I went to Westgay last evening with some friends and danced and drank too much vodka and stuffed dollar bills into Kennedy Carter's underwear when I wasn't busy staring at and salivating over his body. Toward the end of the night, I made out with some guy, stuffed my hands down his pants. He lived in Greenpoint. I realized I didn't really want to go home with him, with anyone really, though an exception would very likely have been made for the aforementioned go-go dancer. I was quite relieved when his friend or boyfriend came up to talk to him. I danced with my friends some more, but soon after ran into the guy again and there was the seeming inevitability that I would go home with him. I told him I was going to the bathroom and then walked out the front door, got in a taxi, and was ferried to my bed in Bushwick where I slept alone and was thankful for that. I have pulled this move just about every time I have gone to Westgay, and yes, I know it's not a cute move. There is some need I have of validation (duh, this blog perhaps Example A here) and that's all I want. And once I have that, I start to dread some long taxi ride back to the wilds of Bushwick with some person. That is actually what I dread more than anything in all of these instances - the thought of twenty minutes of being next to this person in a taxi when all I want to do is have sex, dance, drink, or smoke weed. And so instead I say I am going to the bathroom and hop in a taxi instead.
Once awake, I went into Manhattan to have lunch at the G00gle offices with a friend who now works there. It was truly bizarre and just like every piece I have ever read about the company's workplace culture. I saw several people zip past me down the hallways on scooters. I wondered if that was not the person's job, a prop there, part of the scene they want to set for visitors. There were cafeterias all over the place, all serving really, really good food free of cost. There were a coffee bar. There was a juice bar. There was a sandwich place. It was all pretty overwhelming in my hungover state. It was nice to have a healthy meal though and to see this friend and to see the inside of this world.
I then went and lay out on the Christopher Street Piers again, reading and not reading from The Brothers Karamozov. I went to the gym and ran and ran until I couldn't any longer, until I was short of breath, sweating, and having chills. I took a shower, sat in the steam room, made awkward eyes at some person who I couldn't tell if they were there to jerk off or to actually sit in the steam room. I gave up, thinking they were there to sit in the steam room, and went into the showers. He went into the shower stall next to mine shortly thereafter despite there being other ones open. The shower stalls have fogged glass between them so you can vaguely see the person showering next to you. After an excessive amount of soaping up on both of our parts, it became clear that we both wanted to jerk off. We jerked off across the glass from each other. He pressed his hard dick against the glass and I didn't realize how hungry I was for sex, for real human contact, until I saw that dick of his. He came and I reached down to pick up some of his semen. I rubbed it on me and soon came as well.
We both got dressed in the locker room not too far apart from each other, neither of us making any eye contact with the other.