I would have been brave enough to attempt it earlier. You have to go after what you want.

I moved apartments. I left a shitty one bedroom apartment that I liked a lot out in Bushwick because the landlord wanted the apartment to sell for more. I moved in with my friend, Diego, into a much nicer apartment in Williamsburg. I was scared and upset when I was told I needed to move out of my apartment, felt like I was regressing by having to again have a roommate after living by myself, but sometimes things work out for the best. My living situation now is much nicer than my one then and I am really glad circumstances conspired to bring about my current situation.

I ate a lot of burritos.

I'm not sure I had any real romances. A lot of attempts at them, a lot of failed attempts. The words of Aaliyah continually inspire me: "Dust yourself off and try again."I am pretty happy alone right now and couldn't even imagine what a romance might look like, how it would fit into my life in which I barely have time for myself, let alone another person. And as you can see, my 2015 resolutions have nothing to do with romance, with anyone else. For what might be the first time in my life, I can say that I really am more concerned about my own life, my own career, and things that I want to accomplish for myself, so much so that I'm not even thinking about a boyfriend. And, yes, I am sure you, if you know me well, are probably rolling your eyes, maybe even pointing to diary entries I have written this past year, saying What about X, or What about Y? And you know what? Eat shit. Because there are the occasional crushes, yes, but really I just want to be the best I can be right now, and that doesn't involve any sort of romantic fulfillment at this point.

I want to get better at writing comedy. I want to get better at writing everything.

While I was at my mom's house over Christmas, we went to the movie theater to watch Wild on Christmas Day after opening presents. I have been thinking about the movie since. It's one of the better movies I have seen in a very long time and really hit close to home for me, this story of a woman who has spent a large part of her twenties sowing wild oats recklessly, doing what some might call wasting time, and who decides to try to get it together, to move on. And the way she does this is by hiking the PCT, which clearly is where our stories diverge. But the broader contours are what I identify with. There's this scene in the movie, a flashback scene in which Reese Witherspoon's character is talking to her mom, played by the always amazing Laura Dern. Witherspoon's character asks her mom something along the lines of, "How can you be happy? Don't you regret that you married Dad, an abusive alcoholic?" And Laura Dern's character replies something along the lines of, "No, I don't regret any of it. I don't regret marrying an abusive alcoholic. Because I got you out of it. If I hadn't have married him, I would never have had you." A stream of tears were falling down my face during this scene because I remember a near identical conversation with my mom once when visiting home on a break from college, my mom at this point divorced from my dad, and having suffered through numerous traumas brought on by being married to a person with an appetite for drugs and destruction. Discussing my dad and how she was really happy to be free of him, she told that is was worth it though because she got me and my sister out of it, that it had its purpose.

And everything has its purpose. 2014, you were great. All you previous years, equally amazing, all for some purpose, every moment, even the terrible ones, teaching me something, making me this current person I am. 2015, I welcome you and whatever it is you may bring. Let's dance!

Saturday, December 27, 2014

Charles Mingus - "Mood Indigo"

New York - a city like no other. Yes indeed. I was thinking this to myself yesterday afternoon riding a train back to New York after a couple days in suburban Delaware. The skyline of this city was starting to come into view, home was.

This thought - that New York is a city like no other, that that's why I live here - was soon followed by an opposing thought. New York - a city like any other.

I have lived here for eleven plus years now, have taken that train into the city up through the Meadowlands of New Jersey so many times now. When I first started to do so, the thought that would come in to my head would be: NEW YORK FUCKING CITY! And I would bop up and down either literarily or metaphorically, so excited about this place and the potential it held, the potential I saw for myself in this city, for what I could be. My excitement about New York was a proxy for my excitement about my own life and everything that it might hold, everything that might come of it, here, in this place.

At some point, that giddiness shifted into something else. The city has become my home and so the feeling of approaching it now is more of relief, of that soon I will be back home, and then I think about all the things I need to get done in that approaching skyline. New York is a city just like any other in that it is a place where people go about their daily lives, struggling with bills, frustrated with their jobs, and trying and failing at romance. This is the story of every city, and in that way New York is no different. I thought about the little money in my bank account, about how I need to actually get hired in the new year, about my approach to hitting on men I'm attracted to, how it's clearly not working, how that needs to change. There were many other shortcomings I found in my life on the train ride in. For a moment, looking at the city from a distance, I was able to see my own life in that city from a distance, was able to clearly evaluate where I am and to assess how far the gap is between where I am and where I would like to be.

In a couple days, it will somehow be a new year.

Last night, back in this town, I hung out with some friends at their apartment and had drinks and talked about goals for the new year. I then went out to various gay bars and danced. I ate a burrito at the end of the night and rode home in a taxi with Diego talking about the past, the future a night's sleep away.

The dreams I had last night I don't remember. I woke up with other dreams in mind, bigger dreams, and they are going to come true. I am going about trying to become the person I want to be and there are stumbles along the way, certainly, but it's part of the process. NEW YORK FUCKING CITY!

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Cake - "The Distance"

I learned more about what time is this past week. It’s been said before, many times actually, but it takes personal experience for those aphorisms to actually resonate, but the saying, “You can never home again,” is as true as true can be.

Jacob, my ex, who now lives in London, was in town for about a week and it was really nice to see him. It also made me sad, made me clingy, made me ponder certain things, like distance, time, and these other factors that constitute life and its trajectory. Physical distance isn’t as easy to collapse as a transatlantic flight. This person here in my bed can still be elsewhere. He’s not the person that I used to share a bed with. I am not that person either. That place, though Brooklyn also, no longer exists.

He talked about how much he loved London. He looked at his iPad a lot. I kissed him on the neck one night sleeping next to him. He pulled away.

He is my past and it was nice to see him in my present, especially since I haven’t seen him in a long while. It allowed me to match things up, to try to, to fail to be able to, and to realize more distinctly what it is that constitutes my present, what it is I want from it, and what I might want in a future.

New York changes and doesn’t. We ate Mexican food from Haab and watched comedies on Netflix. We went to Metropolitan and had drinks. I was comfortable around him doing not much of anything, which was nice. He flew back to his home, London, last night. I kissed him goodbye and closed the door behind him and said something I couldn’t say him to the door. I stayed in my home, my love, my steady, New York.

Thursday, December 11, 2014


I had a dream last night that I was blonde.

Only today, here at work, hungover from the company party last night, and listening to the same music that I was listening to yesterday do I understand where this dream came from. I am listening to Ssion and the song "Blonde" just played, lyrics clearly the source of my dream last night:

"Last night, I woke up dreaming that I was blonde."

I danced a lot, consumed a lot of whiskey, and confessed to a couple co-workers all the people I have crushes on. Thankfully, I did not tell this to these crushes. Yes to starting exercise some modicum of self-control in my thirties! Progress, people. Progress.

It snowed yesterday throughout the day, light flurries, making the city look pretty from the warmth of an office view, looking out. Less pretty when you are out in it. This is some broader analogy here about looks, about them being deceiving, and about things capable of being ugly and pretty, good and bad.

"I just want to get blonde with you."

Sunday, November 30, 2014

constant glances toward the door

Prince is playing on my stereo, but then again, when he is not playing on my stereo?

I went to my mom's house in Delaware for Thanksgiving. It was a crowded house full of relatives I hadn't seen in forever. Lots of Trivial Pursuit was played. Some Scrabble. I smoked a lot of cigarettes with my aunts and uncles as they hid their smoking habits from their kids, smoking in the backyard with constant glances toward the door.

I want to write a novel called "Constant Glances Toward the Door." I have no idea what it would be about. I just like the title. A short story is probably a more realistic goal. Even that, like most ideas, will probably be unrealized.

I was horny while at my mom's house, probably because there was nothing I could do about it in such a crowded house, probably because I was thrown back mentally into what it was like to be a horny teenager being in my parent's house and wanting to jerk off all the time and having nowhere to do so as I was given the couch in this full house.

At the Wilmington Amtrak station on my way home, I used the bathroom before boarding which seemed vaguely cruisey. There were a lot of homeless seeming dudes and someone in the stall next to me standing in an awkward position, feet to the side, that made me think he was jerking off. I wanted to reach under the stall and tug every dick this world had on offer. Instead, terrified that this was some entrapment thing, that I would be arrested while my sister was in the waiting room of the train station, and it would be a fairly unpleasant scene, taken out in handcuffs, my family having to come rescue me, imagining all this, I instead buttoned my pants and boarded the train eventually. Once on the train, I went into the bathroom and finally jerked off like I had been wanting to all weekend, unable to wait until I made it back to my apartment in Brooklyn.

Last night, I drank a lot of whiskey, did some drugs, and travelled around town, starting off at a Morrissey party which was a little boring. We then headed to Metropolitan. I told someone that they were a douchebag that I think is a douchebag and it felt really good. Sometimes it feels so fucking good to say how you feel, that it's similar to cumming, shooting this load finally that you have had pent up, letting it go. Orgasmic release.

I hung out at a friend's house after the bar closed. There was a blind dog.

I walked home with the same friend that I had sex with last weekend and again had sex with him last night. On the way to my house, I vaguely remembered him saying, "Are we going to talk about this?" We didn't. He was gone by the time I woke up this morning, hungover, head aching.

Another weekend.

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Prince - "Forever in My Life"

I am packing a bag of clothes to board a train tomorrow. I'm going to go see my family for Thanksgiving.

I am listening to Prince. I am a little stoned. There is a glass of red wine by my side.

I told Diego today that I was talking to a boy, a boy that I like, that I have tried again and again to make something happen with. And he, Diego, made the analogy, a wise one, about "Party at Our Place."

I used to have this t-shirt, bright blue, that said, "Party at Our Place," which I have come to assume is some Chuck E. Cheese-like children's birthday party venue. I used to wear this t-shirt all the time. Over and over again. It was comfortable but I also felt cute in it. I really liked the shirt, the fit, the feel, the mood, the color - everything about it. At some point, Jacob made some comment about how unsurprising it was that I was yet again wearing this "Party at Our Place" shirt. Diego was there at the time and seconded this comment and both of them told me I was never allowed to wear the shirt again, that they were sick of seeing it.

This t-shirt, my attachment to that, is the same as whatever is going on with this boy. Diego said they were one and the same. I am not sure the analogy is apt but it sounds like it could be and definitely gave me pause. Either way, I think he's sick of hearing about this person. I kind of am too. But I see his Facebook picture every now and then in my feed and I get all sixteen old high school student seeing that cute boy in the hall and all nervous and shit and holding their books tight to their chest as they swoon and think about fainting, and I think that I want to kiss this person, this cute fucking person.

I'm going to try to hang out with him this weekend once I return from time with my family.

I may have scabies, which I think I got from sleeping with people at the MIX Festival - I have been itchy ever since. And in another physical irritation brought about sex, my pelvic area is really sore from having wasted sex with one of my friends this weekend. I'm hoping it's just soreness, but then there is another part of me that spent a large part of the day Googling hernia symptoms.

Prince is playing. I don't have health insurance. I just scratch myself and get stoned. And I play Prince! I play him loud, loud, loud and play this one song on repeat over and over tonight, the "Party at Our Place" analogy again rearing its head, this thing with repetition, some specific fears and insecurities eased immensely by repeating something over and over again, jamming out to "Forever in My Life."