Monday, January 31, 2005

the missed connection responds and i shriek with joy, looking his now known name up on friendster

thank you. and as a ship returns from sea, it must dock, to make the journey
once again. i should write that on the wall next to it. next time you see
me say hi.

the missed connection responds and i shriek with joy, looking his now known name up on friendster

thank you. and as a ship returns from sea, it must dock, to make the journey
once again. i should write that on the wall next to it. next time you see
me say hi.

Sunday, January 30, 2005

Last night, I was contacted by the piss guy again and at about one AM after drinking many beers while watching Rebel Without a Cause and Closer, I headed out into the sprinkling snow with Prince on my headphones. He lived far out on the L, past any part that any realtor could even hope to market as "East Williamsburg". I got to his house, said hello in the hallway and he shooshed me saying his uncle lived upstairs. I am pretty sure now that I think about it that this was his uncle's house and that this forty year old man lived with his uncle, that this is how he could afford to have me come piss on him three times in one week.

The other two times were brief and rushed since they occured at his job. This time both of us got naked. He set out on a sheet on his living room floor and told me that this time he wanted me to piss all over him since he wasn't at work, that he didn't just want to drink it. So with a full bladder from those beers earlier, I took my time and pissed all over his face, in his mouth, on his chest, on his cock. This time he wanted me to jizz in his mouth also. By the time I had finished pissing, I was pretty hard, from the erotics inspired by the power dynamics at play. I jacked off over him, shoving my cock down his mouth occasionally and then creamed all over his face. I wiped the semen off of my dick onto his face and he came shortly after. He paid me, I got dressed, walked out of his uncle's house, put on my headphones, and yes, you may notice that with all these interactions, these little stories I have been telling, I keep on talking about how I put on headphones as I stepped out the door, and you may think it is becoming a stock action in these stories, a crutch. But I want you to understand what it feels like in that moment after you have just been paid for some type of sexual service. You are feeling elated for multiple reasons, the two strongest being your bolstered sexual confidence, and perhaps even feeding that confidence is the second strong reason here, your pocket full of money. And so you are feeling this weird high, and you leave the mildy creepy guy, are on your own again, and with this wonderful soundtrack to make it seem all the more striking, that moment.

I think my life is a sequence of attempts at creating cinematic moments. I know I have tried to talk about this before and I don't know if I can ever get it right, exactly what this feeling is that transpires, and how I do and do not consciously try to stylize these moments. Is this a result from blogging about my life so much that just about everything I do, in the moment of doing, I can concieve a narrative for it, even try to add the backing soundtrack? This time it was Prince's "Cream" that was playing, and yes, too appropriate, I know. I think while I was picking out a CD to put in my discman, I was even vaguely aware that whichever album I chose would serve as the soundtrack to my walking to and from his house, and so it should be one that would be apt, even perhaps add some other level of meaning to the actions that will be and that were performed.

But yes, there I go, the snowflakes gently falling, me, headphones on, Prince as the soundtrack, to this boy walking down desolate streets. Patches of ice obscured by the falling snow, the boy slipping occasionally and deciding to instead walk in the clear street. Having just pissed on someone for cash, down that black street he walks alone toward home, down that line of blackness cutting through the white sidewalks, the white of snow pushed to the sides of street, burying even automobiles, cutting through it all, the line he walks, money in pocket, moist snow on forehead, nose, and cheeks, Prince crooning: Get on top.

Saturday, January 29, 2005

The list of things I haven't done is getting smaller and smaller with each passing day. Another thing that can now safely be crossed off of that shrinking list is nude housecleaning. Last night, I went over to this guy's house, got naked pretty quickly and started with his dishes. He sat on the couch in the living room mildly uncomfortable and even tried to joke about it, how he was more uncomfortable than I was. We then talked about my school, about his job, about boring things really, but he really wanted to keep talking. He was the second Jewish person I had met in two days who within the first five minutes of talking, cited their Jewishness as an apology for their neuroses. He was kind of fat but really nice and polite, if not more than a little mildy neurotic.

This was the second time he had had a naked houseboy and he did not really know what to do. I confessed to him that this was my first time cleaning someone's apartment and I didn't really know what to do, he said he didn't know what to do either, to look at how messy the place was, obviously he didn't know how to clean.

So I half-assed cleaned his kitchen counter, mopped his living room floor, and cleaned his tub. He kept telling me to take a break and smoke with him and so I did, sitting naked on his couch, watching Sex and the City, talking and laughing. After about two hours of more hanging out than actual cleaning, I told him I was done, he paid me the sixty dollars, and I started to get dressed. He asked if he could just take a better look at my ass one last time. I said sure and let him look at my ass. He then asked if he could touch my ass. I told him all right if he gave me some more money. He said all he had left was twenty, gave it to me, and then asked if I wanted a rimjob and I said why not and was propped on his bed, while he knelt on the floor and ate my ass and I jacked off and came and then got dressed.

When I stepped outside, I put on my headphones. Lester Young was playing and it was too funny, the juxtaposition, the big band melodic jazz as the soundtrack to my whoring. It felt really good to bounce down those New York streets, people out for the night looking dressed up despite the cold, a pocket full of money, this loud jazz in my ears. It was an awesome moment. In the subway, I picked up some bootleg videos. I watched a gorgeous copy of The Life Aquatic that must have been copied from a screener, and drank Coors Light, and really enjoyed the evening, and the new way I am living.

Friday, January 28, 2005

oh yeah

As Joe just pointed out in his diary, Queer Karoake starts Feb 8 and every Tuesday thereafter at Metropolitan. I am so excited. I hope to see all of you there. I also think it is really funny that just about every bar in Williamsburg now has at least one karaoke night - why was the gay bar the last one to hop on this trend?

I got my glasses fixed after I sat on them while masturbating yesterday. The sky was so nice and blue today and I actually enjoyed the cold weather, felt like I could live here in it for a long time. I had no desire to move away today when I was backing from Walgreens. I ran into someone I knew on the street, said hello, kept walking, the sky was so blue, I saw the BQE looming ahead, Manhattan behind it, and I felt really good, felt like I belonged in this cold weather. As long as the sky is blue, I don't think I really mind what how many negative degrees it is with wind chill factored in.

PS - Guess who wrote this?

Thursday, January 27, 2005

more adventures in smut

Tonight, I went and jacked off at this really professional photographer's studio. The series was for this site. The guy was nice, gave me beer, and paid me 100 for masturbating for his camera. It was actually really fun. I then came home, watched The OC and now might go out to the Metropolitan.

Wednesday, January 26, 2005


Last night, after drinking beer with Ethan, I found myself heading out to Long Island City again to piss down the same guy's throat. This time, I brought music for the long train ride out there. It is really close to where I live, it is just that I have to take two of the slowest trains in the world to get out there, and so end up waiting about twenty minutes just for each train to come. The G and the 7, just in case you were curious. I am sure you already knew the G was one of them. It is always the G that people trash talk. But yes, this time, I came prepared with Joy Division's Substance to make waiting for these trains bearable.

Waiting on the platform for the 7, watching the snow start to fall, listening to this music, holding my bladder, knowing that I couldn't pee before I get there, I felt different, as if some sort of idea of New York, of youthful poverty was finally starting to realize itself, that a new life was emerging, one so distinct from my other one in this same city, and thinking about that, about how many different types of lives are lead here, I wondered how many more I would get to try on, how many more I wanted to, and what was the one I desired from the rack.

Waiting on this platform never had this view, the one of last night; I am not sure if this is because of Joy Division that everything took on an industrial Manchester look, or if it was because I was about to piss on someone for money to be able to eat. You may think I am lying but I think it probably had more to do with the choice of music. I took off my headphones when I got to his office. He was the only one still there among all those cubicles except for the night guard downstairs. People has pictures of family members, of significant others pinned up to their cubicles, there were cut out articles and comic strips, stress balls, all of it. We went into the stairwell. He knelt down and I pissed and pissed and pissed down his throat. Halfway through, he gagged and spit out pee, not being able to swallow so much. I held my pee back and my dick over him, ready to piss more down his throat. He took my cock in his mouth and looked up to me with watering, pained eyes. I looked down at him, enjoying the look in his, his prostrate position, and tried my best to look like I couldn't care less and let my bladder go again.

Joy Division got me home, and once home, I started to cuddle with Ethan because we were sharing a bed, a twin bed, and you have to cuddle on those, otherwise you will be uncomfortable all night, trying not to make too much body contact. And I felt my boner start to press againt his leg, and maybe he felt it too. Because soon we were kissing, and soon our underwear came off, and it was pretty nice to sleep close to another male body.

Today, I went around doing errands, listening to Joy Division, stepping in time to the aggressive rhythms, stepping in melting snow puddles, and not feeling them.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

hang the dj

I've told this story so many times already, and I've still yet to decide on an appropriate tone for the narrative. I have also yet to employ the same phrases or expressions to describe it. Normally when you tell a story over and over again, you do just that, tell the same story over and over again, boring everyone around you who has already suffered through the exact same story two, three, four times. When I got mugged, I had developed a decent story and told it the exact same way everytime I told it to the many people who asked about it. I am not sure if in this case, I need more time and the story will become the same each time I tell it, or if these are the types of stories that you alter each time you tell them, unsure yourself whether to be mocking, solemn, or humorous, but probably even more so, unsure of how different people will respond to the story, so many people having negative views about sex work and all, so tailoring the story to the audience you are telling it to.

Some people (myself included) tend to glamorize sex workers and to these people you can ham up certain details of the story, tell the gritty things and they seem to revel in it. Other people, may not say so, but you can see it in their measured facial expressions that they are uncomfortable with it, or even disapproving it, throwing around some variation on the phrase "selling your body for money," as if not all forms of employment were some exchange of money for your body's efforts. To these people, you also tell the gritty details, but just to see them try to hide their discomfort.

I am finding out that this stuff is both easier and harder than I had expected. It is far easier to do this guilt-free than I had thought, far easier to offer yourself to people than I had anticipated. But I had been warned that lots of people get off on e-mailing and planning sessions but not actually doing them, but still I don't think I knew how many of the people I communicated with were of this sort. It is far harder to cement a deal than I had thought. People will e-mail you back and forth until they actually have to tell you where they live, just seeing how far they can push it without doing it, getting off on planning sex.

I was supposed to meet a guy in a coffee shop yesterday morning to go to his apartment and take off my undies and jizz on them. He did not show up, or did and didn't make contact with me. After many aborted interactions with people through Craigslist ads, that went as far as that moment when they had to give me directions, I called it a day, gave up and went to go get food, overdrawing my bank account to do so. I got back, checked my email, and this guy that I was going to piss on, emailed me directions to his work and told me to get there after ten, that less people would be there then, and I could pee on him in the bathroom there.

I drank three beers before leaving not only to fill my bladder, but to ease my nerves about the situation, to make sure that I would be nice and sloshed and not at all nervous. I got there, to this desolate warehouse district in Long Island City, called him when I was outside the address he gave me and he came to meet me outside, told me that there were too many people still there and that we could find an empty spot on the street. As I said, the streets were desolate and so it was very easy to find an empty spot, basically right around the corner from his office. He kneeled down and started to jack off and told me to tell him when I was ready to piss. I had been holding my bladder for so long and as soon as he asked, I said I was ready, stuck my cock in his mouth, and all my worries that I might get pee shy, or that I might not be able to pee down someone's throat proved to be nothing but pointless worrying. Apparently, I have no qualms about pissing down the throats of other people. I guess I really wasn't sure what was going to be involved. I thought I was going to be peeing on him, not in him. It felt a little weird, and I was shocked, totally shocked that someone could drink so much pee. I had a more than full bladder - three beers, long train ride there, you do the math.

He took about three breaks to cough and gag and catch his breath and in those breaks, I held my pee back, ready and excited to piss more down this person's throat. By the time I was done peeing, I was hard, more turned on than I would have thought I would have been by peeing on someone. While he was drinking my pee, I saw his jizz shoot out of his cock, finished peeing and then zipped up, while he got to his feet and wiped the pee dribble off of his shirt.

He paid me fifty dollars and we walked in the same direction together. He, to his office. Me, to the subway. He kept belching, and the noise produced by him belching up my piss grossed me out so much. With each belch of his, I gagged, imagining the taste of urine. I was worried I was going to throw up if I had to walk near him and listen to him belch anymore. He went inside and I walked through the snow, thinking about this, about the noises of those burps, and about how I would make more money. I went out to the Cock afterwards and danced hesitantly to songs I have heard them play there too often, not wanting to think about whether it was the music that was ruining my stride or if it was really other things, knowing that I probably would not like the answer, and so I kept on dancing.

Sunday, January 23, 2005


this is in or around Village
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

* * *

From: Charlie
To: David
12:54 pm

here's some pics of me. let's get this started. how much?

[naked pic] [naked pic]

* * *

From: David
To: Charlie
12:58 pm

Face pic???

* * *

From: Charlie
To: David
12:59 pm

[face pic]

* * *

From: David
To: Charlie
1:04 pm

Ok come over ASAP


* * *

From: David
To: Charlie
1:41 pm


* * *

From: Charlie
To: David
1:50 pm

nevermind, a friend stopped by and we are having coffee. sorry.

* * *

And after Peter came over for coffee, we then headed to the Natural History museum to look at the whale. On the subway there, we ran into Matt, who is the person most capable of exciting me, and whose hand I just wanted to hold as we were talking. After the giant blue whale and dead mammals, Peter and I drank coffee at a coffee shop that I will not mention by name and talked about me being a whore and what that would mean and about his approaching move to California.

Friday, January 21, 2005

From that weather warning place:

350 PM EST FRI JAN 21 2005




Did I mention I don't even have boots? But it looks like that is okay since after tonight I won't have a job to go to. We are supposed to move all of the furniture out of our living room tonight because our landlords are going to put a new floor into tomorrow or Sunday or sometime, but that means I won't have internet to hunt for paid sex on Craigslist for a couple days. They better put that flooring in quick because my plan for the snowstorm is to sit on the couch, eat the Amy's burritos that I have been stuffing in my jacket everytime I go to the grocery store, and watch sappy movies.

I had a horrible night last night that I might talk about at some point but really it was provoked by a tabloid page across from me on the subway that mentioned OJ's kid, an elephant, and cancer, the man next to me reading a specific Cortazar book, and bad news read in someone's diary, and I ended up dry heaving all the way from the subway to my apartment.

Thursday, January 20, 2005

All right, I am at work and I just got my paycheck and I am doing some math in my head, realizing that when I deposit this check, I will get out of the red and have somewhere around five dollars in my bank account. Dara owes me forty for bills, and so I will have about forty five dollars to survive off until I get my next paycheck in two weeks. This would not be such a problem if my metrocard were not expiring in four days and if my cellphone was not going to get turned off in a similar amount of time. I could always sell some books and get maybe ten dollars for books I will be sorry I sold as soon as I get my paycheck.

But what I am really thinking about to get money is trying to do some sex work via Craigslist. I was reading in this week's "Pucker Up" about a woman who does this, and I have always wanted to do sex work and why not now, that I am dead broke. I am really excited about this and wish I weren't at work so I could look at other people's ads on Craigslist and think more about this whole thing. While updating my livejournal and generally wasting all kinds of time online is okay, crusing the sex ads is most definitely not okay, so that will have to wait until I get home. Oh yeah, and I am going to try to work a double tonight. I am hoping to make it until at least three. I brought lots of music. I have quarters for coffee. I can do this.

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

the jobs i have found today on craigslist

Casting Call - DANCERS!!!

Full-Time Chocolate Production Staff

VH1, look out. Who else in New York wants to bust a move? Yeah, don't ask me what I am going to do on Sunday when I am out of work.

The Chocolate factory. My name is Charlie. Charlie and the. . .
I don't know if I would have loved Before Sunset nearly as much had I not been stoned while watching it, but that was how my night started, that movie and Peter and pot and beer. That movie made me giddy about life, and there is this part that stuck in my head last night when the female character says No, let's not talk about these things, What would we talk about if this were our last night alive? And yes, it's a common sentiment, living like it is the last days, but for some reason, it moved me so much last night, and all I wanted to do was to live life and talk to people and fall in love. After the movie, not ready for bed, for alone time, I corraled Peter and Joe out to the Metropolitan where we had a drink and I giggled a lot, and then I herded them both out to R Bar, a far walk in the cold night. I laughed the whole way there because I kept on insisting the bar was on the next corner for about five or six blocks and Joe and Peter were starting to doubt that the bar was actually there, but we got there, got beer, played pool, and smoked cigarettes inside because the hot bartender encouraged us to. There was this funny old man who kept on trying to talk about how he was a nudist. Hot bartender kept on having to tell him to put his underwear back on.

I asked hot bartender about this no clothes/free drink deal and he told me to strip and I did and got a free beer. Right after the beer was served to me, hot bartender came around the bar and started groping me. We then made out and dry humped in our underwear against the jukebox. I remember kissing his chest and my glasses getting in the way when we were making out. I slipped out of the tangle of bodies and made my way back to Peter and Joe, and we smoked some more pot, danced around, avoided the nudist man, and eventually left. That bar was funny. The bartender never behind the bar because he is always dry humping somewhere and this middle-aged man who kept on exclaiming he was a nudist, with a binder of nudist pamplets, and who couldn't keep his pants on. Hot bartender encouraged me to come back, which I think I will do, because bartender is hot and slutty, and because I am pretty sure hot bartender's boyfriend was there last night.

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

They say looks are deceptive, and today, another example of this in the steady stream the world has already served us: the sky is so blue, the sun is so bright, and it looks so nice outside. No. Right now it is fifteen degrees and windy, I think it may have been even colder earlier. It is painfully cold outside. But looking out my window right now, it looks so nice outside, so not painful. I was outside for maybe all of five minutes today, shuttling to and from the subway, but that was five minutes too long.

I went to the dermatologist today, realizing I needed to go ASAP before my health insurance got cut off. The Strand has still yet to do it, but I know it will not last past the end of the month, so I went and got some creams that would have cost mondo dollars without insurance and paid five for them at the pharmacy, and am going to try to use the refills in a week before my coverage ends. I am milking the Strand for every last penny I can. I called Aetna to find out about continuing my plan to be told that it will cost four hundred something dollars a month. No fucking way is that going to happen, and thus, the urgent trip to the dermatologist today, trying to go before I was cut off from my benefits.

That was the one great thing about the Strand, the health coverage (which they are in the process of rolling back), paying zero dollars to go see a bougie dermatologist on the Upper East Side each month was such a nice benefit. There will be no more of these trips on Medicare. I need to find a job with a health plan. Now that I am not going to have it, I am so worried that I am going to get hit by a taxi or something else that will be mondo costly.

I have been applying to jobs through Craiglist, starting to get slighty nervous about the approach of being unemployed. That is this Sunday, for those of you counting down at home. I just came across this low-paying job, which eventually will pay you with Lasik. This seems so wrong. Oh yeah, I applied to some tea shop with a cover letter that started with, "I love tea!" I haven't heard back from them.

Monday, January 17, 2005

It is out, the new Murakami book, Kafka on the Shore. I am too broke to buy it right now and am thinking about going to exchange new looking books at Barnes and Nobles and buying it with store credit. I have a copy of Gilead, but I haven't read it yet, but might trade it for Murakami. John Updike wrote a long-winded review that for all its length doesn't really say anything, except ties Murakami's work to Japanese spirituality, which seems like a misreading to me, but I haven't read it yet. When will the Times review come? Will it be Kakutani that writes it? I hope so. I am a nerd for her.

But yes, I am pretty broke. I haven't worked in a week and on Wednesday, I work, and then stop working on Saturday, and then I will officailly be jobless but that will be enough money to pay my Feburary rent, my phone bill, and hopefully enough money to buy cheap pasta or something to survive off of until I get a new source of money.

The scary junkie on the second floor is loudly moving his stuff out today and Jamie and Derek are going to try to move into that apartment. I read Dylan's Chronicles and didn't love it. I read Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and did. I am reading Eagleton's Literary Theory right now. The weather is cold and I am not doing anything. I have the weather as a good excuse to stay inside and eat and read and watch movies. I love my new life. I don't know if I will be able to adjust to having to work full time again.

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

an email just sent that tells more

To: Peter
From: Charlie

Peter, I shouldn't be afraid in my house. I shouldn't be afraid anywhere. This scary man came upstairs a second time and was knocking on my bedroom door. He then came to the front door and tried to tell me that his phone wasn't working and to open my door. I said, "No, you make me uncomfortable," and he went back downstairs saying derisively, "Thanks neighbor!" I wanted to tell him I was going to call the cops but I didn't. If he comes up here again, I am definitely calling the cops. Also, I went into my room through Dara's and my door was pushed in a little, but for me to lock it earlier this morning, I had to pull it tight, so I think he tried to push through my bedroom door. So now, I bolted my bedroom door from the inside also, and I don't know what to do. I am too nervous to conentrate on jobs or reading, and I can't listen to music or a movie because the noise makes me more nervous and I think it is him. I kind of wish Derek would have called the cops last night. This man is so skeez-o. Because even if I left my apartment to go do something, I would have to walk by his, leave my apartment knowingly empty where he might do something to it, and also, I would have to come back by myself to my apartment which terrifies me, you know that time unlocking my door where I am trapped in the hall. Why does he want to get into my apt so bad? What is he going to do? He is so scary. Peter, I hate New York. Let's move to the suburbs.
I can barely type this. I am shaking. I cannot stop. I am so scared. He just knocked on the door and I tried not to answer it, to be quiet, but he kept knocking. So I talked through the doorway, asked him what he wanted. And then he asked me to open the door. And I said, "No, I am too busy." And he said, "OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR." Then cursed about fucking neighbors and told me something about his family and stomped downstairs. If he comes back up here, I am calling the police. I can't even go to my room because I don't want to go in the hallway. I am not leaving my apartment. I am so scared and shaking. I hate this. I hate him.
The pre-Giuliani New York made its way into my living room last night. I never got to experience this New York, the New York of lore, of that subway scene in Adventures in Babysitting, and sometimes I yearn for this past, wondering what all I missed, what energies, what scenes, what stores, what culture instead of Barnes and Nobles and Starbucks and bougie NYU kids all over the East Village. But then, when I get mugged, or when things like last night happen, I know that I like the saftey enabled by this new bougie culture of New York.

Jamie and Derek came home around midnight last night and tried to open the door to the second floor apartment which they want to move into and which has been empty for about the past month. However, last night, it wasn't empty. One of the occupants, this Irish guy, had arrived back to pack up his things. So he showed the two of them around the apartment, showed them around while porn was playing in two different rooms and he was drugged out of his mind. Jamie and Derek then came upstairs and told Ramsey, Niki, and I all about it and Jamie mentioned how scared she was of him and how she was worried that he might come here, and sure enough, before we had to time to knock on wood, there was a knock on my front door. We all exchanged wide eye glances at each other nervously. Jamie ran and hid in Dara's room and I got up to answer the door.

Irish guy, who I should mention is married and has a child and some adult responsiblities, said he had a proposition for us, that he was leaving the country in a couple of days and had all these expensive electronics that he couldn't move back with him, and that he would sell them to Derek if they were going to move into the apartment. We all told him that we didn't have any interest in them, and wide eyed and obviously drugged out of his mind, he asked us if we knew anyone that wanted to buy them, asked us this as he started to make himself more comfortable and sat on the arm of my couch. The next ten minutes were so awkward and nerve-racking, Niki and Jamie hiding, Derek, Ramsey, and I sitting out there watching a movie, trying politely to get the guy to leave, but him telling stories about pussy and drugs, and how he only had a couple of days to get fucked up before he had to go back to his family. At one point he offered to buy Ramsey's sweatshirt for a buck fifty and a toke. Ramsey and I both tried to make him leave by saying we are in the middle of watching this movie. He ignored us and told us more dodgy stories, tried to sell us his watch, and then Derek finally ended the passiveness, and said, "Look, you need to go." He said "All right," and then proceeded to tell us he had liquid cocaine, explained what it was, and asked us if we wanted any. We said no, and finally got him out the door. I asked Derek to look through the peephole to make sure he went downstairs. He did not.

My bedroom door in the hallway was open as it always is (or was, now I am nervous), and I went in the hall to see him coming out of my room with one of my CD's, Creedence Clearwater Revival. He asked if he could borrow it. I said sure, just because I wanted him to go away, and I locked my bedroom door, then locked our living room door and sat nervously and watched the end of 24 Hour Party People. Jamie wanted to call the cops because Derek's cousin or someone is a captain of the narcotics division or something. I thought that would be totally unneccesary and mean. I hate how drugs have the ability to make people so nervous and so on edge. Jamie was obviously terrified. I was almost shaking when he was in the room with us, so nervous, having flashbacks to other nervous drug encounters with the sketchy people in Sarasota that somehow you ended up in the same room with just because you were on drugs. Some drug experiences are these horribly democratizing encounters, where you find yourself with people coming to things from totally different perspectives, dodgy folks of every variety all thrown together by whatever same substance they are ingesting. It also caused me nervousness just because this was an adult with a kid who was doing the wrong things, for reminding me of my own dad and his drug problems, and how sad human beings are, how willfully they will be ugly.

And the scary thing about pathetic people, the sadness that they inspire in you in just a recognition of how close you are to that also, how easily it is to tragress the lines that demarcate acceptable behavior from unacceptable behavior. That this is a man looking for kicks, looking for fun, and it is what so many of us do, what I do, and at one point do you have to change your method of getting kicks? Yesterday, I was thinking about the themes of private pleasure and how they are always transformed when they are brought into the light of public perception, how they become something else. But this man is different. I am scared to even leave my apartment now. I just heard a large crash from his aparment and then a loud scream and a bunch of pained yells. He is so terrifying. He is moving out Saturday. I cannot wait.

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

what i did and what i said i did

Sunday was my last day of work at the Princeton Review until the 19th, and then it is just five days of work that they are going to have then, so I need a job and fast. I am unemployed a lot sooner than I thought I was going to be. I am unemployed. Do you know how awesome that is as an answer to the question, "So what do you do?" It has been almost two years since I have been able to answer a question this way, and even then it was only for two weeks. Last night, I went out to some bars, and people asked those questions that they ask in bars when they are trying to make conversation and normally this would cause me irritation each time I had to say what I do, that I work at a bookstore, but last night, I was eager for more people to ask me what I did, I wanted everyone to ask me. It was such a rush to say, "I am unemployed," and to say it with an ear to ear smile, feeling a huge weight lift with each declaration of the fact. I am unemployed. I am unemployed. It feels so good to say, and I know that meanings change, phrases lose their meanings and take on new ones, and at some point soon, this is no longer going to be such an exclamation, it's going to turn into a depressed admission. But now, man, this feels so good to say. I am shouting this statement here in my living room to the soundtrack of Lester Young, to a grey sky outside my window, a greyness occasionally punctuated by the blinks of snow chunks that are falling slowly and sporadically, and thinking about looking for jobs, but not doing so because there are things like LiveJournal here and food in the cupboards and free movies from the Brooklyn Public Library, and probably at the top of this list, should be the fact that I am hungover from the excesses taken last evening.

In The Line of Beauty, the main character, Nick Guest, is a homo, and is the houseguest of this conservative family, and my favorite moments in this book were when we saw the tensions that arose when the seedier aspects of gay life exasperated the patience of middle class notions of tolerance, the clashing notions of respectability and gay life, how even his friend, Catherine, a fag hag, looks down on the slutty aspects of gay sex when Nick tells her about them, and just this enormous cultural divide that exists between fags and nonfags with regards to gay sexual life, and how even Nick feels shame whenever the straight world finds about gay sex practices, as they are finding out with the large number of AIDS deaths at the time. And I am sure to other readers, this is not even a striking aspect of the text. I wonder if nonfags would even pick up on the tension of having to omit certain things when you are talking about your night out, or meeting someone, how we (fags) create a more family-friendly narrative when we are talking about our lives, how we don't really tell how we met that person in some backroom and exchanged handjobs, that that's how we know that person.

Last night was one of those nights where I would choose to omit certain details if I was talking to someone I didn't know too well and they are asked me what I did last night. But you are different, and so I will tell you that it started off with beer at my house and Peter and I watching the Ali G show. [This would be way too disruptive to try to integrate my love of this comic into this narrative, but soon I will, because he is one of my new art idols. I have so much to say about what he does. If you haven't seen it, man, do so.] We then went to the deserted Hanger Bar on 3rd Street for a couple drinks before going to the Phoenix for a couple more and before then heading across the street to the Cock. When we came in, a Le Tigre song off of This Island was winding down but I ran to the back dancefloor anyways, shook this boy David, and made him dance with me. I then talked to David for a while which was nice, since he was one of my first crushes here in New York and he told me he is now working for Routledge and congratulated me on quitting the Strand, and gave me lots of positive reassurances, that I didn't have to worry. And then I don't know how it progressed to the levels it did. Le Tigre surely excited me and so did dancing after not doing so in way too long a time, and next thing I know, I am giving some boy a blowjob on a couch.

I remember walking up to him because I thought he was cute and not talking at all, just started to make out with him, and I remember reaching my hand into his pants and feeling his hard dick, moving my fingers around the head of his penis which was such a large head in proportion to the shaft, and I wanted it in my mouth, and I put it there. For about ten minutes in a drunken rapture, I adored this beautiful large penis in public view, and as I was getting up off my knees, I found Peter and Joe, and shortly thereafter, Matt says hi, and I freakout worrying whether or not he just saw me being a slut, but then after drunken dialogue with Joe realized that he had just got there and that he surely would not have hesitated to comment on it. I then danced to good pop music as well as I could very self-aware that Matt was there, a few people away, dancing in this really cute, tight striped shirt and with a large smile on his face. Then this man, Tony, started hitting on me, and as a pretty good flirting technique since he could tell I was not that interested, he gave me some coke. And I talked to him some more, to some other random people and danced and danced with everyone else until the bar closed at 4. The Cock is sort of like a cartoon juke joint down on the bayou, a little shack that bounces till the morning with people packed close together, happy and dancing. Most dance places and bars all start to clear out way before closing time, everyone sort of mildly fearful of being the pathetic straggler at the party, but at the Cock, there is no sense of time. Four comes on faster then it otherwise would and everyone sort of straggles out together. These older guys asked me if I wanted to come to their afterparty and do more coke and that is the saving grace that allows my night to not be totally out of control, because I declined the offer and rode the L train home, and masturbated to thoughts of dick. I woke up this morning, so happy and energetic, played Le Tigre in the shower and sang along. The hangover hit me a couple hours later, one of those delayed ones. Sneaky sneaky.

Thursday, January 6, 2005

my second wong kar-wei

Last night, I watched Happy Together and it was another sad romance, this time a gay one, and this time set in Argentina. Parts of it were startlingly good, some of the shots, and the character Chang who is sensitive to voices and sound. It is always so fresh to hear people say poetic things in conversation, say things that they are lucky enough to even think to themselves, but to hear them said aloud is another thing altogether. The couple smokes lots of cigarettes and are totally brutal to one another in a way that seems true and too real of how people treat people. Sometimes though, in both this movie and Days of Being Wild the shots are cut a little too fast and things go too fast, that would be so much nicer to watch if they were just a little slower, but I guess that is the trick to make you look closely, to reel you in, to , and wonder who just got hit with a bottle in that scene that was a blur. This seems to be how so many things work to attract you in this world. They don't show enough skin. They pull away from a kiss just as you want more. They slight you in attempts at conversation and you want it more, watch the movie more closely.

This job is about to do the same, about to pull away from the kiss just as I am getting into it. I have just found out that there is only a couple more days left of work here. And so tomorrow may be my last day of work here for a while. They won't have more work until the 19th and that is about two weeks without, kind of a long time to be without work, and then, it is probably only going to be about a week's worth of work. So very soon, Monday maybe, I may be unemployed and I am looking at Craigslist here, seeing horrible job after horrible job that I am not really qualified to do, and I will probably apply at some temp agencies next week if there is no work and get anxious and watch sad movies and daydream.

Wednesday, January 5, 2005

my first wong kar-wai

I am at work, it is almost over, and I have done practically nothing all day long. I have been wasting time online and why I didn't bother to think about updating on Livejournal earlier, I don't know. I watched Days of Being Wild last night, and it was so sad and romantic, and it was too easy to identify with the women in the movie, the women who fall for a man who is not interested. And really, I am nothing like these women at all, they are all at least originally successful and are in a serious relationship with this male before he totally spurns them. I have this problem that I am not sure if it is a problem, and if so, exactly why, but I love sentimental romantic plots, and not in an ironic way at all - instead in a way, that is almost --

Okay, I don't know where those thoughts were going, because Howard, my co-worker, fifty something years old has been playing music for us all day and now coming on blaring is the Spice Girl's "If You Wanna Be My Lover," and I haven't heard it in so long, and even still, time has not removed the humor from this song, where everyone in this office burst out giggling with that opening rhythm, realizing that soon we would be listening to the Spice Girls. I honestly can't even begin to get back on the same train of thought with this chorus of "Slam your body down, the party's all around."

Tuesday, January 4, 2005

After spending a decent portion of the day drinking beer and watching The Office with a rotating set of people in my living room, I went to the Metropolitan with Ethan, and there I saw Matt by himself sitting at the bar. It was a rare chance to talk to him, and I ran up to the bar, sat next to him and asked him about his life. And within the first few sentences he uttered, I was totally transfixed. His manner of speech, which I don't know how to describe, except some perfect combination of petulant Daria, the sort of snorting way of talking of Butthead, and a slight faggy inflection. And because of his voice, I was giddy and excited. Minutes before I was talking to him, I could hardly muster the energy needed to participate in a conversation with Ethan because I was so tired, but as soon as I started talking to Matt, I could not stop, I did not want to.

I talked to him for a decent chunk of time, and did nothing to embarrass myself as I have done in past encounters. How about a high-five? When he was leaving, I asked him if he wanted to have pie, and he said no. And shortly after he left, I did the same, walking home totally and helplessly giddy, thinking about how I get so few people in this world, and how for whatever reasons, I think I get Matt. He is fascinated and enthralled by aspects of popular culture in a way that very few people are without the moralism attached to it. And so it is the things he is saying, but maybe even more so, the voice he says it in, and I really think he is one of the coolest people ever, although I shouldn't, and it just makes me sad that not everyone is this cool, that people don't laugh at the same things, that not everyone talks in that petulant manner, because it makes it so much harder to be interested in everyone else, in anyone else. But there are other petulant boys who like trashy television. I just need to find them.

Also, I called the payroll guy at the Strand today, and he was about as big an asshole as he possibly could have been. He had always been kind of nice to be before, but now because I quit, he talks to me like as asshole, and I wanted to cuss at him, but I thought that would my chance of collecting any pay, and even that seems like it may not happen. He told me I get one personal day, being assholish and sticking to the one personal day per month thing that they never stick to otherwise. I will see what my paycheck says on Friday. Fuck you, Strand! You have nothing over me anymore. I am going to work at the Princeton Review in a few hours and that will be awesome because it won't be that other place.

Saturday, January 1, 2005

No competition. Without a doubt, last night was the worst New Year's ever. So I went to this silent meditation thing at a yoga center downtown with Joe that was supposed to culminate with chanting at midnight. There were so many people there, all silent, and it was so hot. I was pouring sweat and unable to concentrate on anything, slowly losing my mind, and I decided that no, I did not want to ring in my New Year's like this. I could not find Joe in the mess of people, but did not care, just had to get out of there fast, so at 11:40, I found myself on the streets of the east village by myself, and feeling horribly alone. I decided to go just to a crowded gay bar where I wouldn't notice my loneliness and headed toward the Cock. On my way there I saw a drunk man pissing, and his penis was so large, and it solidified my decision to go ring in the New Year like a slut.

However, I get to the Cock and there are seriously five or six people in there. I ran back outside so quickly and walked around the streets, not knowing what to do with myself, thinking how bad an omen it was to ring in the New Year's by myself. I was walking down Second Avenue and I heard noisemakers from parties in apartments, large cheers, and the honking of taxi horns. I was relieved, so glad that the moment had come and gone, that there was no longer this anticipation for midnight, and I walked by a psychic, Mary Lee, and decided to get a palm reading on New Year's.

This is terrible idea #2 of the evening. The first one was thinking that I would want to sit silently still on New Year's for a couple hours. She tells me that I am going to have a long life, am going to live to be 86 or 87. But she also tells me that I am going to be lonely my whole life, that I cannot relate to other people, cannot allow them to get close to me because I am a male body with female emotions. Yep, that's right, a male body with female emotions, and as a result, I can get close to neither males nor females. She also said that I have had three past lives, and been very religious in them. She also said that I was empty, that there's nothing in my area 3 (my stomach/heart according to the diagram she showed me) and that people saw that I was empty and that's why I would never be able to get close to other people. She also said that I have artistic energy that I don't use.

When you are feeling horribly lonely after just ringing in the New Year by yourself, the last thing you want to hear is a psychic you paid ten dollars to, tell you that you are going to have a terribly lonely life. I was so shocked and wanted to cry, left the psychic, finally got in touch with Joe, grabbed a strong drink at Phoenix and then went to Metropolitan to meet up with Peter. Once at Metropolitan, Joe left me to go talk to some old man, and I sat outside by myself and some 37 year old man, Chris, came up to talk to me. I still remember his name, however, he could not remember my name at all during the conversation, asked me three times. He told me he was writing a novel and I maliciously imagined how horrible it probably was. I was excited just to have someone to talk to, even if he was a lecherous old man. I think he was lying about his age also. He seemed much closer to 50. But after he repeatedly asked me what my name was over and over again, I lost it, and got up and interrupted Joe's conversation, and told him and whoever he was talking to that I was not talking to that scary old man anymore. Finally Peter arrived. I drank until five with him, failing to get miserably drunk and then went home. But yes, worst New Year's ever.