Yesterday, I didn't do anything during the decent hours of the day, and it was awesome. I lied around various rooms of my house, chatting on my cellphone, reading a proof of this well written analysis of pro-wrestling, Slaphappy: Pride, Prejudice, and Professional Wrestling, watching episodes of Six Feet Under, and eating between these things, during these things, and just generally spending weekend days like they were meant to be spent. I cracked a beer around six, because why not?
Come eleven o'clock, I was already pretty drunk and made my way to Manhattan and met up with Ben and Gabriel and we wandered around Chinatown and Little Italy and then SoHo trying to find a bodega to get Sparks. It was drunk from straws once found as we walked to the Look. I don't want to say that the Look was awful because they did, as seems to be standard for this party, play "Meeting in the Ladies Room," but aside from that, it wasn't terribly fun. The bar was a weird set up and no one was really dancing. Gabriel and I were. And there was this giant Long Island/Jersey contingent sort of ruining any fun vibe with their aggressive hetero vibes they were sending out from their half of the room. At some point, one of the hets came up and danced mockingly around us. I continued to dance and then after this boy finished his little dance, his friend came up and shouted at us, "Now, are you going to calm down?" I don't like writing in capital letters, but this was said in capital letters, so aggressive, this dude telling, yelling at us to CALM DOWN because we were dancing and he was not, because two spastic boys dancing together is obviously a threat to the natural order.
And that's all it takes, one thing that you do not like, one thing so venomous to you in a room full of people, to feel like you do not want to be in that room. And so we left not soon enough in search of gayer pastures, ending up at the Cock after some more Sparks consumed through straws while walking. We ended up bypassing the ten dollar cover somehow and I felt at such ease once in that bar, pressed against a sea of male, of gay bodies. Felt safe and unguarded, unashamed about the full extent of my desires. I drank a couple drinks, smoked too many cigarettes and stared at this naked go-go boy so hypnotized. Four o'clock came and everyone was kicked out, lingering on the sidewalk in front, last chance to hook up with someone, and Gabriel, because he is awesome, started asking everyone where the afterparty was. Asked this to a bunch of shrugs, until a group of three friends told us it was at their apartment, and so we walked there and I drank a beer in their living room and played show me yours, I'll show you mine and the cock we saw was large and pretty and it was shortly after this, that everyone started heading to the bed and that's when in this game of chicken, of trying to pretend that I am more sexually liberated than I am, that I said chicken and swerved out of the way of the oncoming car.
I said good-bye and quickly left, made that long walk to the J, and only a block or two away from that apartment, I was already regretting my impulse to flight, that surely, spontaneous orgies with mildly attractive people are not that common, at least in my life, and that I perhaps had missed an opportunity that might not present itself again. It was a long walk to the train and those long solitary walks so often become searching questions one on top of the other, this brilliant, often melodramatic monologue. One night only. In town for only one night. Only chance to see it. And I wish there was a way of somehow recording the curves and progressions of those trains of thought. I can tell you where it was that this reverie, at least momentarily, ended. It was after walking down Avenue A and crossing over Houston Street right by that park there. A homeless man that I walked past called out to me, "Foxy Thing!" And it was the nicest thing anyone had said to me all night and even knowing that this drunken comment was probably yelled at every shape walking past, made me so happy still.