Friday, June 10, 2011

One Day

There are less than 24 hours left to go in this, my twenties, and I am listening to the Beth Orton Pandora station, feeling sorry for myself and drinking beer, packing a bag for Fire Island this weekend, and being upset by Jacob, wondering about him, not what I want to be starting this weekend with. But I was listening to this Beth Orton station before I got upset and maybe I knew I was going to need this beautiful and sad music tonight. I want to bring a radio to the beach with me somehow but I don't have battery-powered speakers.

I don't have battery-powered speakers.

I am dreaming of ferris wheels, though Fire Island is not that type of beach.

There was a lot that I really wanted to write tonight, wanted to tell you, wanted to tell a future self of mine, a thirtysomething, perhaps fortysomething, self of mine - that this what this time was like, these waning days of your twenties.

And, yes, I am perhaps being dramatic, but I am turning fucking thirty okay and it has me freaked out, though I know it shouldn't, that I can logically approach this and realize that this is just one more day than the day before and that the world does not significantly shift in any way, that this is a long stream of baby steps that has been happening. I don't know. Hanna today told me she had figured out what has been wrong with me lately. She said, "It's your birthday soon. That's why you're acting this way," she understanding that I had been behaving like a nutcase lately and also being aware that upcoming birthdays will make one a nutcase.

I went shopping today after work with money my mom gave me for my birthday, her card insisting to me to spend the money on myself, to "splurge" as she put it, to not put it toward bills or anything sensible like savings. So I went to the Opening Ceremony sample sale today, waited in line for about fifteen minutes, and then left the sale empty-handed after only about five minutes, not seeing any interesting men's clothing. I then went to Top Shop, looking for these shorts I had been pining over for a month or so but which I had been refraining from buying because I have been trying to save money and not spend large amounts of money on shorts, which I already have plenty of. The store no longer carried these shorts. From there, I went to Oak, was charmed by all the gay sales clerks, talked to them about candles and drop-crotch shorts. I bought myself a tank top there. I bought myself some Pinkberry on St. Marks. I bought a lot of booze for Fire Island at the wonderful Warehouse Wine and Spirits on Broadway. I then headed home.

I looked at porn and then looked at Grindr, hoping I could find someone to come over. Horny, I texted this guy I fucked a couple times off Grindr and asked if he wanted to hook up. He told me he would be over in thirty minutes. We had really hot sex, the two of us physically in sync with each other, he loving getting fucked as much as I loved fucking him. I came in his mouth. He wanted to continue kissing me after but it was both that I didn't want to taste my own cum and also that I didn't want to kiss him anymore, that it was fine during sex, but otherwise it was weird, that it was a little too affectionate for what this was supposed to be, plus he kind of grosses me out when I am not under the fog of horniness. The spell had been broken and I was ready for this man to get out of my apartment.

Jacob told me that he didn't get me anything for my birthday, but that he did get himself a jock strap. As he was pulling out his jock strap out of the shopping bag, I threw him the necklace I bought for him today, wished him a Happy Birthday. His birthday, by the way, is in January and is also, by the way, something I did get him a present for. I am thinking back to this older muscle dude today and fucking him and being free of the sadness I feel now. I miss that freedom from these emotions. I used to enjoy sex and having crushes and them not noticing me or me not noticing them. This was simple stuff, light, fun. I remembered this today when I flirted with the various sales clerks in Oak that wanted to help me. There is only one more day of this, of being a twentysomething. I should be doing something other than listening to sad music and writing in my online diary, but maybe we'll save that change for my thirties, since in truth a very large part of my twenties was spent doing this same thing, as is easily evidenced by scanning through this diary, it starting a little over ten years ago in May. My twenties are all here for you to see, or at least these moments when I listened to these things - now, the Beth Orton Pandora station; then, Belle and Sebastian's If You're Feeling Sinister - and tried to even the score, tried to write my way out of pits I dug for myself.

I am so excited to go to the beach tomorrow. I'll transition from one age bracket to another on Fire Island. I should bring some Frank O'Hara but I know I won't read him, though I know I should. I'll be do busy drinking I'm sure. But maybe, hopefully, the sun will talk to me too.

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