Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Saturday night, people blurred, joined, and split apart. I had had a weed brownie, drank some whiskey, and ate some mushrooms. I danced or didn't. I wandered around a lot. At some point, I hid my shirt and jacket underneath a stage. I made out with a boy who soon turned into two boys.

At some point in the early morning, I left with the two boys. I couldn't find my jacket or shirt, had awful thoughts about being that mess of a person walking around New York in November (any month really) without a shirt on. Luckily one of these guys let me borrow his overshirt. It for some reason reminded me of a shirt that Malcolm might wear on The Cosby Show.

This guy, this shirt-lender, this true gentleman, at some point en route to leaving told me he just wanted to sleep with me, did not want to have a threesome. We went to get in a taxi, the two of us, and soon again it was three. It was an awkward taxi ride back to my house where neither of us said anything. Only once the taxi stopped, once this person travelled to my house, did I tell him that I was going home with this other person. It was a very awkward moment, but I was happy for vocalizing my desires in a situation where normally I wouldn't, where normally I would just go with the flow.

The sun was up. His dick was huge. It was beautiful. In that high state, I came to idolize it, less so hungover in the afternoon when we finally woke up.

Saturday, November 8, 2014

Curtis Mayfield - "Get Down"

The leaves on my block are yellow. They look good when I leave for work in the morning, sun low on the horizon, casting beautiful shadows. They look great in the afternoon, sun shining through them. They look good at night time, street lights giving off just enough light to let me see the difference, to see time moving, to see this particular moment that I am living in in which summer is now done and winter around the corner, and things changing, always changing. It's fucking beautiful.

All the more so because of its hyper-transitory nature, this season. One big rainstorm and most of these leaves will be gone, on the ground, in gutters. Even without a big storm, they will soon enough be gone. And so I take in these sights while I can.

A couple nights ago, I spent the night in a guy's bed in Bushwick, this crush who I had pursued this summer only to have it fizzle out. Aaliyah sings, "If at first you don't succeed, dust yourself off and try again." We smoked weed and drank booze underneath his covers while watching Frozen. It was incredibly cute. He's incredibly cute. Everything's incredibly cute.

I cleaned my apartment this morning and I have my bedroom window open to let out some of the thick heat of my radiator.  Cool breezes every so often punctuate the heat. This is fall.

Saturday, November 1, 2014

Madonna - "Take a Bow"

It was after last call had been announced. They were winding down the night, letting people know it was time to go. It had been a Madonna-themed night at Metropolitan. I danced, really danced, to songs that I hadn't heard in a while, some of the less frequently-played Madonna songs, losing myself to all the feelings I have ever felt to this music, from those days when I was a kid and watched MTV in the eighties with my sister, both of us drawn to Madonna's videos even then, music I would discover again and again throughout my life, from teenage years, to early years as an out gay, from time later on when I found new meaning in particular songs, really heard them in ways my youth had never allowed me to do. The feelings invoked by particular Madonna songs is pretty crazy, and last night a bit high and a bit drunk, those feelings were particularly heightened.

I was a clown, a mime, something. Sequined outfit and face paint, a bob wig.

There was this guy, beautiful man. It was the last song they were playing. "Take a Bow." Perfect choice for a last song of the night. I played out this fantasy in my head of approaching my bullfighter, this hunk of a man, beautiful thing, being forward, to this song, dancing with him, going home together, always remembering how our relationship started with this song, with that time I approached him during Madonna's "Take a Bow." I made eyes at him and followed him with my eyes as I saw him approach someone that looked very much like his boyfriend.

I kept dancing. On screen, my man, out of reach. I fall to the floor, rub myself against that bullfighter on the tv screen, eroticize distance, unavailability, the joy in pain, of heartache, of wanting. Push the sword in deeper. Bull down.

I hung out on the street after the bar closed, smoking cigarettes underneath the awning of a funeral home. Unpack the symbolism in that sentence. Or don't actually.

I ran home in the rain, chilly, cold.

This morning, I woke up hungover, scattered sequins all over my floor.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014


It is late at night and I all dream about, desire, is Taco Bell.

Monday, October 20, 2014

Madonna - "Rain"

New York is a beautiful place. I left work tonight in midtown, walked across 42nd Street, walked down 5th Avenue, passed the stately NYPL, autumn night, things crisp, chilly but not too cold, and took in the sight of these buildings at night lit up, streets for the most part clear of the worker crowds that fill them during the day. And I walked and walked, taking it in, looking at shop windows selling sweatshirts and name license plates.

I am broke but happy. I bought a bottle of wine yesterday with quarters. Bought a dozen eggs with dimes. I don't get paid until the end of the month. I am trying to make it. New York in some ways has the same feel to it that it did a decade or so when I first moved here. I am hungry. I want it. Things seem possible, and in possibility there is beauty. Without that sense that something could happen, something new, you don't look at things the same way. You, in fact, don't really look at things. You just go through the motions. I am looking at things, at people, at the city, at buildings, at imagined futures. It's a new city to me. Everything is open, a potential path. I am trying to start again, to make a new life.

And I am drinking lots of coffee because it's free at work. And I am smoking lots of cigarettes, not that they are free, but they pair quite nicely with a caffeinated state.

And I am listening to music and dancing around my room, dancing in place at my desk at work, headphones on, feeling it, this thing called life that music does such an amazing job of making startlingly present.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Janet Jackson - "You Want This"

He shot his load on to the fogged glass shower divider separating our two showers.

I had left the steam room, delirious from the heat, from trying to sweat out everything bad in my body, had stumbled to a shower stall. I could hear someone else leaving the steam room behind me, and then saw that they, despite other open showers, had opted to go in the one next to mine. I knew what was coming.

For a straight gym, my gym has some of the most homoerotic gym showers I have ever been in. The shower stalls have fogged glass separating one from the other, so that you see the outline of the person showering next to you, see a blurry vision of a naked male next to you, one of those scrambled porn channels that you would try to unscramble mentally as a kid. I usually peek out of the side of my eyes, so as to be somewhat discreet, as I watch guys shower next to me.

There was the usual coyness of the two of us washing our cocks and our assholes for way too long, some way of saying that we were cruising. He would put his ass closer to the glass separating us. For a moment, the scrambled cable station, comes into view. For a second, I see a late night softcore movie, the volume turned down so my family doesn't know what I'm doing, trying my best to mentally hold on to the image, to save it for later, to eventually have enough of these snapshots to assemble into a short movie, one that will be projected on to the screen of my childhood sexual imagination in moments in locked bathrooms.

He turns around. I get a good view of him stroking his cock. I stand closer then, giving him a view of me near the glass, me stroking my cock.

I watch underneath the glass, the view of his sexy toes digging tighter and tighter into the floor tiles as he gets nearer and nearer orgasm. It's about to come. He puts the head of his cock against the glass and I watch with all the hunger in the world as his semen paints the glass between us. He towels off and leaves the stall, not bothering to clean this huge streak of cum from the wall, not bothering to rinse down the drain the drops of it on the floor. For a moment, I dream of how good it would feel, how good it would taste, to wipe up the drops on the floor and put them to my mouth, my tongue. I wish I could reach the streak of it on the glass between us. He has left to get dressed and I watch his cum slowly ooze down the glass in slow motion and am so turned on by this, by this now absent man, by his swagger, by his lack of care. Something in his failing to clean up his cum, to leave it there for whoever to see, his exhibitionist qualities, push me over the edge. I cum. I wash mine down the drain and watch his on that glass keep sliding down as someone else steps into that stall.

Sunday, October 5, 2014

Eliades Ochoa - "El Carretero"

To tell you about my weekend, to tell myself about it, to tell whoever it is that these diary entries are written for, let me say this: both Friday and Saturday night, I found myself at bodegas shortly after four in the morning hoping that the folks working would still sell me beer, heading on my way to some impromptu after-party, and being successful in the attempt, purchasing it, raging, living, being up until seven or eight in the morning hanging out with folks, chatting, smoking way too many cigarettes, hooking up with folks, having fun as they say.

Both nights were filled with booze, with drugs, with dancing, with flirting, and with Metropolitan. Little sleep has been gotten, fun has been had. One night, Friday, ended in that way that sometimes nights will end when you are steered by the strong arm of horniness, a steady driver, but one that drives you places you probably would never venture to if your rational self was the one driving, hooking up with some dude from Scruff at seven in the morning, another person holding on to the last bits of the night, him hungry too, him not ready to say goodbye to anything yet, to even put it on pause for a few hours for sleep, another lonely person in the night still wanting to rage, and having sex in your bed, telling him not to ring your buzzer, to text when he gets there, so that you don't wake up your roommates, who, like most decent people of the world, are asleep at that hour. Not me. Instead, I gratified something that I wasn't sure I needed to as soon I came. Instead, I wanted him gone, and he left. I was left with the smell of his balls in my throat, which lingered well into the next day, way too long into the next day despite numerous tooth brushings. 

Saturday night, last night, was different. I hooked up with some cute boy that I wanted to sleep with, and which was the best part, this gorgeous body that held me throughout the night, that I I fit so nicely against. I wanted him to stay, to linger. I never wanted to leave my bed, stayed there until one or so, one of us in the other's arms, cuddling, and rubbing our bodies against each other.

My room smells like smoke, like the memories of sexual encounters, and like Fall, me having kept my windows open all day to try to air out these various smells. It will soon smell like Mexican food, as I am about to place in order for some, to try to fill the hungriness of a hangover, to try to squash it all with hot sauce, cheese, fried meat, and tortillas. They will all mingle together, these smells, and soon I will sleep underneath the fog of it all, getting ready for my first day of work together, dreaming of these things, of other things, of so, so many other things. 

Monday, September 29, 2014

Cheryl Lynn - "Shake It Up Tonight"

When the white's all done, then you move on to the red. Or, whatever else you can find in the kitchen.

I hung out with Nik last evening, worked off a hangover with the best cure anyone's come up with yet: the hair of the dog. We drank some Charles Shaw and had a double feature at my apartment, watching The Birds, which was fairly underwhelming compared to the other Hitchcock movies I've seen lately, and then Before Sunrise, which was, as always, amazing, and left me, as Linklater so often does, fingering the memories of old failed romances and feeling real, real sentimental. Blame Charles Shaw too probably.

Nik left. I ate some flan from Gran Morelos and somehow conflated my love of flan, which is very strong thing these days, with another infatuation I am feeling these days, this cute guy Nick. I was drunk and the two swirled around in my brain. I was blasting Janet Jackson and writing insane messages to people on Facebook. Luckily, perhaps too late to save me from my own self-sabotoging impulses, Diego came home, and that's when I started drinking red wine, and we hung out in our backyard, it late September and feeling like mid-summer. We are all going to die, the world is - one of us said this. Him, I believe. Global warming and all. We talked about life and food and wine and work and aging and all the things people drinking wine out in the night are prone to talk about that have known each other for quite a few years.

This morning, the hangover, which I had outrun for a bit, was back, back in full force. I went to the gym, spent about two hours there, trying to outrun it again, sweating everything out, trying to forget about my love of this person, my financial troubles, my hangover. Run, run, run on that treadmill. Escape it all. Exhaust yourself until you're nothing but a body, a human body in motion, sweating, struggling, a machine. It felt amazing. My body felt so good afterward and I told myself that I was going to cherish this feeling, to treat my body kinder, to feel this way all the time, to feel healthy, in control.

And here I am drinking an energy drink mixed with vodka before I go out again, someone texting me to go to Bath Salts with them, and me, full of energy, aware that this is my last week of unemployment, my last chance to go out on weeknights with zero cares about work the next day, said okay. I said okay. I also said: Try to get your dreamboat roommate to come.

Sunday, September 28, 2014

Tennis - "Never Work for Free"

A week from tomorrow, I start working at another ad agency. It's a paid intern position that should hopefully turn into a full-time job in a couple months. I am beyond excited.

The past month and a half of being unemployed has been fun in that I can live this life of leisure and poverty and go out late on weeknights and sleep in as late as I want, however I was starting to get worried. I was starting to worry that the dream I had set up for myself wasn't going to come true, that my hopes of doing copywriting weren't going to pan out, that no one was ever going to hire me, and that I would probably soon find myself working in hospitality again, driven by the very real need for a paycheck.

Which is why when on Friday immediately after I got off the phone with this agency, I was jumping up and down and dancing around my room, so, so happy. 

And I have been jumping up and down since that phone call, having so much fun this weekend. I went to some fun parties on Friday night, seemingly walked all over Brooklyn, met some cool people, and ended the night in my favorite way - ordering a sandwich from my bodega and having a long talk with Lucky about life. 

I spent yesterday binge-watching Scandal, getting caught up to its current moment, before going over to a friend's house who lives a few doors down from my first home in New York - not my first apartment because those were month-long sublets that I hopped around from before settling here for about four years - 424 Grand Street. When my friend texted me the address he was at, I was really excited to go there, to go to this block I rarely go to anymore, stretch of Grand Street right by the BQE. There are ugly, expensive condos on the corner that didn't used to be there and the blocks around it all have changed so much, however this little stretch of Grand Street, this one block seems fairly unchanged. I stood underneath my old bedroom, looked up. The windows were dark. The gingko trees in front of the building. I had forgotten how in love with them I used to be. Wave after wave of memories rushed over me. 

I called my friend to let him know I was out front, stepped as much as I could into the present. 

Friday, September 19, 2014

Hiss Golden Messenger - "Southern Grammar"

I was walking home, drunk but more so hungry, walking home down Grand Street from the Pat party at Union Pool. I passed bars, familiar sights, this line of buildings that I feel so at home walking past. I looked up at the sky and told myself, told the sky, there is no place, not one other place on this entire planet, I would rather be.

I stopped into my bodega for a roast beef sandwich and started chatting with Lucky, the guy who makes the sandwiches there, the guy who I think is amazing and who I have had so many late-night drunk conversations with. "Where have you been?" he asked. He told me he had just been talking about me earlier, wondering why I haven't been there in a while.

The reason is because I have been eating lots of bagels and peanut butter. The reason is because I am trying to eliminate unnecessary expenses since I am unemployed. The reason is because I am broke and should not be going to various bars buying drinks, let alone buying sandwiches drunk afterwards. I didn't really want to go into all of this with him though.

He started asking me what's new, what's been going on in my life. Not much, I said. A lot of the same, nothing's really changed. And he asked if I had a girlfriend or a new job. He told me some saying that one of his uncles has which I am failing to remember now, but it was something like happiness is having a nice girl, a nice job, and a nice house. And how his uncle could never seem to get all three, that when he got one, he would always lose the other, never able to achieve his idea of happiness, one piece of the tower always falling away before the thing could be completed.

He asked me why I didn't have a girlfriend, what type of girls I liked, whether I liked Spanish girls, black girls, Indian girls. I just laughed. I didn't tell him that I don't have a girlfriend because I like sucking dick. I didn't want to scandalize him. I am not sure what I was afraid of. He told me he could set me up with some Indian girls but that they only spoke Punjabi, that we'd have to use Google Translate anytime we hung out. Again, I just laughed.

Somewhere near the beer cases, some man was saying something about some faggot.

Lucky wrapped my sandwich, smiling ear to ear, one of the most consistently happy people I have ever met, saying, "Have a good night, my friend." This is one of my favorite language quirks of immigrants, this habit of addressing people as "my friend." There is something so beautiful in that practice.

I walked home, smiling, happy to be here, happy to soon consume this sandwich.