People were on stage reading sex stories, some of them good, some of them not good, and I was sitting there with a boy I have been having sex with lately, Diego. He came to the reading late, came up behind me and leaned over to kiss me, and that gesture made me really happy, made this boy seem even cuter. He was wearing a cute outfit and is letting stubble grow in, drawing more attention to his big eyes and big lips. I was smitten. We sat next to each other, touching each other, leaning on one another, and I tried to get comfortable with this comfort, with just giving in to a nice moment and not wondering to what extent he likes me and how these gestures may reveal that and also not worrying, or trying not to, about how much I like him.

After the reading, I got a call from a john. And had I not been so broke then, I would have told the john I was busy, would have instead continued uninterrupted in these nice moments with this nice boy. But I was broke then and I went to go see the john, feeling terrible when I told Diego I was leaving, seeing how I had disrupted something nice and seeing a bit of disappointment in his face. I apologized, told him I would call him afterwards, and ran off to Chelsea.

At this man's apartment, I got undressed and fooled around for a bit with this guy, getting hard, getting horny, getting into whatever sexual moment was occurring. That was interrupted though by him going to smoke more crystal meth. This would become a very tedious pattern that the next two and a half hours took on - me getting into this scene, getting hard, him excited about bottoming and running off for ten minutes to smoke more crystal meth, him coming back to me bored, me getting hard again, him running off to do more crystal meth, on and on.

The guy seemed nice but there were moments (perhaps I should admit here that I was a bit stoned) where he seemed positively demonic. He was a skinner version of John Lithgow, whiter hair and redder skin, and at times, with a drugged out intense glaze to his eyes, yanking at my dick, he seemed like Satan. He also asked me questions about my sex life, getting turned on by stories I would tell him, asking me about the last time I got fucked, about various things, hot sexual memories. And I shared these things with him, jacking off as I told them to him, him watching me, jerking me off also. But then he would always ruin these memories, these things that mean something to me, by asking, excitedly, if it was raw. Saying that if it was that good, it had to be bareback, oh yeah, definitely. And he was getting off on these stories also, but by making them something else, by exoticizing someone's race or by talking about raw sex, and it was making me annoyed, turned off, ready to go.

Doing yet more crystal, he asked me to tell him another story. I told him I couldn't think of any, lying, obviously able to think of more, but not wanting this person to be able to even glimpse these things. Perverse though these memories may be, his perversity made me very uncomfortable, tainted these things that are special to me. So I held out, not giving away any more of these special things. Rather I told him I needed to go soon. He did more crystal, he laid back on his coffee table, and I fucked him, fucked him silent, finally, his eyes closed and the chit chat ending. With my dick in him and him not talking anymore, I really enjoyed myself. Bodies are such loveable things; it is the stuff that comes out of mouths that makes them unloveable. I came, we had a drink together, I got paid a lot of money, and we kissed goodbye, the odd encounter enabled by the want of money and the possession of it over, for the moment at least, a promise on his part to call me soon. And me out the door, down the elevator, out into the street, and eager to see the man I like.

I called Diego, nervous about how he would respond, it being late and me still feeling like a dick about dipping out earlier to go do sex work. It was a bit awkward, me trying to meet up with him, and him saying we could hang out later. We said a sad goodbye and I walked toward the train feeling a little low. He called right back though and told me to come over. I skipped over to his house and he played me Spanish songs, by a someone Luis Guerra, who his mom really likes. I was so excited to be with this boy after that interaction with the methhead, was closer to feeling like I understood what matters and what it is I want from my sexual interactions with other people, that I want stuff more like this and less like that.

We woke up early this morning, the sky bluer than it has been in seemingly weeks. I said Happy Valentine's Day half-jokingly because I was afraid to say it seriously. We had sex and lay in bed for a while, me enjoying the comfort of that, enjoying the sight of the blue sky and the dark bricked sides of buildings outside his window.