I went into Rosemary’s yesterday and had beers with friends I hadn’t seen in awhile. I was hungover from the night before and feeling overly emotional, excessively moody, depressed with the knowledge that a guy I really like seemingly did not like me, having blown me off the night before. It felt good to drink, to be with these people, to listen to their laughs.
Rosemary’s, however, made me feel further unmoored, further disconnected. They no longer have their 32 ounce styrofoam cups. I guess they got phased out with NYC’s styrofoam ban, but this was something I hadn’t realized or thought of when I heard about the ban, only thought about takeout Chinese containers. Ordering a pint of beer has probably never in my life been more depressing than it was yesterday when the bartender told me they no longer had the “big cups.” It seemed like another disappearance, another friend leaving New York. All the things I knew, loved, all gone, dispersed, disappeared. I was being a little dramatic, yes, but the bar was one of my favorite in New York for just this reason, a bar I have shared drinks in so many times with so many friends, chugging these massive giant beers, getting the styrofoam cup refilled when I was done.
Things are changing. The weather, too. After drinking in the bar, we wandered down to the Williamsburg waterfront. The chill of Fall was there, breezing against my legs, me still clad in shorts, against my arms. I wanted more clothes to bundle up in. The air felt nice but also was notice served, an eviction notice. Summer’s gone. New tenant moving in.
And for all of these reasons, plus others, mainly plus the fact that I’m a human being and scared of dying, I spent last night on my couch (still bedless), feeling sad and wanting so much the company of a significant other, a romance. I’ve been spending a lot of time somehow around cool, awesome gay couples, and I love them but they also make me vaguely envious. I want so badly to have a cute romance. I haven’t had one in quite a while.
A guy, a guy with a boyfriend, messaged me yesterday a picture of his ass, told me he wanted to fuck. He’s really sexy but I don’t really want sex right now, or at least not that kind of sex. I want to have sex with someone I like, someone that likes me, someone that I can cuddle with after, and get stoned and watch Netflix with. I want to be the boyfriend that guy with the ass comes home to after fucking his trick. I don’t want to be the trick.
I looked at the Instagram pictures of this cute guy I like, the guy that blew me off this weekend, and wondered where things went wrong, wondered where it is they always do, wondered what it was I continue to do wrong that the people I like lose interest in me, that, or that they never had it in the first place.
The chilly air blew up against me as I walked around the city today, saying, “You are alone. You are mortal. You will die. Don’t you wish you had the comfort of another to distract you from this? Or, at the least, a light jacket?”
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