Spotted Sex Pig

I am still recalling the moments spent eating a burger earlier tonight. There are some moments with food when I know that it is going to be a moment I will recall later on, that I will want to, that this is the burger I am going to cite later on down the line when someone asks me my favorite burger, and that I should try to recall all of the details. I was seated upstairs at The Spotted Pig, Jacob next to me, me already a bit tipsy on Whiskey and Cokes, taking in the scenery. The burger came and it was the most perfect burger I can recall ever eating. I asked for it medium rare, and it was actually cooked that way, unlike at most restaurants. The buns had cross hatches from being grilled and tasted slightly of butter. The patty was topped with roquefort cheese, and only with this - no onions, no lettuce, no tomato, no ketchup. It was perfect as is. I had no desire to put ketchup on it. Every bite was so insanely good. It was what good food should be, something approximating sex in your mouth.

Corner Bistro has now lost its crown to Spotted Pig. I have a new favorite burger in New York. I wish I had the means and time to eat this burger every single day. Afterwards, I smoked a cigarette with Jacob, even though I have quit and smoked only a few in the last couple of months, because it was that fucking good and I needed to calm down. This was a cinematic post-fuck scene and I had to puff on a cigarette, to both catch my breath and reflect on how I had lost it in the first place.

While puffing on these cigarettes and me talking about how much I loved this burger and how I was going to go home and masturbate to it, we walked up to PPOW on West 25th Street to go to a reading by Max Steele, Joseph Whitt, and Brontez Purnell. Each was amazing, particularly Brontez. I had never heard him read before and so it was a real treat to hear him perform, especially since he veered so much from what reading in my mind has normally meant. He had notes and what appeared to be stories in front of him, but rarely looked them, and instead seemingly ad-libbed these insanely comic monologues about shit on dick, barebacking, and white college-age lesbians that were amazing. They were raunchy and offensive, but more than anything true, and so quite lovely to hear. It was an inspiring moment, that the most affecting stuff, the things that listeners and readers will most respond to are true things, even if they make you sound like an asshole, that maybe it's not the best idea to encourage unsafe sex or to talk about how annoying white lesbians can be, that these things will rub people the wrong way, but that they will also rub some people the right way, that people will recognize their own feelings in your rants, that that is what writing is supposed to be, an attempt at honesty, and that what is true might not always be the most glamorous thing, might not be the way you want to present yourself. There are so many of my friends that I wish I had encouraged to come with me to this, that would have laughed so hard and taken so much from it, enjoyed it so much.

This burger was so insanely good.

Jacob and I fucked last night. Poppers and weed and noise were involved. It was seventy something degrees today in late October. I am going to be the bumble bee girl from the "No Rain" video for Halloween. I love avocados and sex and burgers and people reading and my new black shoes, vintage Stacey Adams, and I am reading Georges Bataille's "Story of the Eye," and of course I am reading that, of course I am.