Wednesday, August 29, 2012


It was a few nights ago, Monday, but it bears mentioning because it was the first date I have been on in probably at least three years. Even when I was single, I didn't really go out on dates. I met people at bars or on Grindr and we went to someone's house and had sex, skipping that awkward event where you talk to each other about who you are, introduce yourself, try to think of things to say, and wonder when, if ever, you may kiss this person at some point in the night.

He is a nice guy I met some years ago but had never hung out with until Monday. We had drinks at a couple of bars and then ate some Mexican food together. I was really missing not so much Jacob during this date, but the comfort level we had reached. I felt very awkward most of the night, was often unsure of what to say, and so just laughed probably too much and danced around in my chair to whatever songs were playing in the bar or what songs that I wished had been playing there. I smoked a lot of cigarettes. We kissed goodnight on a street corner in East Williamsburg. We made out a little. I wanted it to last longer. I wanted to invite him home with me, but knew I couldn't do that because I still share a bed with Jacob. I wanted him to invite me over. He did not do this. It was a very chaste date or maybe hangout session; I never how these things work. He did say that we would hang out in a couple days.

I opened my windows when I got home this afternoon. The mosquitos have somehow found their way through the gaps in the screens. I have been swatting them away as I watch on my television a very large group of Americans, enough to fill an arena, cheering on the idiocies voiced by various Republican men. This is happening in the city I was born, Tampa. I am drinking white wine with ice cubes in it as I take in this spectacle. The mosquitos choose not to take notice and are focused solely on blood.

Monday, August 27, 2012

clementine peels thrown from the windows of rental cars

We stopped at a liquor store on New Lots Avenue. Darnell pulled over to the curb and I went to go buy the vodka while he waited in the car. I got back in the car and we took off blasting Madonna's "Vogue" through East New York. Both of us were aware of the absurdity of the scene. We were soon on the Belt Parkway, Jamaica Bay off to the left, Riis beach so close.

We met up with Nick and Nik on the beach, drank some of the cheap vodka we had bought, mixed it with Arizona's versions of Arnold Palmers, a dollar a bottle from the bodega by my house.

The waves were vicious yesterday, big and relentless, one after the next, knocking me down over and over again, the current quickly dragging me down the shore. Normally the beaches of New York City are fairly calm affairs with mild waves that would hardly knock you off balance. This was a dizzying experience to be tossed around by these waters. I couldn't get enough of the waves. I dove under the ones that seemed truly frightening, rode a few, jumped over some - had an absolutely exhausting and amazing time dancing with the Atlantic Ocean yesterday. Maybe this is because of Isaac so far south churning up the ocean - I really have no idea what was causing this, but it was exhilarating.

When I dove under the waves, I would listen to the sound around me, wait to hear that crashing sound break right above me. It was such a beautiful noise and I kept diving under and under again wanting to keep hearing the power of this water, of nature's force.

On the sand, I smoked a lot of cigarettes and talked about Florida and about boys and about tattoos. We picked out our favorite boys on the beach, the ones we would like to have sex with. I watched with Nik as one of the guys behind us clearly got a blowjob underneath a towel.

The sun got lower, the beach got emptier. We left.

Saturday, August 25, 2012

elegant slumming

I am listening to M People's "Moving On Up." I am getting ready to go out, trying on various outfits, variations on the same thing I wear anytime I go out, a dark tank top, tight jeans, gold chain. I don't know why I spend so much time trying on all these various variations. Fifty shades of gray. All the same. I am drinking the Trader Joe's brand of beer, cheap, about four dollars for a six pack. I can't wait to dance.

Let's smoke cigarettes even though we know we shouldn't and stand outside and talk about what we hope for.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

an office party, an open bar, a hangover

We rode in a taxi together to his apartment. He talked about wanting to buy property next year with his boyfriend. He asked the taxi driver if we could smoke in the cab. The taxi driver said no. The hallways of his building looked like they either had just been or were about to be painted. I was very drunk, had just been at a work party with an open bar that lasted several hours. I had gone out for drinks beforehand with some co-workers.

I sang an amazing version of Whitney Houston's "How Will I Know" with Dwayne. There was karaoke happening. I had never been so into the song. Every little bit of confusion and heartbreak and glee and joy of my recent life all were poured into that performance. I got a lot of compliments. At some point in the night, I snuck down the backstairs of the bar to escape this one co-worker who had become very drunk and forward, basically telling me we were going home together. Out in front of the bar, I smoked a cigarette, nervously looking to see if this one kid was going to come out to find me, and I talked with all the other smokers. We all decided to XES, which was only a couple blocks away, to keep partying. 

In the backyard there, this one co-worker, very cute, asked me if I wanted to come back to his house and have a threesome with him and his boyfriend. He told me his boyfriend had a big dick, was really hot, and could fuck the both of us. 

Again, I snuck out of a bar that evening, trying to escape the notice of all my other co-workers still there. We rode in that taxi in which we could not smoke. We went to his house. His boyfriend was indeed very sexy. I stripped down to my underwear and starting making out with the boyfriend in their bed. Soon his dick, which was accurately described as big earlier, was in my mouth. He fucked my co-worker. He fucked me. He came on both of our faces. The co-worker fed me his boyfriend's come on his fingers. It was all incredibly sexy and fun. It also was a blur. We sniffed a lot of poppers. I had had countless drinks beforehand. The boyfriend went to clean up and the co-worker and I continued to fuck around with each other. At some point, the boyfriend made it clear he wanted the two of us to end our antics. I got dressed. I left.

Friday, August 17, 2012


I am waiting for a burrito to arrive from Haab and cursing at imaginary people that are not with me in the kitchen. I have poured myself some Ricard and am sipping it with water like a classy gentleman. I am cursing: You are too old to be wearing graphic tees from Urban Outfitters. I mean, everybody is too old to be doing so, but you especially.

I am just a bit angrier than I perhaps should be right now. I am a bit jealous and also not, also grossed out.

I was just getting off the subway and walking toward my house when I walked past Jacob and the new boy he is seeing/fucking/whoknows, a boy that I casually know, friend of a friend, and it's really fucking weird to see them together. I know that Jacob has been going over to his house and that he only lives a couple blocks away from us, but I have luckily never seen them together. That is, until now. It just annoys me because he is another skinny, lanky, awkward gay with brown hair and he is a little too close to my own body type. I want to see Jacob with someone younger, blonder, and shorter - something so far different from myself physically that I can explain things that way, take some form of comfort in that. It would also be nice to see him with someone that I don't know either. Jacob's hello was too eager, the other's boys what's up too gruff.

I gave Jacob my last cigarette earlier and I am regretting it.

I saw a man earlier tonight - this was where I was coming home from earlier tonight when I passed them. He was a middle-aged business guy staying on the 39th floor of a midtown hotel. I gave him a massage and blew him. I thought he was actually really sexy. His cock was big and really beautiful. I kept looking at our reflection in his uncurtained glass windows and, beyond that, the glittering lights of the city, dark windows and lit windows, upright rectangular shapes glowing in odd spots, blocking off big blocks and little blocks of the night sky.


UPDATE: So the above was written in a fit of rage. My burrito came. Jacob came home at the same time. I ate the burrito and drank a lot of Ricard and now don't feel this way. But it is what it is. I am trying to be honest and I am not being entirely so. It's how I felt in the moment I wrote it, shortly after passing them on the street. You would be getting a lot more of the above if Jacob hadn't told me he read my diary and I didn't exercise the modicum of self-restraint I have been attempting to. I need to stop telling people about my diary, but it's hard not to if it is someone that I like and I want them to know more about me. But then the problem comes about when you want to write about them but fear what they may think, that they may read it, how their feelings may be hurt, how what you are writing, diarying, can actually alter future events, the trajectory of your relationship in ways that usually are not positive. 

To more honesty. You really have to embrace the rage and the hatred and the bitterness and the pettiness. To not do so is to be false. I am trying to be honest. It takes work to overcome the fears we have about how we might be perceived, about hurting the feelings of others. I want to document this time in my life, all of the moments in my life. I want to let out these things in verbal form, put them somewhere outside of my mind. I want to grow and learn and understand. So please be a little patient, or preferably don't read this.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Deee-Lite's "What is Love?"

It was Tuesday or Wednesday. I'm not sure exactly. I am finding myself less and less aware of how time is unfolding, less and less able to ably separate chunks of it into days I can easily identify as such and recall. They are blurring together. It is summer and I want to drink and one of my closest friends in New York is moving to LA in a couple weeks and I am racing against time, trying to get it all in before it ends, before I die, before I become too old, before the summer ends, trying to live basically as good as I can.

And so forgive me for not being able to recall the exact day of the week, but sometime a few days ago I received an email from my landlord with a new one-year lease attached. I cursed out loud when I read the thing, timing everything, and me a bit surprised and yet also not that, of course, this would have to happen now. For the past several months, we have been living in this apartment not on a lease, just paying month-to-month, our lease having expired earlier this year. It was very nice, especially so during this period of time when Jacob and I were living together as roommates. Right now, it works great, but the idea of committing to another year of sharing a bed and this particular apartment as ex-boyfriends seemed like perhaps not the best idea, not something I would necessarily want to lock myself into for another year.

We discussed various options, considered resigning the lease and staying, considered moving out. The new plan as of now is that we are going to move out at the end of September and move into a two bedroom apartment together. We both agree that we really like living with each other, that it has been one of the best living situations we have ever had as far as being paired as roommates go, and so we are going to keep doing so. I am excited about this and relieved that I won't have to try to find someone to live with. It could potentially be awkward, but only as much as we make it, and so hopefully this happens and works out. Now, I really need to seriously start saving money now to put down for a new apartment.

Life is weird, a bizarre fucking thing that I don't understand, that I never will, but that there is an understanding in itself, perhaps the most necessary one to live happily - to possess the knowledge that it can't be understood, that it can just be lived and laughed at, the comedy that is our existence. I am about to go get drunk with an ex-boyfriend from another time in my life and we are going to go out dancing. And surely we will talk about being old queens and about boys and love and our lives and our hopes for them. I will try not to sniff any poppers this time.

Sunday, August 5, 2012

i didn't know how to say lucky in spanish, though he knew how to say it in english

It has now been a few days since I have been back from Spain - I arrived back in New York's thick heat on Thursday evening - and I still find myself recalling memories of men from that country when I am jerking off, recalling experiences I had and ones that I only wish I had.

The one I keep coming back to is this guy from Sitges. I was only in that town for one night, following a bender of three nights in Barcelona in which I crammed in beaches, backrooms, endless wandering down beautiful streets, and a bit of art. After exploring some of the beaches and cruising woods of that beautiful little town on the Mediterranean, Sitges, I found myself crammed into the only open bit of sand on the gay nude beach in town. There was this incredibly sexy man who I kept on watching whenever he walked to or from the water. I thought he was perfection. He had a beautiful dick, a beautiful body, and beautiful feet. My appreciation for feet was reaching new levels of fetish in Spain. So many of the men wore flip-flops and just about all of them had beautiful feet. This man was one of them. I was insanely turned on by him. I did not talk to him. Instead, some older British man started talking to me and then followed me in the water. We talked about George Eliot and Middlemarch, and he was charming at first because he was someone to talk to, which one always appreciates at first when they are traveling alone, but soon I found myself wondering how I could shake this man. When I said I was going to leave and head back toward my hotel, he said he was going to leave to and we could walk together. As he was getting ready, I told him I was going to stay on the beach. He then stayed too. When he went to the concession stand to get something, I literally took off running across some rocks in the other direction to escape him.

Out at bars that evening, I saw the sexy guy from the beach, now dressed, hanging out with his friends. I smiled at him a bit but never got up the nerve to talk to him. I ended up having a threesome with this British couple after we stayed up until six in the morning smoking cigarettes nonstop on my balcony and talking about life.

The next day, I slept too late and only had an hour or so to hit the beach again before I had to leave to catch a train back to Barcelona in order to catch my train to Madrid. My time in that town was coming to an end and I was wishing I had longer there, so in love with just lying on the beach and looking at the parade of cocks going into and out of the water. I went for one last swim, knowing I only had about ten minutes left before I needed to leave. I was about to leave the water, took in the scene of the beautiful city from the water, and then saw the sexy guy I had been eyeing the day before heading into the water. I floated down the shore in his direction. We bobbed around in the water near each other for a bit. I said hello. He said hello back. We immediately started making out, the hellos being all the introduction we needed. Everything I had wanted happened in these last moments before I had to leave. I took this as a sign that the universe would provide, that things always eventually work out. We stroked each other's cocks. I straddled his hips and he rubbed his beautiful erect cock against my asshole. We touched and touched. He wrapped his legs around my hips and I rubbed my cock against his ass and I reached around behind me, grabbing those feet I had been desiring since I first saw them. We moaned and stroked faster and faster, it clear that both of us were about to come. We both did so into the Mediterranean. I said bye to him, explained I had to catch a train to Madrid. He told me some bars to go to while I was there.

That is the main scene I keep replaying when jerking off. It was one of the hottest encounters I have had in the longest time. There are other memories from this trip that occasionally get projected up on to that big screen of my erotic imagination. In fact, quite a few other memories. The week was a sexual binge.

There were other aspects to the week surely. There were pangs of loneliness that would occasionally hit me when I looked for places to eat in Madrid and walked past tables and tables full of couples in love with each other, so pleased to be in this city in each other's company. There was the thrill of not understanding conversations happening around me, of seeing the world as bigger than I often do. There was an intense feeling that I so rarely get looking at art when, out of the corners of my eyes, I glanced Picasso's "Guernica" only a room away when I was in the Museo Reina Sofia. I actually got nervous, jittery, about walking into the next room to see it full on, knew that this moment could never be repeated, that this was an encounter I had been wanting to happen since we spent a couple classes in my 11th grade European History class talking about just this painting, the first work of art I had ever heard talked about in such depth and with such a probing level of analysis. It's a fucking powerful experience to see this thing in person. There were numerous amazing Bosch paintings at the Prado. There were also several Goya paintings that I saw at the Prado that had effects similar, though not as intense, as seeing "Guernica" in person, of my heart and breath both taking a pause, astounded to be seeing these things in person.

So I wasn't particularly excited when my plane left Spain. I spent a few hours wandering around Frankfurt because I had an eight hour layover at that city's airport. I got on the plane back to New York finally and took some Benadryl and passed out even before the plane took off. I woke up at some point over the Atlantic. I watched some shit movies that were on offer, a movie Zac Efron was in, a movie Chris Evans was in. And I had no clue what I was heading back to. I still don't know what I have come back to. I have come back to co-habitating with my ex-boyfriend. I have come back to a thick and heavy humidity that weighs down on me. I have come back to a job I don't particularly like and that hinders my ability to enjoy much of nightlife with its 7am start times.

And so it is very tempting to escape again. Logistically and financially though, I cannot just pick up and go back to Spain right now, despite how nice it would be to be in a position to do so. I can, however, lie on my back and stroke my dick and think about the time I did so in the Mediterranean with this sexy man off the coast of a small beach town, other people around us in the water and neither of us caring, both so sure of what we wanted that nothing else mattered.

spain and a bathroom stall in the frankfurt airport