Tuesday, July 4, 2006


Last night I went to some party on some rooftop near Bedford and North 7th, and there, I looked out at the Manhattan skyline and the surrounding Brooklyn skyline, which this new, fancy condo dwarfed and which, it, in a very explicit way, ruined - this building was what was wrong, was one of the first that was wrong, and there, a couple blocks further west, were the rough outlines of a building that in its gauche ways would even block the view of this overly tall building. I looked out and everything looked so old, had none of the distinctions that would peg it as 2006, that from this vantage point, if I blocked out the type of cars parked on the street, this could easily be a scene from 1926.

And I drank Schlitz, a few cans of it there, after having already drank several cans at home, and when those were gone, white wine was drank. And I talked to a couple boys and ate the most sinfully good tiramisu, so good it had me shivering with delight, moaning. There were a lot of gay boys there; it was pretty much nothing but. And, of course, there were several that I used to harbor crushes for and a couple, one, that I still do. His name is David. And I have seen him maybe two, maybe three times prior to last night, and on both, or all three of those occasions, I was taken with something about him - how boyish looking he is, how midwest, how toothy his smile. And again, last night, much the same - I stood not too far away from him and kept on checking him out, not even trying to analyze why it was I thought this person was so attractive, it just being too obvious, and all I could do was submit to it, and stare at him. At one point, later in the night, I had the last beer, and he, David, took a swig of it, and I was so giddy, thinking childish thoughts that he was drinking from something my lips had touched, and I would soon again drink from something his lips had unhesitantly touched, unhesitantly even with the knowledge that it was something I had drank from - that perhaps this was a sign he might like me.

But, obviously, it was no such sign. It was merely a sign that the party was dying down, was out of booze, and this boy, like everyone else, was trying to prolong the onset of sobriety, of the fun being over, being had - the past tense. And I said something to him, nothing really, the pathetic attempts of an obsessed person who can't even see this person as a person, not as someone who you could actually engage with, but rather someone you could only stare at, could only be at arm's remove from. And so, because of this, or because he was not interested, more likely the latter, he paid little attention to me and moved on to talk to someone else. I came home and daydreamed about him. On the way home, walking those streets alone, I thought of his pretty face, and thought how I would like to dirty it, to rub my cock all over it, thought this on empty streets lit by streetlights and the lights of passing cars, infrequent at that hour.

Today, needless to say, I woke up slightly hungover. Perhaps a little more than slightly, and I drank some coffee, ate some breakfast and received a call from Ben, who had a layover and was in town for a few hours. And that hangover washed away, perhaps because of this and perhaps because of the coffee, but either way, I met up with Ben, Bri, Christy, and Sasha so happy, so giddy, so happy to see friends, to see human beings and interact with them, walk with them, and we walked seemingly miles as we looked for something to eat, before circling back to where the hike started, at Bliss, eating there, and then moving on to Metropolitan where I drank several beers, which have me feeling quite tipsy already and it is just about to turn six, and hopefully, I will not totally poop out before the fireworks, and hopefully I will find some place thrilling and beautiful from which to see them, and perhaps - no, probably - at which I will drink more beer, because, my dear, dear friends (and I am not sure I can emphasize that dear part enough because, really, despite how it might otherwise seem at times, despite my sarcastic asides, I do love you), and my dear friends, it is the Fourth of July and aside from the jingoistic connotations inherent in this day, there is something beautiful about it all - the fireworks, the barbeques, and the beer - the beer which I was just mentioning that I will consume - because it is the 4th - and all of this, and even the root of it all, the thing being celebrated, this nation and the ideas behind its forming, I find terribly, terribly beautiful.

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