Friday, January 30, 2015

Tanya Tagaq - "Caribou"

I had just finished reading an article in The New Yorker right as the subway train pulled into Grand Central, my stop, where I get off for work each weekday morning. I smiled, in a good mood, filled with a rush of hope for no particular reason out of the blue. I told myself that it was the beginning of the day, that anything could happen. I hummed to myself that New Pornographers’ line, “What will be revealed today?”

As I walked off the train, part of a mass of midtown commuters bumbling toward the stairwell, I looked over my shoulder at the still open train doors behind me, and saw on the side of the train the words, “Your Career Will Be” - the banner ad was cut off by the open subway doors, it clearly an ad for some continuing education school. But it seemed like an answer to the question I had just sung.

There’s a porn star that I have been obsessed with for years, this beautiful guy. I started messaging him a couple nights ago. We’ve been texting each other dirty stuff. Supposedly, we are going to hook up sometime this weekend.

What will be revealed today?

I’m going to keep on reaching, being open, asking for things I want, going after them.

Friday, January 23, 2015


I was sitting alone, waiting for a friend. The waitress saw my empty glass, said “Would you like another beer? It’s kinda equivalent to a friend, right?”

I woke up the next day insanely hungover.

Monday, January 12, 2015

Steamrooms of New York

Barry White is playing. He is moaning loudly through my speakers. I am drinking red wine. I am a little stoned. My radiator is pumping out way more heat than anyone could ever need, more than even Barry White would be able to do through his voice.

Basically, what I am trying to say, is that, right now, in this moment, here sitting in my apartment in Brooklyn in the year 2015 (really, two thousand fucking fifteen already? okay.), and listening to good soul music, I am feeling what it is to be a human being, what it is to inhabit a body and to be aware of that, aware of the pleasures that such a thing can entail, all the pleasures that being effortlessly provides when you just sit back and be.

Earlier this evening, I saw the dude I sometimes see uptown, the piss fan. After, because I was in the neighborhood, I went to the gym location nearby. Crowded, it still early January, people still sticking to New Year's resolutions, no open treadmills, I putzed around for a bit before just deciding to sit in the steamroom.

Human bodies, holy fuck! They are such perfect things. I can stare at a foot, a perfectly formed and proportioned foot, of some older man sitting across from me in a towel in this steamroom and believe, know in fact, that there is nothing else, that this is church, what it is supposed to do, a recognition, a momentary and fleeting thing aided by being in a particular physical location - church, steamroom, whathaveyou - in which you get it, in which you know there it is no it to explain, that this, right here, is it. 

The man with the sexy feet left and the guy next to me started rubbing his crotch in a vague enough way so that he could just be a straight dude scratching his balls, a code, a language that only fellow speakers of the language can even hear. And so we started jerking off. His body was gorgeous. To lose oneself in the admiration of the human form is what it is to truly feel alive, to really get what any of this might be about, this time on earth, that it is about pleasures like these. Which is why I was so happy this evening, because I had experienced this particular pleasure that I haven't in so long, the erotic throes of the steamroom, your mind and body slightly exhausted, slightly foggy feeling, from the heat, and so to see, in glimpses of light broken up by tiny particles of moisture, by steam, bodies, defined things, abs, pecs, hairy thighs, stubble, that it's such a treat - such a beautiful thing to lose yourself too.

At some point, some other man, somehow even sexier, joined us. It was a daisy chain of blowjobs, of jerking off. This one guy's cock, this beautiful preppy looking dude, was gorgeous. His cock tasted just as good as I thought it would as I stared at it while he jerked off next to me. He had trimmed body hair and an insanely tight body. I imagined him to be some junior broker or some other type of ambitious and hungry finance dude. Steamrooms are amazing in this regard - your erotic fantasy is allowed to take limitless flight, to follow whatever imaginary fantasies it wants to project on to these people, these anonymous bodies, that it is pure physical attraction, never tempered by something so pedestrian as voice, what one does for a job, how one drinks their coffee, or one's bootcut jeans. It is pure physical attraction.

On the verge of passing out, I left, showered under cold water.

Changing, still sweating, I watched as next to me a gorgeous, wispy, tall guy with a beautiful mop of brown hair took off his towel, and stood naked momentarily before going commando and throwing on a pair of really sexy drop-crotch sweatpants. I watched his ass until the last bit of it was covered and then my eyes traced the outline of his muscled, curved back as he corrected his posture, pulled the pants up, and stood, tall, beautiful man, sexy human form, divine thing.

Monday, January 5, 2015

"Just for the Night" - Evelyn Champagne King

New Year’s Eve, midnight came, I exchanged kisses with various boys, some of whom I have gigantic crushes on. Time kept moving, 2015 did. I got drunk, partied too much. I saw a drag queen sing a song I remember really liking at Metropolitan. Don’t ask me what song it was. The following two days were spent in bed, recovering. Welcome to a new year, a new you.

Friday night, after a couple days rest, he rose again, partying calling out its siren song. I hung out with friends and went to Metro again. Was there til four in the morning. Went over to some guy’s house with some friends, partied more. Migrated to another’s friend’s house, partied more. I had sex with the friend that I have hooked up with a couple times now and stumbled out of his room at nine something. I walked home, zombie loose on the streets of New York, feeling like death, looking like it, respectable people out for their morning coffee looking at me like the gutter monster I felt like. I made it home past the dirty glances, some real, most though probably only perceived, and stood under my shower for a long time. I then went and curled up under piles of blankets and again slept away a couple of days basically, recovering, waking just to watch Netflix and order Mexican food.

And here we are, the first proper work day of 2015, and now I am feeling like the new year has officially started, the starting gun fired.

At what point does partying turn into too excess? By its very nature, isn’t partying excessive? But where is the line that makes it too much so? I am thinking that that line is probably somewhere well before the point where you have a hangover that is going to stretch into two days.

That time in bed was spent devouring lots of BBC-produced small town murder mysteries with female detectives. First, I watched all of Happy Valley, washed that down with Broadchurch, and am now about halfway through Top of the Lake. Despite having some surface similarities, they are all quite excellent in their own ways. What is it about this moment in time that all of these series are being made vaguely similar in their broad brushstrokes? More to the point, what does it say about me, that in this particular moment, first days of 2015, cold snap approaching, that all I want to watch are stories of females with accents out on the hunt for criminals?