I gave myself a haircut yesterday and perhaps that had something to do with it, something about look good, feel good. Because my hair gets a bit unruly in the heat and because there is the heat, because the season has changed and the trees look different and I want to also, I cut off most of my curls yesterday, buzzed the sides, and as a result felt like some other person than I had been for the past few months, felt new, felt clean.
I bought a tent and a sleeping bag in preparation for going to Short Mountain on Monday (via the Chinatown bus to Nashville!) and on that expedition to Target, walking around some area of Brooklyn I wasn't familiar with, I kept catching glances of myself in store windows, the image of this short haircut reflected courtesy of the sunny day that yesterday was. After that, I got called to see this guy I have been seeing a bunch, fucked him, felt fantastic, and then went out to dinner with him, at which we discussed him taking me on vacation with him to Rio - and holy fucking shit, I am so excited and really hope that this actually occurs, and which I think may actually. Um, I was saying something about a haircut, having given myself one, and how that perhaps, this new image of myself I had, allowed me to shake off something, to feel free, liberated, sexy, confident - something, some change that enabled a lovely, juvenile, giddy teen-crush, sixties girl group type of mood, that the world was mine, that I had a bouffant and was wearing hot pants and some leather jacket wearing Greasers were catcalling me and I rolled my eyes because I was too cool and they didn't impress me. I don't know where I am going with this - I may as well as admit to it. And while admissions are being made, while some pretenses to honesty are being made, I will make another one and say that also I am a bit stoned and that thoughts and intentions, while amazing seeming, never are able to sustain themselves, that they bleed into each other, easily distracted things, and the original point, had there ever actually been one, was (and is still) lost.
So there was that encounter, that date that put some money into my pocket and some really expensive and sinfully delicious food from 44 into my belly. A bit of cocaine was also put into my nose care of this encounter and that also was contributing to the feeling, to feeling like someone, a Supreme, a Shangri-La, a Shirelle, and why that is the analogy that came to mind, that comes to mind, I don't know, something about the feeling that could make Little Eva declare that "that boy is mine" and to "keep your hands off of my baby," that that feeling of don't fuck with me-ness only slightly veiled with some harmonious singing and a Wall of Sound is what was felt last evening, a temperate night in late April punctuated by a slight drizzle. And from there, 44, I went to a house party in the East Village of this boy, Mark, whom I had met outside of Julius' the other night, who had biked me around on his pegs, a boy who had a bike with pegs on it. At the house party, I flirted with some other boys, did some more coke, and was pulled by Mark into the bathroom where we made out until someone had to pee. Later on, he pulled me into his room, and we made out there, did some other things, some dick sucking, and he was cute and way too drunk and fell off the bed a couple of times, and when the party somehow ended, when everyone decided to leave at once and bang on his door as we were about to come, preventing orgasm with the banging, with the desire to get into his room and get their bags so they could leave, I got dressed and left also.
I exchanged numbers at that party with another boy, before the crazy making out with Mark, and tonight contacted him, this other boy, and he came over and we drank beers and chatted and didn't have sex, though it was understood that that was what I wanted and what I think he also wanted. Last night when I talked to him, he had just broken up with his boyfriend. I guess they got back together last night though and because of that the sex I wanted to occur did not, however he and his boyfriend do want to have a threesome with me most likely and I guess that will happen soon. And I was reading this kind of vomit-inducing article in the New York Times about young gay people that marry (and the pictures that accompany the article are obviously meant to be art - a satirical (but is it?) posing of these young people in posh domestic settings), and in that article there is some quote that really struck me, perhaps too much of a generalization stated as truth, but something which struck me nonetheless, seeming true in the case of my own life perhaps.
The quote: "Everywhere I looked, gay men in their 20s — or, if they hadn’t come out until later, their 30s, 40s and 50s — seemed to be eschewing commitment in favor of the excitement promised by unabashedly sexualized urban gay communities. There was a reason, of course, why so many gay men my age and older seemed intent on living a protracted adolescence: We had been cheated of our actual adolescence. While most of our heterosexual peers had experienced, in their teens, socialization around courtship, dating and sexuality, many of us had grown up closeted and fearful."
And did I mention that I am 26, soon to be 27? And yet I can't get enough. Boys, crushes, his look, that certain type of look, sexhungry kind, directed my way, the thrill derived from that, the feeling of satisfaction, of having backup singers in matching outfits, maybe even some horns blaring away, certainly a nice drumbeat.
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