holidaze

Last night, our job threw us a holiday party at a trendy downtown restaurant. The party lasted from 7pm-2am and had an open bar. That is a five hour open bar. That is alternately great news and terrible news. I danced a lot and talked to various friends and got absolutely wasted.

When the party ended there, a group of us decided to move the party to the Cock. I did ask a co-worker to go home with me and thankfully he went home with someone else - thankfully because this is the ex of a good friend of mine and it would have been a terrible idea that I would have regretted so much today. I found my way to the back corner of the bar and watched this guy suck this one guy's dick. I started to jerk off watching this. Pull out your dick at the Cock and soon you will have a mouth on it. Despite straight co-workers being somewhere in near vicinity at this bar, desperation outweighed any sense of propriety, any awareness of the shame I might feel the next day thinking back to these actions.

The guy was not at all attractive that was sucking my dick but I didn't really care. I just wanted this, wanted something. I don't think he cared either, that he even really desired this. It was mechanical, a thought that we had this need and were fulfilling it because we thought it was what we wanted. Everyone there wants something but not with anyone there and we all make do.

He stood up and pulled his pants down and bent his fat ass in the direction of my cock. This is when some awareness took over. I saw this guy's ass, saw its unattractiveness, saw the unattractiveness of this situation, saw my desperation staring me in the face, its ugliness. I zipped up and walked away. I found my co-workers who were all leaving. I have no idea if any of them witnessed the peak of my night's desperation.

Out front, everyone got in cabs and left. I walked uptown in the light rain to catch the L train. It was four in the morning and I was alone in this city and it felt terrible and it felt great.

the only one thing we can be sure of

I have re-listened to this one section of President Obama's speech last night in Newtown several times last evening and again this morning when I woke up. The entire speech is great and worth listening to, but this one section of the speech last night really got to me, had me running for pen and paper to try to write down some of it. We have a president that sincerely seems engaged with questions about what it means to live here for a time on this planet. There is so much beauty in this passage, it really makes me take pause, and for stuff this eloquent and true to come out of the mouth of a president really fills me with hope and happiness. It is really, really well-written, honest about how we as human beings will always fall short of our aspirations, honest about how life is a mystery, that we will grope "through the darkness, so often unable to discern God's heavenly plans." To hear this part in the speech, skip to around the 13:30 mark:

"All the world's religions - so many of them represented here today - start with a simple question: Why are we here? What gives life meaning? What gives our acts purpose? We know our time on this Earth is fleeting. We know that we will each have our share of pleasure and pain; that even after we chase after some earthly goal, whether it's wealth or power or fame, or just simple comfort, we will, in some fashion, fall short of what we had hoped. We know that no matter how good our intentions, we will all stumble sometimes, in some way. We will make mistakes; we will experience hardships. And even when we're trying to do the right thing, we know that much of our time will be spent groping through the darkness, so often unable to discern God's heavenly plans. There's only one thing we can be sure of, and that is the love that we have - for our children, for our families, for each other."

Faces - Ooh La La

I drank cheap canned beer at a house party a couple blocks away. I talked to Carlos about various things, talked about a gay house party I didn't go to, talked about the desire to rage, talked about strawberry-flavored Andre, talked about work, talked about going elsewhere. We went elsewhere. We went to Tandem.

At Tandem, we drank beer and shots and talked about Prince and about romance. I have a crush on this boy but also don't. He's straight and I have been having a lot of fun hanging out with him lately. I haven't had a straight guy friend in a long time. This is good for me because oftentimes I don't know how to relate to men, gay or straight, unless it's through some either subtle or explicit form of flirtation. Also, he loves to drink and talk about his failed attempts at romance, so he's kind of the dream person to hang out with.

I just got a text from a waiter at a new French restaurant in Bushwick, asking what my name was, referencing a lipstick note. A couple nights ago, Erica, Adam, and I were on a note-writing rage. We thought this waiter was insanely sexy and so Erica wrote him a note on a bar napkin in her lipstick telling him so and leaving my number for some reason. I am pretty sure he thought he was texting Erica. I just let him know. We'll see if he texts back.

Another note was written at Tandem for a boy in a red beanie, given to him as we were leaving the bar to rage at Erica's house, inviting him to come over and rage as well.

The weather outside is gray. I woke up in my bed alone and miserably hungover. The good news is that I am drinking coffee, that I am alive, and that I am feeling really good about things lately. Also I am listening to the Faces' Ooh La La, which is such an amazing and beautiful album full of life and with a real rock and roll appreciation for its beauty, and which I have been listening to over and over again these past few days. I have a job interview on Thursday for a job I am excited about. I am finally getting back my deposit on my old apartment tomorrow. I am going to Italy in a month. I have a week full of exciting things ahead before heading home to see my family. And, really high on this list of signs that my life is regaining its sense of fun, of steam, is that in the coming days I am going to Spandex World to buy some animal print fabric, make some curtains, and finally have some privacy in my apartment, be able to walk around naked or dance stoned to Janet Jackson and to not be ashamed about all the people across the way able to see me. Unfortunately, Spandex World is closed on Sundays.

stoned poems december 11th 2012

#1
Matt's eyes, dark and
hooded, echoing in the dark black
eyes
years down the line
as I, stoned, watch an episode of
It's Always Sunny

I shiver looking at the eyes of
this nameless character
in a hospital bed
full body cast
black eyes

and all of a sudden I remember
how weak he
used to
make me

sense and reason entirely gone
when I used to look into his eyes

he never saw, looked back

I had forgotten that people
could feel that way, that
another person
could make one feel that way

and for a moment

I remembered and forgot



#2
lost in the overhead bathroom fan,
its noise,
the fan that comes on if the bathroom
light is

loud, drowning out any other sounds,
allowing you to forget the
world
immediately outside the
bathroom and get
lost

"I'd rather buy 80 gold chains"

I should be reading The Brothers Karamazov but instead I have spent most of the afternoon doing what I do on just about all of my afternoons, doing what I do with just about all the free time I have when I am home, which is all of the time that I am home, and that is looking at porn and masturbating. It always starts off with other things, reading the news, reading blogs, but sooner or later somehow my fingers redirect my computer's attention, and thus mine as well, to images of naked men. Hours later I will finally come and feel so guilty about the hours of time that I have wasted, literally just tugging on my penis in some zombie state, scrolling through pages and pages of naked men.

And I could start reading the book right now, but really I would much rather smoke some weed and watch It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, which I started watching last night and which I am really, really into. I don't know what it says about me, or about the world in general, that myself along with seemingly bigger and bigger audiences are drawn to misanthropic humor. But I plowed through the first season in one sitting yesterday and totally fell in love with this show. I am excited to start the second season and to see where this show goes, whether I still find it so funny.

I wrote a note to myself last night, or my phone did dictated by my voice. I was stoned and lying in bed trying to sleep and I wanted to write down a thought I had. I didn't want to go in search of paper and pen and knew my fingers would mangle trying to type anything coherent on the keyboard of my phone, so I talked and had my phone dictate this:

"Powers of description being lost because no one has to describe anything anymore. You can just show the screen, pull up the video, play the song you're talking about, that there's no need to describe anything, to use words, language to approximate the thing. Instead you can just present the thing and then Chavet [no idea what I actually said here] it sounds that song etc."

I followed this with another dictated note to myself:

"Get notebooks and pens and leave one by your bed and one in the kitchen and one in the living room."

I did not buy notebooks or pens today. I did buy protein powder.

The Empire State Building, hidden in fog

There was an old paperback copy of Lars Eighner's Bayou Boy on his bedside table. It was a weathered book showing its age, having that look of vintage gay erotica. He recommended that I find a copy on eBay. He said that it's actually really good writing and not as porny as it might look. I wrote the title and author in my phone in the hopes that I would remember to find a copy of this book somewhere. It was a couple minutes before one o'clock this afternoon. Most of his belongings were in trash bags and an exterminator was due later that afternoon in an attempt to kill bedbugs, a problem he seems to have been fighting for months now. I am always a little nervous when I undress at his house, set my clothes down gently on a surface that for whatever reasons I assume to be less hospitable to bedbugs. I pissed in his mouth. I twisted his nipples. He gave me a blowjob and it brought me somewhat out of the massive hangover I have been under for the last two days.

I rode the train back downtown. I went to the gym. I walked around this city full of mist and light rain, the gray seemingly particularly onerous today. I thought about what lay beyond this gray. I thought about what it might do to my mood, to my life, to my time on this planet, if I were to live somewhere sunnier, if I were to live in Los Angeles for example, and which I am very strongly considering doing since one of my best friends is going to be moving there in May. I am thinking about home and belonging and also wandering, about what any of it means.

In the tunnel that runs underneath 14th Street between 6th and 7th Avenues, connecting the L train to the 1,2,3 trains, there is the homeless man who has his signs announcing that he is a New York Times published poet. He sells poems I believe. Since I have never seen poetry specifically featured  in Times, I have always wondered about his claims. This man has been here seemingly as long as I have. I have seen him camped out in this tunnel for years. At the other end of the tunnel, closer to 7th Avenue, there is the guitar player who sings nothing but Beatles songs. He has pamphlets set up in his guitar case with ankhs on them and they seem to be tracts promoting some sort of spirituality. This man always has a smile on. His voice isn't as good as it used to be. His smile isn't as big and he seems noticeably older than when I first moved to New York. This man as well has been working this tunnel since I moved to New York nearly a decade ago.

These people present themselves on both the stay column and the go column as I contemplate what this city means to me.

Ducktails' "The Mall"

I was walking to the grocery store this evening. It was dark and there was a light rain. It was five pm. It felt much later, as it tends to on these dark winter afternoons

There was twenty-something dollars in my wallet, enough to get my hair cut. I wanted to trim my hair, to make it shorter, sharper, to hopefully as a result feel a bit better about myself and my appearance. I have been feeling very ho-hom lately. I wear the same pair of jeans and one of two flannels just about every day. There are days when it seems to me that I have given up. Things I used to care about, scouring thrift stores for new looks, putting these various items of clothing on each day, getting dressed with intention and effort - that these are no longer a concern, a priority, a thing done.

I bought a new pair of jeans today and a new pair of boots, bought these at the Cheap Monday sample sale, where I ran into Jacob. We hugged. Leaving, I crossed traffic on Broadway in the middle of the street and thought of him as I hurried before the traffic reached me.

Food could wait. I needed a haircut, suddenly became pulled in the direction of the barber I have been going to for the last couple of months.

As I was walking up to the entrance, the guy that cut my hair the last couple times was walking out the door. His eyes lit up and he led me to his chair. I am bit confused if this guy likes me or just likes my business, likes that I probably tip too much money on what is a really cheap haircut. The skill of the Latin barbershops in Bushwick and East Williamsburg is entirely unmatched by any barber I have been to in Manhattan. You get a really nice fade, your edges shaped with a straight razor, and all of this for eleven or twelve dollars.

This barber mentioned to me probably two or three times that I was his favorite customer. He told me I was so young and good-looking. When he would take pauses to let me inspect how the haircut was going, his eyes looked at my eyes with something a little more intense than the desire for approval. I wasn't really attracted to him and also was so confused by what was happening, whether I was reading too much into things, whether this guy was just being nice, or alternately whether he was doing this confusing/kind-of-hitting-on-me thing as theater, as some way of making me, clearly a gay boy, perhaps like him and want to tip him more, or to come back and see him more often. I don't know. I kept on wavering between feeling hustled and feeling hit on. I was tired enough and had enough trouble understanding his accent that it didn't really matter. I left with the haircut I wanted.

I did indeed feel better, new.

I bought some groceries at Associated. Most of the beer didn't have prices, there were hardly any frozen pizzas, and I resisted buying Ben & Jerry's even though it was on sale. I walked home with these bags of food and I then took a shower. I washed off the bits of hair all over me and stood underneath the hot water, letting it warm me up, letting my body relax, standing there for an extended period of time, letting this warm sensation wash over me again and again and again.

Bozo and His Shirley Temple

With Grindr, things often seem better than they actually are. The person is cuter in their pictures, is cooler in their pictures. The dirty talk you had engaged with them in turns out to be better than the actual sex you have. There is that awkward stretch of time in which you are waiting for them to come over, in which something like regret starts to overtake you, in which your horniness subsides during the wait and you question whether this is really what you want, whether you wouldn't rather be getting stoned and watching more episodes of Battlestar Galactica. There is the moment when you let them into your apartment and you already want it to be over, when you can tell this isn't going to be what you had thought it would be, and there is your own sense of politeness telling you that it's too late at this point, that it would be really rude to send them home once you got a real look at this person, and so there are the awkward attempts at conversation on your couch until you begin to make out.

He is a contortionist, a circus performer. He sent me photos of himself doing splits, balancing on his hands. He is kind of cute. But there was a weirdness about him that turned me off a lot. When I mentioned that I had been watching Galactica, he mentioned how he could never watch that, how he is too loyal to Star Wars, how he is a huge Star Wars fan. What that had anything to do with this show, other than they are both in the sci-fi genre, I didn't know. What I did know was that this person displayed a really sincere love of Star Wars, and already I was wondering what the fuck I was doing, why this person was in my apartment. He was wide-eyed in enthusiasm about everything, seemed a little bugged out, and had this little elf voice that came out of him whenever he spoke that made me wish for him to stop talking, please, stop. 

I was determined to get this over with quick. I had been chatting with Erica online during the long wait for him to come over, and she kept telling me to ditch Bozo, a nickname she had coined for the boy once I mentioned he was a circus performer, and to meet up with her for drinks. As we started fooling around in my bed, I was wishing I had taken her advice. I was thinking about how much more fun I would be having with Erica, sharing drinks and conversation. But instead I gave into my base desires, pursued my own desire to get off down dark alleys, down wireless signals letting me know how many feet away certain men were from me who were seeking something similar - a boost to their own ego, confirmation either by someone talking to you or someone sleeping with you, that you are attractive, that you are a person that other human beings do in fact desire, that you are not as alone as you think you are. Though often, the experience, the hookup, makes you more aware of how alone you actually are. Sometimes it makes you happy with this knowledge, other times not so.

Last night, when this boy was over, the circus performer, I was so happy to be alone in my life right now and could not wait to resume that aloneness. We had little sexual chemistry. The circus performer had untrimmed finger nails. I was not into the sex at all and I wanted it to be over already. I was leaning against my headboard as he was sucking my dick. He was holding my cock in his hand. I looked at his nails and then tried not to. I looked up at my bookshelf and my eyes focused on Philip Roth's name on the spine of one of his books on my shelf, the Zuckerman Bound trilogy. I thought about how I would like to reread that, about what a shame it was that Roth wouldn't be writing any more books, about how should I really take writing more seriously, about how I wasted so much fucking time today for this, the endless back and forth on Grindr, the waiting around for this boy to shower and walk over here, and now him here in my bed and me bored and wishing it was over so I could get back to me. I told him I wanted him to come.

He was a bit surprised, seemed happy to prolong this sex forever. I apologized and said I was supposed to meet up with my friend Erica later that evening. Then there was this long period of him jerking off before he came.

As he was taking his sweet time getting dressed, I told him I had to meet my friend Erica because we had a book club to discuss The Brothers Karamazov, which wasn't happening until the next day, but I wanted a nice excuse to not hurt his feelings and also for him to hurry up and get dressed. He asked what that was, seemingly never having heard of the book at all. I was so ready for this person to go but he kept up with the questions while slowly getting dressed. He was sweet, innocent, clearly wanted something more than sex. And maybe I did too, but not with this person, not with someone that is a Star Wars fanboy and has never heard of The Brothers Karamazov. He seemed much younger than his age of 24. I just wanted him to leave my apartment and he wanted to talk to me about what I did. I was brief. He asked me what I like to do. I told him I liked to drink. He told me he had never drank alcohol in his life, that he accidentally had it once because a bartender served him a non-virgin Shirley Temple but he spit it out as soon as he tasted it, the alcohol burned his throat so much, was so gross. It was really time for this person to go. Leave now, I was thinking. This was another level of weirdness that I could not deal with. I find people that don't drink to be the weirdest type of people. I don't trust them. I don't think they know what life is about. He still hadn't even put on his boots and I could not wait for him to leave. This was not a real person. This was some elf that had wondered in from the forest and ended up in my apartment. 

Nice meeting you, I said, once he had his shoes on, opening the door, ending the conversation.

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...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.

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.