Wednesday, November 28, 2012

the point of fever

"I'm really suprised at you, Alyosha: how can you be a virgin? You're a Karamozov, too! In your family sensuality is carried to the point of fever."
"You mean Grushenka? No, brother, he doesn't despise her. If he's publicly traded his fiancée for her, he doesn't despise her. It''s something, brother, that you won't understand yet. It's that a man falls in love with some beautiful thing, with a woman's body, or even with just one part of a woman's body (a sensualist will understand that), and is ready to give his own children for it, to sell his father and mother, Russia and his native land, and though he's honest, he'll go and steal; though he's meek, he'll kill; though he's faithful, he'll betray. The singer of women's little feet, Pushkin, sang little feet in verse; others don't sing, but they can't look at little feet without knots in the stomach. But it's not just little feet..."
-The Brothers Karamozov (79-80)

I joined a new gym a week or so ago. Part of the appeal to this gym was that it would be a nice change from David Barton, that it wouldn't be so gay, so cruisey, that I might actually focus more on my workout in such a setting, presumably a straight one. The locker room is a sight that I imagine most gym locker rooms to be - brightly lit, a sports station playing sports news, and overweight and out of shape older guys trying in unimpressive ways to hold a line against gaining more weight, against aging more. This was a massive change from the dimly lit locker room at David Barton full of impossibly chiseled bodies on display with a soundtrack of pulsing dance music.

But put me in a room full of half-naked men and my eyes will wander no matter where I am. As I was about to go into the shower, I saw this guy walk up to the towels naked, a little too proudly so, before grabbing one and heading to a shower stall. I, of course, couldn't help myself, fever starting to rise, and chose the shower stall next to him. David Barton Gym would never have such shower stalls as this gym - it would be entirely too much and people wouldn't be able to restrain themselves. It would take the bathhouse atmosphere to another level for them, which would probably attract too much attention from the Health Department. The showers at this gym, my new gym, have slightly fogged glass separating each one.

I showered, soaped up, and watched the guy next to me do the same. He did so facing me, taking extra time when soaping up his genitals. I did the same. This became a dance. Each of us followed the other's lead, testing out boundaries before we saw that the other person was there for the same thing, that we were there to get our kicks off both voyeuristic and exhibitionist. I faced him more. He faced me more. The hands lingering over our cocks as we washed those areas soon transitioned into our hands stroking our cocks. I saw the foggy shape of this guy jerking off. He wiped down the glass between us with his hand, wiping away steam and water, bringing forth clearer outlines of bodies, of frenzied bodies jerking off next to each other at this straight gym, of fever taking hold. He pressed his hard dick against the glass, rubbed it back and forth, and I could see it clearly at this distance, saw its massive size, its proud upward curve. I rubbed mine against the glass as well for him to get a better look. He put his mouth close to the glass, pantomimed sucking me off.

He pressed his ass cheeks against the glass and I could see his bent over muscled back. He rubbed his cheeks up and down the glass. I became worried that someone might see us from outside the shower stalls, but the fever had taken too much hold by this point. It had taken even more of a hold for this man. Soon he was on his knees, so that his cock was under the partition. He was absolutely wild with horniness, not giving a fuck at this point about who might see. I became a bit nervous about the situation and was already at the point of climax, had been for a while, and so I shot my load, came, and turned the water off and dried myself off. He rose from his knees and fled his shower stall before I had even finished drying myself off. I didn't see him when I came out of the stall. I have no idea what he actually looks like. I like it that way. I just have this image of a foggy naked body, of a a dick coming into clear focus, of an ass doing the same. I lost myself for a while in this fog and afterwards, I remembered, remembered what a joy it is to lose myself in these fogs, to give in to these passions, to be ruled by them on occasion, to pursue them in the locker rooms across this city, gay or straight, to really appreciate the male body, its form, to fanatically worship it, to bite my lower lip and stroke my cock and to firmly believe, at least for the duration of that act, that there is nothing more meaningful in all of this world that we live in.

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Ke$ha's "Die Young"

Do not get high and ask Siri questions about your life. Specifically do not ask if your ex still loves you. It's a weird sensation when the question is answered and you hear in Siri's voice: "Probably."

I woke up this morning to my phone vibrating with a text. It was Jacob asking me if I wanted to go to brunch. It was an unexpected invite and I said yes.

We had brunch at Fiore. I was a bit hungover and so that was part of the reason, why I didn't have much to talk about, but also it was because I don't want to talk that much to this person anymore, that I don't need to reveal everything, that I need to keep my distance, that I need to protect myself. I am finding that I have less to talk to him about now that we are not together, that I want to reveal less to him, that I need to.

I think he has well moved past our breakup and believes it is possible for us to hang out like normal friends. I am not at that point yet.

We said goodbye after we paid the check. I regretted having agreed to meet him. I had been in a much better mood before I knew I was going to see him, before I saw him. I went to go buy a travel book about Rome. I am going to Rome and Istanbul during the first week of February. I impulsively bought a ticket last week since my friend David is going to be in Rome during that time.

I am insanely excited about this upcoming trip and all the things that I will have the opportunity to see in person. This will be the realization of a long-held dream to visit this city.

I am going to finally read The Brothers Karamazov all the way through. I am part of a reading group with Erica to make our way through it. I am in love with burritos. I have a gym membership again. I had a beautiful Thanksgiving with friends. I am tired. I am tired too often.

I danced like a maniac last night and had a ball with some great friends. I made out with one of these friends, D, on the dancefloor. I smoked a lot of cigarettes. Today, I smoked the last remaining cigarette in the pack and told myself I wasn't going to buy any more packs, that I was done with this desire to erase myself, that these small acts of cutting, of chipping away at my life, at attempting to set the thing to flames, are done with, that it's time to move on, to enjoy this body and this life.

Netflix Reviews for "1313: Bermuda Triangle"

I have read some pretty amazing Netflix review in my years of stoned searching for movies, and yet the reviews I stumbled across tonight for 1313: Bermuda Triangle might be some of the best ones I have ever read.

Monday, November 19, 2012

"Bitch, Don't Kill My Vibe"

It was a few days ago that I went out on a date. I don't know what it is I want. There are days when I am happy being single and then there are other days when I do wish that I had someone to hold tight at night and text about the stupid stuff that happens to me throughout the day, someone to indulge me while I vent about life's minor irritations. This guy was someone that I had had remarkably friendly and G-rated chat with on Grindr. He is only 22. I have made a mental resolution to myself that I am not going to get involved with guys much younger than myself anymore, that I want to invest my time into people that are a little more certain about what it is they want, that I am going to do my best to avoid the heartache that will come with being cast off along with the numerous identities people shed in their early twenties.

Despite this, I went on a date with him. I was feeling lonely and wanted to hang out with a guy and have conversation and then have sex. We had some drinks at the Ritz before seeing David Mamet's The Anarchist on Broadway, which was maybe the most boring play I have ever seen mounted on Broadway. It is quite terrible. A good fifth of the audience was asleep only half an hour into the play, including my date. I signaled to him that we should leave. We left the play about halfway through and headed out to Bushwick where we grabbed some drinks at neighborhood bars and then came back to my house. Here, we smoked some weed and listened to the new Rihanna songs. We then had sex in my bed, rolled around, sniffed poppers, both us coming on my chest.

He said my mattress hurt his hips, which is very understandable as the mattress gave me all sorts of aches the first few nights I slept on it. He left to sleep in his own bed.

The night was fun and also lacked something. The entire night there was some slight nagging feeling in the back of my mind, some thought that this person was not Jacob, that that was what I really wanted. I was judging this person against what I would want from a future boyfriend, imagining him in this role and I liked the previous actor better who had played this role. We would keep holding auditions, call in some other actors to read for the part.

I told Jacob I missed him a couple days ago when we were chatting on Facebook. He told me he missed me too and that we should hang out. We went out to dinner last night at Mission Chinese Food. We drank the free beer they give you while waiting for your table. We did this for the two hours we waited for our table. I told him that when I said I missed him, I meant that I missed him as a boyfriend. He didn't really respond. After I asked him some questions to elicit an answer, I got answers that I didn't necessarily want, that he just missed me as a friend, that he just missed hanging out with me.

We ate pigtails, thrice cooked bacon, kung pao pastrami, and cod fried rice. We drank more beer and were given a shot of soju for reasons I didn't really understand. I stuffed myself and had a really great time hanging out with Jacob. I am not really excited about going about the project of establishing this level of rapport, of shared history, with another person. I had been building up hope ever since he told me his missed me that he might have had some interest in trying to be romantic partners again.

We rode the J train back to Brooklyn together. When we neared his stop, he told me that he was going to invite me over but that things had gotten too emotional. I puzzled over that once the doors closed and the train headed off in a different direction from him, about the mixed signals of that statement.

I don't know about much in this world. It is clear. I like coffee and I like alcohol. Everything else is a giant question mark.

Monday, November 12, 2012

get the guests

Yesterday, I bought a new bong. It is clean, clear glass, simple. I had wanted a penis bong, specifically the one linked to. I went to every smoke shop in the West Village and on St. Mark's and could not find this, would occasionally see some really ugly orange thing that was vaguely phallic-shaped and that the store owner would try to sell me when I told them what it is I was looking for. So I bought something simple until my dream bong is finally found.

Yesterday, I also saw the current Broadway production of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and it was fantastic. I really love this play a lot - it's an exhilarating and powerful work. Tracy Letts and Amy Morton really shine in the roles of Martha and George. They are both such insanely talented actors. It's such a fucked up and disturbing play and yet also so funny and riveting. There is a real joy that comes from hearing these two lob hurtful words at each other, trying to inflict damage.

I really want to say more about it, to look at this play more deeply, because there is something about this play that I am really drawn to. And maybe soon I will do that. I kind of want to see this production again, and maybe I will do it then. Maybe I won't. What is stopping me from pursuing these thoughts further this evening are my current evening's plans. In just a couple of hours, I will be seated (most likely standing and dancing) at Madison Square Garden to see Mafuckingdonna! I can't believe that this is happening. For a few years, I really did not care much about her and thought the idea of seeing her in concert sounded terrible. I have since come to really embrace pop spectacle arena shows. I have also come to again really love Madonna. I was a small child and my sister and I used to watch Madonna videos on MTV in the eighties and think she was so cool. I can't believe that that person that I have such early memories of is still going strong and is still touring and that tonight I am finally going to see her perform for the first time. I am so fucking excited. Also I got these tickets for free, which makes it doubly awesome.

And so I can't write more because I have to go stand in front of mirror as I play Madonna tracks and try on various articles of clothing until I decide on what it is I would like to wear.

Friday, November 9, 2012

flu shots and blow jobs

Why has it taken me so long to get high and have a dance party to Erykah Badu while stoned in my new apartment? This should have been the first thing I did upon moving here. This, today, is now proof that this place is home.

I need curtains for sure though.

Windows naked, illuminating me to these rows of houses I can see so clearly into behind mine, situated across short backyards untended, me dancing, making the fool of myself. I saw this muscled-up Latin dude across the way pumping iron a couple days ago. I was making food in the kitchen. He saw me looking at him. He closed his blinds. It feels too close, the short space separating my house from theirs. There is a tinge of self-concisouness even now despite this high tickling my spine, telling it to move, move to the rhythm, that this is what bodies were meant for, not to sit static ignoring this world, but to dance, to have a conversation with life, with the things around you, to show the joy, the feelings you get from New Amerykah Part II for instance, that to really live requires one to actually fully inhabit one's body, not just to hide behind one's eyes, but to feel it everywhere.

And I feel that way often, but sometimes a check is put on that, seeing an at-home club light system, orange, blue, green, and yellow lights rotating slowly around a living room across the way, thinking of every high school prom scene you have ever seen in every seventies or eighties movie you have never seen, thinking of those times you went to the roller rink in eighth grade, had your mom drop you and your female friends that were the closeted hags then to your closeted fag. I am looking at that lighting system now in the living room of one of these apartments that seem too close, or my windows too curtainless, or for whatever reason just about every single apartment behind me curtainless, that I can see these lives too clearly, am too aware that they can see mine too clearly - dancing around an apartment by myself in my underwear, really feeling Ms. Badu, in a way that might seem absurd to someone glancing at this scene from their apartment, the type of embarrassing thing that might make for an amusing viral video, "My Blazed Out of His Mind Neighbor 'Dancing' to Hippy Music - LOLOLOL".

And I know that I should be - I thought that I was; I know that my mind should not be out there, wondering how I might be perceived, trying to see myself from some other judging eye, but rather that my mind should be here, inhabiting this one body, my eyes in my own head looking at my own world, living fully, dancing to this music.

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Runaway Train

I want to rewire my bathroom light switch so that instead of an overhead fan, a really, really loud fan, turning on each time I flip on the lights to my bathroom, instead Tom Petty would play, nothing but Tom Petty.

I thought this was what I wanted and I had some lyrics about a runaway train that I wanted to hear, that that was the song I would really like to play from my bathroom overhead each time I wanted to drown out the sound of myself taking a shit. I tried finding this song online and could not find it. I found some song, "Runaway Trains," by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers but it was nothing like I remembered, was missing the key lyrics that kept repeating in my head, the only part of the song that I could remember: "Never going back." I searched and searched online, sure that there must be some other Tom Petty song I was thinking of. What I found was a Soul Asylum song called "Runaway Train," which was what I had been thinking of the whole time, and which were you not to know it was Soul Asylum would be very easy to imagine as part of the Tom Petty catalogue.

It's still a really good song, however I don't think I want Soul Asylum blaring from my bathroom anytime anyone turns on the light.

The L train started running again today after being out of commission for the past two weeks due to Hurricane Sandy. It was such a joy to ride the train again. I again felt part of this city, not some commuter on the far edges of it, felt in control in some ways, felt the convenience of being able to easily get home. It was a lovely feeling. I am not sure I have been so happy to ride the subway as I was today, probably haven't felt that same joy since those first few months in New York a decade or so ago when everything about this city had the quality of the new and novel to it. I really appreciated this train line in a way that I have not in a while.

I was at a bar earlier tonight, Duff's, and they were playing some movie muted to the soundtrack of their metal music. The movie, soundless, seemed to concern the plot of a runaway train, an eighties B action movie. This is probably why I had wanted to rewire my bathroom earlier tonight. But it wasn't a Tom Petty song I had been thinking of and so I am no longer running down that dream, others perhaps, but not that one, not tonight.

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Oh Bahm Ah

Obama was reelected president last night. I fell asleep at some point before his acceptance speech, having woken up at five to be at the polling place at six.

A nor'easter hit New York City today, bringing inches of wet, slushy snow.

I had gas all day from eating Mexican food last night.

These things are seemingly unrelated, but in fact are indeed related. Everything is and always has been.

The heat in my apartment is suffocating. I am sitting in my underwear with the window wide open to the cold and still sweating. My normal train, the L train is not running. I have to walk to the M train. This is adding to the feeling of apartness I have from the city and its stirrings of life. There are times when I wish that I again had a boy to cuddle with on the couch on these evenings. There are times, when I am not on the couch, or headed back home to it, that I am very happy to not have that. There is a lot that I do want and at this moment in my life, freed from the demands of a relationship, alone more so than I have been in years, there are no excuses for not pursuing those things. I am being confronted hard by own laziness. Hopefully, I will win. Hopefully, I can stay awake to hear its concession speech.

Sunday, November 4, 2012


One week ago, this city, New York, started to be lashed by Hurricane Sandy. I spent this last week at the hotel I work at, trapped by the lack of transportation in the aftermath of the storm. My employers gave me a room to stay in because they wanted someone to be there to staff the place, most people unable to come in. I worked an insane amount of hours this past week and also partied an insane amount of hours.

The place I work at was very lucky and was just above the powerless zone by only three blocks to the south and by only one block to the east. It could have been a lot more stressful a week. Throughout the week, I heard from friends who work at other hotels, ones in the powerless zone, what a nightmare their weeks were without power, heat, or running water, and having to figure out what to do with a hotel full of people.

The annoyances I dealt with, mainly entitled Europeans who couldn’t grasp why Bergdorf’s was closed, were so slight in comparison to a lot of the people in this region who lost their lives, their homes, or their businesses. I had power throughout the week, internet, cell phone service, and the company of really fantastic people.

A lot of the staff from the restaurant and the hotel were all forced to stay in the hotel for this past week, and once people were done working, they would start partying. We made constant runs to the booze store to buy six-packs of cheap beer, bottles of whiskey, bottles of wine. A bunch of people were bunked up in the biggest suite and we all hung out there, partying most nights, having dance parties, smoking on the room’s rooftop terrace. It was a very, very bizarre week. I formed very close connections with many of my co-workers through the experience though and for that I am really, really grateful.

Monday night, once most of the storm had passed, I walked down to Madison Square Park, which was dark, the building below it and around it all without power. It was very, very creepy. The winds were still crazy and when a big gust blew against me, I ran back to the safety of my hotel, afraid some dangerous debris flying about would injure me. But that sensation of seeing a darkened Manhattan and feeling the dangerous winds blowing around is one that I will always care with me.

Halloween, Wednesday night, some of us ventured down into the West Village, walking through streets without power, totally in darkness, the few people out, being led by the glow of their flashlights ahead of them. I had heard Stonewall was still open without power. They were closed and so we went to the Monster across the street, which was lit by candles. There was a piano player providing the soundtrack to the bar, patrons of the bar gathered around singing along to the songs. It was such an insanely beautiful experience that really made me love New York City, the perseverance that New Yorkers have. That these people, these bar owners and customers, were not about to let the lack of flowing electricity stop them from living. This was how bars operated for centuries and it was really nice to experience this again.

I had experienced similar moments when the last blackout hit New York nearly a decade ago. I remembered those magical moments hanging out at bars that were lit by candlelight only and I wanted to experience that again.

The next night, I wandered through the East Village, amazed by all the bars that were open there. I was really inspired and wowed by what I saw. It’s all such an amazing treat to get to see the night sky from neighborhoods in Manhattan, something that you can only really experience during the rare occurrence of a blackout.

I hurried back from the East Village back to my hotel to go to a rooftop party that the restaurant was throwing for the staff who had all been working through this hurricane. The week was a blur of these moments of fun, of drinking with all of my co-workers, talking about life and New York, and it was all so beautiful. There were many stories I heard from people who had wandered up to our hotel, right above the line of power, desperately seeking a room with water or power, desperate to charge their phones and get cell phone service. I watched the news a lot in the afternoons, once I got off work, once my hangover caught up with me, and I lied in bed, taking in the serious destruction this storm wrought, which I was so insanely lucky to have missed the worst of. A woman was either jumped or pushed from the building a block away from ours. Her body laid in the street for a couple of hours before it was taken away, a crime scene that the police had to investigate. One of my co-workers told me how someone tried to mug him in the powerless area as he was walking from his house.

I witnessed real acts of generosity, of people stepping up and stepping in to offer help to others. I saw a woman run out into oncoming traffic to wave her flashlight at cars to prevent a blind man from being mowed down who was trying to cross 23rd Street, a street without power or traffic lights.

I finally left the hotel to head back home yesterday afternoon. Carlos and I got a ride from this driver I have given a lot of business. He offered to drive us back to Bushwick for free. I was so relieved to have gotten this ride. We passed insane crowds of people on Delancey Street all waiting for the bus to take them back to Brooklyn. We passed gas lines that snaked down block after block, gas lines that were six or seven blocks along, absolutely astounding stuff that I had heard about on the news, seen images of, but it’s such a different thing to see this happening at gas stations in your neighborhood, to actually witness this in person.

I don’t have internet in my apartment. My train that takes me into the city is still not running and probably won’t be for a while. But I am alive and my house is still standing and I have dear friends. I also learned a lot of things this week. I have learned so much about gratitude, about kindness, and about the fragility of our place on this planet, that we have to live as much as possible, to take nothing for granted.