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.
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