From the last time it rained, there are puddles on the roof right outside my kitchen window. The sun is shining and these puddles reflect that sunlight across the walls of my kitchen, ripples of light, beautiful and evocative of the sea, marching back and forth across curtains, across the walls, and across the leaves of these plants in the window. The pleasure I get from this occurrence is immense.
The past few days are all blurring together, the result of numerous open bars and its result, excessive consumption of alcohol, of smoking pot, and of being unemployed and not having much to do, much to look forward to, other than these events, other than the open bars and parties occurring at night and which my excitement about attending is usually predicated on the hope, perhaps even the expectation, of a nice moment, of dancing and feeling something close to freedom or of meeting a nice young lad and spending the night with him. There are also a fair amount of plays thrown into the mix here, which sometimes take on the aspect of also being time-fillers, of something to put into my otherwise uncomfortably open schedule. A couple nights ago, I saw a really fantastic musical, The Slug Bearers of Kayrol Island, which I had meant to discuss at length, and which at some future time I just may do, but there is that sun, its reflection off of rippling water, streaking across my kitchen, and that has me eager to spend a short amount of time sitting here, and perhaps more honestly other things are on my mind, last evening mainly.
I went to a bunch of gallery openings with Niki, most of them unstriking. The Juergen Teller show was striking and good, perhaps though not for great reasons, perhaps more so for its hipness, the thing that attaches itself to his work and not the work itself. I then went to a Vera Wang afterparty at Don Hill's thrown by the Misshapes and with an open vodka bar. It was a funny scene. It seemed almost retro, as if four years ago could be such a thing, that here were so many people all rocking a very particular aesthetic, one so close to description and so beyond it, and some songs played from that time, from a few years ago, and all these people seeming like they were trying to hold on to something they never entirely had in their grasp.
When the free booze ran out, we went to Julius', where a party was being thrown for something or someone, dj'ed by John Cameron Mitchell. There were some cute boys there and I was soon smitten with a particular one, a Jason, cute brown eyes and brown hair, eyes in which I seemed to or wanted to recognize something. There was that energy being exchanged through glances, an I-like-you look as we were talking. He asked me what I did. I told him. His interest quickly vanished, the look did, and I should have lied I thought, should have been more vague, should not have said sex work. I wandered throughout the bar, talking to other people, still a little stung by that fizzling with a boy I had liked, and sought out even more aggressively then some sort of sexual satisfaction, some validation. There were two more failures, two men I had been hitting on and who went home, not inviting me home with them. When Gabriel said he was leaving, I was ready to go also, and was going to walk to the train with him. I got my jacket and said goodbye to Jason, which turned into a conversation, which turned into him telling me to stay for another drink.
I told him that I could tell he had lost interest in me when I had told him what I did for money and he asked me why I did it, clearly conflicted that there was a boy he liked and yet who did something which he found objectionable. We talked a bunch, getting over that initial obstacle, talked about other things. He invited me home with him and we left, rode the PATH train out to Jersey City. We split a tuna fish sandwich in his comfortable bed, talked some, laid next to each other.
His skin was soft, his face adorable in the dimmed lighting. We kissed, took off clothes, messed around a bit, and then he fucked me. I had been wanting something like this for the past couple weeks, to really get fucked silly. His penis was amazing, was big, and that surprised me for some reason on this skinny boy, and he was good with it. I am pretty certain that it was the best anal sex I have ever received. It went on and on, him telling me a couple of times when I was getting close to orgasm to hold out, that he wanted it to last longer. There were sensations I had forgotten about.
We slept curled up in each other and jerked off when we woke up hurriedly, him having to hurry up and get to work. I cleaned up in his bathroom, using his hand soap to wash my hands, this Sparkling Peach scented soap. Afterwards I kept on smelling my hands and for years I have been chasing this scent, wanting to figure out what it was, and that I found it in his house means something. There was someone in my childhood who wore this scent - I can't even remember who, but the memory of the scent is so strong. Occasionally I will walk past someone on the street and catch a fleeting whiff of this scent, a burst of childhood memories exploding for a short time, fading with the passing scent. I have wondered for so long what this scent was and this morning I found it while washing my smelly sexdirty hands with it.
We rode the PATH train back into Manhattan together and I kept on smelling my hands, old memories so easily evoked with that scent.