Fun in the Sun

I don’t know how these things happen, or I do, and it is not surprising. This penis of mine has led to many bad decisions in the past. I had a big to-do list of things to do on this day off from work, some of which I have done, none of them terribly taxing, and none of them the important things that were on my to-do list. And yes, I should probably get going on those things if I am to accomplish them or even to start them today, it already four something in the afternoon, hours of this day, hours of productivity lost to masturbating. A frequent storyline on this show.

So it started off with me watching this Francois Sagat clips on his website, following a link on Fleshbot that mentioned him today, watching his rather fascinating video pieces on his personal site. Really check them out if you are looking for some sexy, mildly intelligent videos to watch. Watching them has endeared this sexy person with the ridiculous skull tattoo even more to me. And I was just trying to find more videos of him, more scenes of him engaging in sex with people on various sites, itsallgay.com, xtube.com, etc. I eventually gave up, not finding things of good quality or things that particularly turned me on. I started watching videos of guys pissing in public, generally all bad videos of a penis (rarely a body, even rarer to see a face) pissing in some public bathroom. Occasionally, I would find something that for whatever reasons turned me on, some guy pissing on the street at a gay parade or something. But the amount of pages I had to scan through to find even one video that made me hard, that was something I wanted to jerk off to, was more and more killing my desire, my getting off became more and more protracted, and maybe that is what I wanted, maybe I didn’t want to work on these things I had assigned myself to do today and so instead set for myself these difficult parameters to jerk off to, to force myself into searching for hours through short videos, trying to find something to satisfy my sexual hunger.

On the top of one of these search pages, a banner ad, an insanely sexy banner ad. A bunch of naked guys on a soccer field with socks over their cocks and women before them punishing them. A photo of a really sexy couple naked on some South Florida beach, high rise condos in the background, a bright blue sky. This beach photo enchanted me. I wanted to see more of this photo, other images like it, a video even that it was a still from. I clicked on the banner ad and was taken to Bang Bros. There, I searched the term “beach” and found this photoset entitled “Fun in the Sun.” I watched a brief preview of the set, enough to titillate me and then was given the option to join and see the whole video for only $1. One dollar for a two-day temporary membership. I shouldn’t, I told myself. Don’t do it. Write these things you were supposed to write and channel your sexual frustration into that. This is not what you need to be spending your money on. And of course, I went ahead and entered my credit card information and signed up for this cheap temporary membership. I was quite excited, was going to finally get off watching this video, logged in, and went back to this set.

Now I was told that I could only see the first 25% of the video, not even the sexy beach part, that I would have to upgrade to a full membership to see it, that trial members were only teased with all these things that were roped off for full members. And I groaned in frustration, my desire to see this couple on the beach becoming a bit overwhelming now at this point and me really wanting to see this video, not wanting to go back to scrounging through xtube again when I wanted to see was clearly right here. And so yes, maybe I did click on that button allowing me to upgrade to a full membership for only $39. And yes, the video was insanely hot to me. I did get a really hard boner and did jerk off, for the second time today (a bit unnecessary really and further proof that this was perhaps some subconscious way of me creating distractions, reasons to not be productive).

I felt terribly guilty afterwards, could not believe that in some fog of horniness I spent so much money on such a temporary pleasure. Or I can believe it, but wish it weren’t so, wish I weren’t so prone to doing such things.

Classical music is playing and now I am going to conquer this thing on my list, still thinking about sex and masturbation, and am going to try to write this thing about “Private Resort” that I have been meaning to write for a couple of weeks now. The resume will have to wait. And then there will be my stomach calling me, telling me to eat, my plans to eat with people calling me away from this thing – bodily desires confused with needs, whichever they are, needs or desires, the body and its calls winning.

A Well Made Bed

The guy's apartment was in one of those massive apartment complexes on West End Avenue. I thought that I had been there before. Something about the place looked familiar, however he did not. The apartment was like that of lot of old people's. Things were neat, wooden furniture seemed too polished, everything in its place, nothing lying around, no mess of papers, framed photographs on side tables. I really had the sense that I had been in that apartment before but sometimes things just look that way, like some place you have been before. But also I wondered if maybe I have not been in so many random apartments of men at this point that I may not even remember people. Had I maybe seen this man years ago and blurred his face together with that of so many other random men? I wasn't sure. He was quite old, had stitches down the front of his chest like he had had heart surgery recently. He was bald and had really nice eyes, really soft and flabby skin, loose, and yet real pleasant to touch. He sucked my dick and kissed my feet in a way that made me look at them like they were really beautiful, made me kind of see what he saw. We kissed. It was nice. I came home.

I've reason to believe that we all will be received in Graceland

Last evening, I booked a return flight home from Memphis in early May. I am going to Graceland. I am incredibly excited about this. Many years ago, I used to be quite into Paul Simon, especially the Graceland album. Whenever I would listen to its title track, I would have elaborate road trip fantasies about driving to this place and listening to this song on the way there. I still love Paul Simon and this album and this song. I do not like Vampire Weekend, not at all, find them a bit offensive. Yet, Paul Simon, I don't find this way, find sincere and beautiful and touching. And so I would listen to this track, often skipping it back to the beginning as soon as it ended and had all these fantasies about Graceland, about driving there, making some pilgrimage to the place, much like the one described in the song.

When thinking of Elvis, I also think of the Gillian Welch song, "Elvis Presley Blues," think about the lines, "Just a country boy that combed his hair/Put on a shirt his mother made and went on the air/and shook it like a chorus girl." When thinking about Elvis, I find myself more often thinking of these other objects, songs and things written about him, about what he means, what he meant, rather than the things he made. And though they are spectacular when you listen to them, amazing often, it is more likely that I think of this Gillian Welch song or this Paul Simon one or the writings of Greil Marcus.

But the circumstances that led to this trip are particular. There were some issues of timing, there was the likelihood that I would have a car, there was the encouragement of a friend who wanted to go to Graceland. Jacob and I are going to Milwaukee at the end of April, are being flown out to that beer-producing city by some John. I wanted to go to Beltane this year, wanted to see some people, wanted to be in the woods. The timing was such that to make it there in the morning, it would have made most sense to drive there from Milwaukee. I also wanted an excuse to rent a car and drive some hundreds of miles through this country. And so since we would already have the car, it seemed to make equal sense (as much sense as any thing makes when logic is already questionable, already discarded) to drive to Memphis afterwards and see Graceland. And so Bob, the one encouraging the trip to Graceland, and Diego, the one encouraging us to go to Short Mountain, are going to be part of this Tennessee road trip. Return tickets have been booked from Memphis. A car has been reserved. And four gays are going to go pay homage to Elvis after spending some time in the woods with the radical faeries after Jacob and I spend some time in Milwaukee with some rich dude. Each leg of this trip seems comical, absurd, and amazing. I can't wait.

I called in sick to work today, am actually sick, and should be doing things like writing and working on my resume and applying for jobs, but instead am here writing in my diary and watching Elvis videos on YouTube, watching Brent Everett videos on any porn site I can find them on, jerking off, eating Stacey's pita chips.

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A couple days ago, Jacob and I went to a hotel room near Times Square. The man got on his knees as soon as we entered the room. We undressed and he started sucking our cocks. He said he wanted to eat our cum, wanted to drink our piss, wanted anything we would give him. I didn't know what the desperate "wanted anything" referred to but I had some thoughts about its specific meanings, also some thoughts about the vague poetry of the request. While he was sucking Jacob's dick, I began to fuck Jacob. He told us in a hungry voice that he wanted to lick my dick and Jacob's asshole when I pulled out, that he wanted me to cum in his mouth, hunger and desperation and horniness in everything he said, it a bit repulsive.

I pulled out of Jacob and there was some shit on the head of my penis - normal and not disgusting. Hungry Man, however, said he wanted to eat it. Rolling with the punches, trying to, I stuck my dick in his mouth even though it grossed me out a bit to watch. He started to make exaggerated sounds of pleasure, the smell wafted its way up to my nose. I started to dry heave, each moan from him, him talking about shit, me smelling it, making my stomach very unsettled. I kept on trying to turn my head up, to escape the smell and sight but his noises kept my brain focused on what was going on and I kept on nearly puking. He asked if I was okay and I told him that the smell of shit made me nauseous. He told me I could go rinse off. I went into the bathroom, ran the water, and started to dry heave into the sink, caught my breath, cupped cold water in my hands, splashed it on my face, drank from my cupped hands, the cold water feeling so good against my sore insides which had been suppressing the act of vomiting. I came in his mouth, fed him more, and we got dressed and left.

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I bought the Ungame recently off eBay. I have not yet played it, have been trying to have people over to do so, but find myself not home often, find myself busy doing things, getting drunk, dancing, seeing things. I have suggested to Jacob that he move in with me since he has been sleeping here every night for months now. He seems like he wants to but has commitments to his current lease and current roommate. I have started to say the word love on occasion with this person. I need to start eating healthier. I need to buy some running shoes. There are other things I need to do surely, but those seem like easy places to start.

Bananas

After Dark

At the Armory show, there is this installation of a very long bookshelf, the books on it arranged alphabetically, all the books part of the same "After Dark" series, the name of a various city and then the words "After Dark," sometimes real ridiculous cities that you would not imagine to be included in such a series. I am now wishing that I had asked the people in this particular booth more questions about the work, as now that I am googling it, I am unable to find out answers to particular questions I am having about the work and the books. The work is by Richard Prince, something I did not know when I first encountered it and was so drawn to it. I am glad I did not know that, as the name has a lot of baggage and I've never been able to really get into his work before and so probably would have dismissed this "After Dark" piece as another work I didn't really get from this big name artist. However, there is something quite beautiful about this piece, all of these individual books with absurd captions on the front cover, a fake library, an imagined one.

One such caption for a city I can't remember, perhaps "Bangalore After Dark," went something like this (a game of telephone happening here with me not remembering the caption at all, only its punchline): "The student became deeply uncomfortable and asked the professor to repeat his statement. 'The sun and life will die out in a billion years.' The student breathed a sigh of relief and said, "You're really had me worried. I thought you said a million years.'"

I am seeing in some basic googling now that Prince did a series of paintings based on these paperback After Dark books that he had been collecting about various cities. My question however is about the books in the piece. They all seem manufactured for this particular work, the captions too absurd, the price of the paperbacks too low for the new condition of the books. I have so many questions about this work that will probably always go unanswered now, the likelihood of me returning to the Armory show this weekend very slim. And so my reading of this, the associations I am attaching to it, may be wrong. These may be found objects arranged on a bookshelf, not the imagined, fanciful series that really touches me.

There are some really striking works in the exhibition, but I got the same feeling I get every year going to this show, and after about an hour of looking at work I became less and less receptive to the things, gave each piece less and less time to make an impression on me before I moved on the next booth, the next gallery, the next works of art. From there, I went to the Scope art fair, and now feel thoroughly exhausted with visual art for a while, especially with having attended the Whitney Biennial a week ago. I have seen some nice things, have a feel for what certain artists are doing, have some new names of people to look for in group shows, and that is it. I was with a boy today and that is probably more what I will remember about this day in some distant future day, walking around these covered piers with Jacob and looking at things, and sharing the only empty chair in the cafe area so we could try to sit and drink a coffee.

I saw this other boy I used to sleep with there, also this young boy, also 20 I believe. I saw him in the Peres Projects booth (typical) where Terrence Koh had a couple pieces. He was with some other boy and was slightly cunty, perhaps for good reason, perhaps I was an asshole to him some time ago. I thought about age briefly, about boys, about paths crossing, and then said "nice seeing you," the politest way of escaping a situation, starting to roll the credits.

Nice seeing you.