Sunday, September 29, 2002


Yes, tragically the counter was reset last night when I smoked two measly cigarettes after going without any for nine straight days. I blame Nicodemus entirely, who somehow managed to turn my attention to the matter while he, along with several other people (L., G-rod, his friend B., S., and Nicodemus's new boy toy), were hanging in my pad before heading out to the party I was promoting. When I asked him if it would be bad if I had one cigarette after my relatively long smoke-free streak, he said no!!! Despite the fact that he knows I'm desperately trying to quit. And then he waved his pack of Parliaments (which are my fave) in the air in front of me! With friends like these, who needs the American Lung Association?

But yesterday was a day of dealing with abstention of another kind as well: the sexual kind. I woke up early (10:30 a.m., which is ass-crack early for me on a weekend) and took quite a lot of time putting myself together for my date with M., whom I had met at Barracuda two Thursdays ago. Then I hustled all the way up to freakin' 102nd St., where I didn't even know people lived, to meet him for bagels, mimosas, and movies, and, I assumed, sex. Well, three out of four would normally be a pretty good ratio, except that I would've traded the three together for a little bit of sexual healing, which obviously didn't happen. It was weird, and disappointing. Not that I was in madly in love with M.--I wasn't. I've been making enough progress in therapy to not become immediately infatuated upon meeting guys, and I felt I was keeping whatever attraction I felt toward M. under control (which, of course, might have meant that there was no attraction). But I was looking forward to having a nice leisurely, decadent afternoon of movie watching, with some scene-enacting, as it were, of my own. Instead, what happened is that we watched two movies in a row (Death to Smoochy, which was dumb, and Place Vendome, which was good, especially because of Catherine Deneuve, but a little slow), at the end of which, dulled by half a bottle of champagne, I basically had to go to get back downtown in time to prepare for my pre-party and take care of some other shit and generally make up for the fact that I had wasted a beautiful early fall day doing absolutely nothing. I could've been at work pulling down a good chunk of overtime, or working on job applications, or just sleeping (the night before MDO and the Edster and I did the East Village circuit until fairly late).

The strange, puzzling thing, though, was the lack of sex. I mean, after meeting at Barracuda last week we had really hot, rough sex, so why not again? Isn't that what you do as part of the date? Of course, things were slightly complicated due to the presence of the girl whose apartment we were in (M. had been housesitting for her), who was home for a few hours in between trips. This alone annoyed me and made me think that M. was an inconsiderate geek, both because she was clearly trying to chill out and rest and because he and I supposedly were on a date, which usually happens independent of other people. Eventually she left to catch her flight, but at that point, halfway through the second flick, it was kind of too late to get anything like boning on--and M. seemed more interested in the movie than me anyway. Later, as I descended the stairs into the 96th St. subway station, he called out, "Call me when you get free." But when it comes to him, I think I'll be in shackles for the rest of my life.

Friday, September 27, 2002


It's pouring out and I've spent most of the past two hours since I got home from work (it was already a late night when the rain delayed the car services, making it later) promoting my friends' party this Saturday night. (They still haven't paid me for last week, but I got an e-mail indicating that they "totally" would, so I'm more optimistic than I was two days ago.) The nasty weather kept me from going out to hand out flyers, so I've been shoring up my friends' presence via e-mail, making sure everyone's going to turn out. [Editor's note: If someone's actually reading this and you want to check it out, e-mail me at and I'll put you on the $5 reduced admission list (otherwise it's $10). Cute, fun gay boys; funky, danceable music; reasonably priced drinks; and proximity to some of the East Village's best gay bars--what more could you ask for on a Saturday night?]

Last night was eventful. Started off the evening with an escort date, an older (they're always older) new client who wanted to get together at my place, to which I agreed of course because I'm lazy and it requires very little of me. Some kind of securities analyst, who had just come from a meeting at a white-shoe law firm in midtown. Kind of hot if you ask me. Too bad he wasn't--a squat, geeky, bespectacled, balding man who veritably squealed when he came. Weirded me out. Then he talked to me for the next 40 minutes about a bunch of boring shit; the whole time I was praying he would leave so I could get on with my life. Somehow we segued to discussing Shakespeare, a subject he was very ill-informed about from a literary perspective, to the point where I had to tell him so. He didn't get it and, instead, had the nerve to say that one day, when I was older and wiser, I would realize that what he was speaking was the truth. Yeah, right. Why do I put myself in these situations? I felt belittled and dirty. Oh, right: because I'm addicted to money and I can't make this much an hour doing anything else. I might never make this much an hour. Shit.

Later on, after I did my best to exorcise the john's presence on my person, I joined some friends up the street at the Slipper Room for Fun Club, one of the bar's many bizarre performance-oriented nights. I had fun, as one might expect from the name of the night, then jetted to hand out some flyers at some bars all by my lonesome self 'cause none of my boys were available. Then I came home and went to sleep, which is exactly what I'm going to do now--I'm exhausted. I don't think I've slept more than six hours a night since the weekend, and I'm really an eight-hour a night kind of guy.

Wednesday, September 25, 2002


Earlier tonight I was on the M-15 bus with my therapist coming downtown from our group therapy session up in Murray Hill--about as weird as you might imagine, especially because my shrink is not the most voluble conversationalist and I was feeling the pressure to prevent any awkward silences while also not engaging in anything therapy-related since he was off the clock, as it were. I asked him if he'd ever been to Atlantic City, as I was going there the weekend after next to celebrate two friends' birthdays and I was excited to check the scene out for the first time. He said he had, a long time ago, and the next thing I knew, we were discussing classic gambling films, and he happened to mention Atlantic City, directed by Louis Malle and starring Susan Sarandon and Burt Lancaster, a film I'd found out about recently but had yet to see. He suggested seeing it before I go, which struck me as a great idea, so I got off the bus at Second Ave. and 3rd and marched over to Kim's on Ave. A and got a copy, which I just finished watching. Loved it. Wish I could've been a character in it. (The therapy group was fine, though the whole discussion was devoted to one member's continuing emotional struggles with his ex-wife, whom he came out to a year ago, and his daughter, whom he hasn't come out to yet--same old, same old, with little to no progress. I hate to say it, but I was bored, and a bit impatient with the hectoring tone that another member used in confronting him. The first time we discussed it, okay; the second time, fine; but you know, everyone else in the group has issues too, and we should be able to get to them. I think I'm going to bring this up to my shrink in our solo session, whenever I can schedule it.)

Last night I caught the new flick Igby Goes Down with J-bird, whom I was so excited to see for a second night in a row. Can't remember the last time that happened. We both thoroughly enjoyed the movie, though were surprised by the sad, wrenching turn it takes towards the end and the bouts of violence interspersed throughout. Then we dropped by Court and Lazy's apartment a few blocks away (a new record as well in regards to frequency of seeing Court), where they offered us a line before heading out to the bar on the corner for a beer. Then we got bored, left, picked up some six-packs from the deli, and returned to their pad, where more lines were offered and I got really fucked up, on a Monday of all nights! As usual, was impressed and flattered by Court and Lazy's generosity, for which they try their hardest to not be repaid. They wouldn't even let me buy the beer for them. I'm gonna have to get them an expensive Christmas present this year.

And just to catch up, Saturday night I worked my friends' party on Avenue A again, running the e-mail list, which was a pain in my ass, especially because the club was packed and there were a lot of dorky straight revelers around as well as a large group of Euro types who were costumed as space aliens. They favored glow stick necklaces as accessories, which I found appalling. Anyway, G-spot was there, thank God, and we had a lot of fun dancing together at the end--he really saved the night for me. Unfortunately, my bastard friends who run the party conveniently "forgot" to pay me again (though they paid G-spot for the work he did, which was less arduous than mine), and to date they still haven't responded to the e-mail query I sent as soon as I got home that night. The situation's holding up my promoting efforts for their party this Saturday, the gay boy one, because I refuse to work unless a) I get paid what's due me and b) I have a commitment from them to not swindle me again. Too bad I'm such a pussy that I'm having a hard time getting up the nerve to call them and find out what the deal is.

Finally, earlier Saturday, in the late afternoon, I got laid by the other Dominican guy from Thursday night, the one who was the complete stranger. A conductor, he was fairly boring, though he did have a humonguous cock that it was a pleasure to sit on. I ended up ejaculating all over his chest, which was fun--and the splatter paint-like composition of my white cum on his dark skin was pretty to look at too...until he wiped it off. Soon after, he took a shower and left. I doubt I'll hear from him again.

Monday, September 23, 2002

NUMBER OF DAYS SINCE LAST SMOKING A CIGARETTE: 3 (including today, in which for some three straight hours I managed to not light up despite hanging out with three chain-smoking friends)

This evening my book club met, which meant that the day was basically a wash because I spent most of it speed-reading the remainder of the book (Geek Love by Katherine Dunn, which I highly recommend in spite of not being wholly satisfied). That was okay, because I think it's good for me on occasion to spend several hours at a stretch just reading a book, especially considering I was an English major and all and I profess to genuinely love literature. Book club went well, too: everyone showed up this time, including a new member, whose comments impressed me; the discussion overall was interesting and fast-paced; and I got to get some quality time with several of the people in the club whom I adore but whom I don't see as often as I would like. Plus I got to flirt with the other gay guy in the the group, who seemed to flirt back as well, which was fun. Too bad that as we hurtled down the FDR Drive in Ash's convertible after the meeting, Ash and my other girls Court and J-bird seemed to concur that he wasn't smart enough for me (although he is a Yalie) and that, ultimately, any relationship b/w us wouldn't work out. And though he's cute, they had a point, and I had to concede it. But who knows, maybe we can at least have a fun fling. He's leaving for Israel tomorrow for two weeks--thank God he's renting a fucking car.

Afterwards, said girls and I got a few drinks at a Union Square-area bar, where against our will we were joined by a strange older man named Terry, who just pulled over a chair, sat down with us, and proceeded to engage in our conversation, regardless of the facts that a) we didn't know him and b) he didn't know anything we were talking about. About 15 minutes later, he left and we resumed talking like we had before he arrived. It was fun, especially since these three girls are the aforementioned people that I adore whom I see too infrequently.

Now, having accomplished little else today aside from reading my book, I'm going to retire for the evening. Stay tuned tomorrow for a recap of yesterday and Friday.

Saturday, September 21, 2002

Isn't it funny how sometimes you can be thinking about something and then suddenly whatever that something is pops into your life? It happens regularly enough for me, especially when it comes to people (who, for instance, might call as soon as I find myself thinking I haven't talked to them in awhile), to believe in some kind of collective cosmic consciousness.

Like this week, for another example, I was meditating on the fact that I hadn't had any chocolate lovin' for a long time, and then on Thursday night when I was out there were two men of color--both Dominicans--competing for my attention, one of whom I slept with later that night, the other whom I finished sleeping with about half an hour ago. The sex was hot each time, which only confirmed my taste for dark skin. In my experience, darker guys make better lovers--much better, I should say, than most of the skinny white hipsters I usually end up hooking up with.

Anyway, Thursday night was a total balls-out social evening. Nicodemus and I met up at my place around 7 and booked it up to W. 45th Street to hit up this Out magazine event honoring Todd Oldham (for what, I'm not quite sure--his new housewares collection at Target?). It was sponsored by Vox vodka, so there were as many fancy, brightly colored vodka drinks as you could possibly want: variously flavored martinis, gimlets, cosmos, and whatever other kinds they were making. They weren't nearly as potent as they'd be from a bona-fide bar, but Nico and I still managed to get bombed on five or six of them. We ate tiny hors d'oeuvres and spotted John Waters and generally circulated to look for connections. Talked to two guys (my friend at Out included) I haven't chatted with for awhile. Amy Sedaris, who introduced the award, walked right in between us. About two hours into the party, we found ourselves talking to a second-rate writer, creative director, and law student and decided to jet, making sure to pick up a goodie bag (which were mysteriously missing from the Nylon event two days before). Unfortunately it just contained a small bottle of Vox, a sour apple-flavored mixer, and some olives. And a copy of Out.

We unloaded all the shit at our next stop, Hell, where some colleagues of mine were congregating to toast another colleague who was leaving the firm. We hung out for about an hour and then left to go to Barracuda, stopping by XL to use the bathroom, where I was hoping some real action would ensue. Barracuda is perfect for when you're looking good, feeling good, loaded, horny, and looking to score, and that night Nico and I were all of the above and more. Right before Cashetta started her Star Search gig around 1 a.m. Nico managed to pair off with this cute young guy he had been scoping out earlier; eventually they were making out like they were in a porno, Nico practically pinned to the wall in the back room. Meanwhile, I had been cozying up to Nico's friend M., whom we had run into at the bar, and we ended up watching the show(both Cashetta and Nico and his boy) together from the pool table. On the other side of me, though, was this other dude, who was trying to put the moves on me at the same time that I was trying to seduce M. So of course I succumbed, and when the show concluded, M. asked if I wanted him to split so I could get it on with the other guy, and I said no because I wanted to go home with M. Which meant that I had to tell this guy a little white lie and pretend that I was too tired to go home with him, when instead I was wide awake and dying to hit it with M. So, after he got my number, the other guy disappeared into the crowd, and then M. and I interrupted Nico to say goodbye to him and his new friend, and we hopped into a cab en route to my place. The sex turned out to be quite good, aggressive and unremitting, though it came at the price of breaking my self-imposed vow to be celibate (I'm trying to see how long I can go without hooking up, which for the past few years has only been about five weeks). Eh--it was worth it.

What wasn't worth it was breaking my no-smoking vow by firing up three cigs after not having any for THREE AND A HALF WEEKS! I hate myself for that, but at least I can be proud that I went that long. It's a new record, really, and the closest I've come to genuinely quitting smoking yet.

More soon...

Wednesday, September 18, 2002

Right, so it's 2:50 a.m. early Wednesday morning and I know later today my body's going to regret having been out so late tonight. But it was worth it, I suppose, even though I didn't make any solid connections like I had expected to, and even though only one boy hit on me the whole entire night. (I did manage to score a lot of looks, for which I was grateful.) The big thing for me this evening was the Nylon magazine party that was held in honor of fashion week, hosted by the model Liberty Ross, who's on the cover of this month's issue. The party was held at Flow on Varick Street, a mini club (or bar, whatever it is) I've never been to before, but which fairly impressed me with its floor-to-ceiling cylindrical tank of water in the center of the bar on the first floor and the strips of fabric that rolled above the crowd's head in the basement dance area. M-Dash (who tragically lost her wallet after leaving class at Parsons today) and I showed up around 11, walked past the velvet rope as my name was crossed off the list, and entered the party at the same time that David Copperfield was walking out of it. The crowd was hip, beautiful, and coolly attired; the music was neo-rock upstairs and old-school hip hop downstairs; and, for reasons incomprehensible to me, there was no open bar, so we shelled out 10 bucks each for a drink. My only guess is that the open bar ended at 11, so we must have just missed it, but still--the only reason to go to these events is for the free booze! And the free hors d'oeuvres, of which there were none also! The nerve! I thought we were going to a classy affair!

Still, M-Dash and I seemed to catch an admiring glance from Liberty, which was cool, and we spotted Nicky Hilton, and a chick who was almost Paris Hilton but not quite. After about an hour we'd had enough, despite the fact that I couldn't locate my friend the fashion director, who was going to introduce me to the magazine's features editor (I've been trying to line up some gigs there) and whom I was going to introduce to M-Dash (who's trying to nab some styling work). We split anyway and hit up Beige, where the boys were brutally attractive but overly attitudinal as usual. We ran into G-Rod and his lovely roommate, who just had her hair braided (it looks amazing); they were trashed. We chit-chatted for a bit and then they decided to check out Wonder Bar, where I shortly met up with them after M-Dash decided to go home. We had a fun time scoping out the guys (including the short, dark-haired barback whom I've been obsessed with for over two years) until a drunk German intern began to hit on G-Rod's roommate, at which point we decided to call it a night. I couldn't believe that in the whole time I'd been out, at three different bars and on the streets in two different neighborhoods, not one person audibly commented on my vintage Madonna Blonde Ambition tour tee shirt, unlike the previous two times I've worn it. What was wrong with everyone?

Monday, September 16, 2002

Well, I just arrived home from work after slaving away for 12 hours, all ready to crash (I have two big fashion week-related parties to attend this week and I need my beauty rest), only to find this inside the issue of New York crammed in my mailbox: a celebratory, quasi-expose of Jonny McGovern and Dean Johnson's John Street party and their overall trashy-chic approach to gay nightlife. These guys are like characters out of Shakespeare (which ones, don't ask--I can barely remember anything so practical from my multiple college courses on the bard)! Every time they've got an undiscovered, bona-fide hit on their hands, it's like they're pathologically compelled to spill the beans to everyone, resulting in their party getting shut down, or, worse, transformed into a disappointing, tame shell of what it was. (As one investigative fellow blogger has already posted about, the back room scene and hardcore antics at John Street--that is, the whole entire reason to go there--went the way of the dodo as soon as McGovern and Johnson went public with the shindig a few weeks back.)

Not that I was in love with John Street or anything. I went a few times before it officially opened and enjoyably assumed the role of voyeur, even breaking form once to allow this guy to jack me off, my jeans around my ankles, but then I acquired the feeling of been-there-done-that and moved on. Same thing with Magnum and XXX. I know a lot of guys get off on that shit, and obviously I do too, but my boredom threshold when it comes to going out is pretty low. Not even the music, which the author of this piece hails, is enough to keep me coming back. I mean, come on, it's virtually (or at least a variation of) the same shit at Luxx, Lit, Drunk Love at John Street Bar (the other Friday-night financial-district hipster hoe down), not to mention innumerable other joints right now. It's starting to wear a little thin, and it's hardly original.

But I find myself mainly wondering whether the author, Ethan Brown, New York's clubs and music reporter, is gay. I hadn't suspected he was, but now, on the basis of this article, I'm inclined to think he is. What's more, I'm dying to know if he's the "cute nightlife journalist" who was once gangbanged at John Street? By invoking the incident at the end, he, a likely recipient of the action considering his status and his writing of this piece, could be deploying a bit of old-fashioned reverse psychology to throw us off his tracks... [Editor's note: Brown quotes a member of my fave electro band the Scissor Sisters near the beginning of the piece. I happened to run into them the first time I went to John Street, which was the week after said gang bang took place, and Babydaddy asked me if I was the journalist who got fucked. Hahahahah. I assured him--as I assure you now--that I wasn't.]

And why were all the guys in the photos for the piece so unattractive?

In other news, I learned, thanks to this neighbor of mine, that the highrise being constructed at the corner of Rivington and Ludlow is not a giant apartment building, as I thought, but, in fact, a giant new branch of the W Hotel chain. Gross! First the map of the barrio in last month's Vanity Fair, now this! And yet, gentrification is a double-edged sword, isn't it? At least I'll have a hip hotel bar to frequent now.
The housewarming party last night was fairly enjoyable, if quite strange. Enjoyable mostly because I was hanging with several of my good friends, all favorites of mine whom I don't see as often as I would like. Strange because of all the seemingly fresh-off-the-boat French people who were there, merrily entertaining themselves according to the Village People theme of the shindig. You see, my girl J-Bird just moved into this loft space on Wythe Ave. with these two French guys who are, evidently, obsessed with the '70s disco group, so they decided to christen their new home by channeling the group's spirit, complete with full-on Village People costumes, such as the all-leather police officer's uniform sported by one fashionable man. None of the native English speakers could relate, so we spent most of the time either in J-Bird's room doing lines of coke, outside on the sidewalk drinking Bud, or, for a short time, kicking back on the roof admiring the gorgeous view of Manhattan. By that time a bunch of Mass Appeal kids, friends of one of J-Bird's friends, who's an editor at the magazine, had arrived, but they were hipsters of a decidedly different school than the one I count myself a member of. You know the kind: the perpetually spliff-smoking, suburban-cum-urban hip-hop heads, who fancy graffitti and are usually white. They're down with a lot of shit that I just ain't. And predictably, they were all straight; even the French boys were, which royally sucked for an accent fetishist like myself. (J-Bird was doing her best to hook me up with the only other gay boy there, her friend Tommy but, alas, he wasn't my type.) When I rolled out at 2:45 a.m. I was so fucked up I didn't want to go home straightaway, but when I called two different posses of boys when I got back into the city, they must have been asleep already cuz they didn't answer their phones. I slummed home and hit the hay too.

Took forever to wake up today and when I did, all I had time to do was put together this Ikea bookcase my folks got for me when they were here in August before getting ready to make the Glamazons' show at Fez at 8. I wrote an article on the girls for a local rag recently so the publicist hooked me up with a block of tickets. My friends and I took advantage and were pleasantly surprised by the show, which in its expert theatricality and witty smarts far exceeded my expectations. Who knew a bunch of burlesque dancers could act (and sing!) so well? We were cracking up the whole fucking time. And Matt Mohr, the choreographer and director, is a total babe. I was immediately smitten when I met him at the interview; now I'm hooked up him like he's phonics.

Saturday, September 14, 2002

Needless to say (at least to myself), I ended up having phone sex last night, at the ridiculous hour of 4 a.m., more than three hours after I got home--a not insignificant amount of time during which I could've been sleeping. Then I would've woken up this morning well rested and not as sticky, and I would've felt more productive. Eh. It's better than hooking up with someone in real three-dimensional time, which I've been trying to put the kibosh on lately, along with my disgusting, on-again, off-again cigarette habit. It's the new me!

But I have to say, the phone sex was pretty hot. The guy, who lives in Connecticut, was a bit of a square, but that's what attracted me to him in the first place. He felt like someone safe to have a good, non-threatening time with, and that's exactly what happened. I haven't gotten off over the phone in a long-ass time; can't remember when the last incident was. When I was younger, I used to do it all the time--but then, and we're talking about high school here, I wasn't having real sex, so it made sense. Now it's an atypical thrill. Whatever.

This morning I had brunch with my brother, whom I haven't hung out with in awhile, at Rivington 99 Cafe, my fave neighborhood joint to get breakfast-y and sandwich-y foods at. I tried to cheer him up because he's been bummed out recently, after his best friend, who was subletting his roommate's room for the summer and whom my brother was regularly sleeping with, moved out into her own place and didn't return one of his calls for nine days. Apparently they've made up, though he didn't sound convinced. Then we got scoops of gelato at Il Laboratorio del Gelato, right by my pad. It's the second time this week I've stopped by. Thank God it closes at 6. Otherwise, I'd be popping in every night around 11 and that just wouldn't be good for my svelte physique.

Had a minor crisis, since resolved, after I was done with my shrink appointment this afternoon, when I was asked (in such a manner that it felt like a demand) to not only work the e-mail list for my friends' party tonight at the little tiny club on Avenue A, but to get all my people to turn out as well because the promotional operation fell apart this week. Not an easy thing to do when it's five hours before said party is starting and people's plans to do other things are already set in stone and you don't feel like making the effort to get them to come to begin with. Especially not easy when you're scheduled to be in Williamsburg at a good friend's loftwarming at the same time as said party, to be preceded by drinks with other good friends. So I compromised, grudgingly, and will theoretically attend the Avenue A party on my way back into the city, hopefully with friends in tow. And I won't have to do the e-mail list either.
So I'm totally drunk as I write this. It's 12:52 a.m., I just got home, I'm debating whether I should go to sleep as soon as I finish typing this or whether I should venture into the chat rooms and see what presents itself to me. I feel like I had a chance with this guy I was talking to at Urge just now, a fellow named Danny who's a creative director for a premier ad agency who's in charge of several high-profile accounts. I don't know how old he was, but he was shorter than me, which is usually a turn off, but strangely, I found myself attracted to him. He said he dated Marc Jacobs for six or seven months back in the day, which I still don't entirely believe. Anyway, he was cute, and he was the most interesting and talkative of the several guys whom my friend Turkish Delight had just introduced me to. I felt like I would've been able to bring him home with me, but I've been trying to be celibate, and plus, there was that whole height issue. Regardless, when Turkish Delight left, I chatted with Danny for a few more seconds, until he told me his ex-bf was on the way (with his current bf), and that's when I decided to jet. "Are your neurons misfiring right now," he asked me. "Yeah," I said. "I'm wondering whether I should leave or not." He didn't put up any resistance, so I did.

Before that, T.D. and I were having quite a lovely meal at G-Rod's place. He decided to have a dinner party in honor of his Austrian friend (whom I have a small crush on) who's been visiting for the last week. The food was half Asian, half Austrian/German (I'm talking dumplings followed by schnitzel followed by some out-there Philipino dessert). It was fun, and the conversation, which ranged from Austrian friend's several hook-ups this week (one which was initiated at Beige of all places) to T.D.'s recent HIV scare (he turned out to be negative, thank God), was entertaining and relieving, especially after not going out all week and only conversating with boring straight people during the day. Then G-Rod and Austria headed to Luxx, which I'm so totally over, for its one-year anniversary, and T.D. and I headed to Urge, where he was supposed to meet this guy, who apparently wasn't there. Next thing you know (see anecdote above), I was home, drunk, horny, and wondering what to do...

Thursday, September 12, 2002

Last night I had a wet dream in which I was sucking my own dick. It was pretty cool. I've always wanted to suck myself off but have never been able to do it. (When I was younger, like in my teens, I remember trying really hard a few times, to no avail.) I was in a nondescript deserted bathroom, location unidentified, in a stall, and all of a sudden I leaned back and somehow found my cock in my mouth. It tasted pretty good, like any other dick really (which I have to admit was a bit disappointing--I guess I had hoped it would taste sweeter, stand out more), and fairly soon I started to cum, though despite the intensity of the orgasm, nothing really came out. Just a drop, which seemed to linger in the air in my mouth for a second, then dissipate. Weird. I seldom remember my dreams, but maybe as a consequence of writing this one down, I'll begin to.

Expert Guy, whom I haven't seen or talked to since Tuesday, called me today, ostensibly to tell me he had some new documents for me to pick up. But once I was up there in his conference room, he asked me, among other topics, about my weekend plans--a conversational line I had expected to lead to his asking me out. Which he didn't. Apparently he's flying home to Denver sometime tomorrow and won't be back til Monday.

I didn't go out for the fourth straight night tonight, which I think means there's something wrong with me. And I didn't eat dinner again for the second night in a row.

Wednesday, September 11, 2002

Thank God today is almost over! All this nine-elevenalia (props to Michael Wolff, who rarely influences me, for the phrase) was really getting on my nerves. At least I managed to make it through the day without being involuntarily exposed to too many references, though my supervisor, peculiarly, was watching a tape of last year's 9/11 coverage--the actual breaking news from CNN--which I thought was exceptionally weird and which I found totally jarring. (I also discovered that he's into BBW [big beautiful women], and that his first wife and his mother both turned out to be lesbians.) That meant I had to listen to NPR, which I was trying to avoid for similar reasons, but, surprisingly, it wasn't that bad. And although I observed the requisite moment of silence at 8:46 this morning while watching TV, I turned it off immediately once Pataki and the rest of those political drones started in with their four-score and seven years shit. Bush is no Lincoln, that's for sure.

Happened to notice that all the chat rooms were filled to the brink tonight with hornballs as usual, myself included, except that I seemed to have learned from my most recent, disappointing experience and didn't take up anyone's offer to get together. Makes sense that everyone's "sniffing around," as one kid put it, looking for some ass, what with the anniversary and the memorials and the overt remembering of death and destruction plaguing their psyches. I didn't even really start to mourn last year until a week or two after the fact, when I was in bed with the same guy for the second time in a row. During a break in the sex, I totally lost it and broke down into tears (see, again with the crying!), hysterical over the twin towers and the looming war in Afghanistan, how I hated my job even and wanted to quit. I was so depressed and didn't realize it until I was in the throes of pseudo passion with another person--who, I should point out, was having trouble keeping his flag at full mast (hey, who said I wasn't patriotic?), despite the fact that I really wanted him to fuck me. Maybe that's why I was crying in the first place...

Tuesday, September 10, 2002

I'm all upset because my copy of Tokyo: A Certain Style just broke: a whole chunk of pages came unglued and fell out. Sucks cause I have to get another one now, which won't have the same souvenir value that this one has (I purchased it at this Japanese bookstore when I was in San Fran in June). It's imperative I have it, though, cause all the tiny apartments it features have given me innumerable decorating ideas for my own small space. For instance, I desperately want to buy a bunch of tatami mats to cover my floor with now.

Was exhausted enough after my group therapy session tonight that I had to pass on G-Rod's invitation to accompany him and his Austrian guest to Beige, which didn't seem like the vibe I wanted to be imbibing on the eve of Sept. 11th anyway. Talked about all that anniversary bullshit at group, how I was feeling pretty wrecked over it--crying last night while reading these beautifully wrought essays in The New Yorker by widows of men who worked in the towers; crying a few minutes after I woke up this morning when I realized Katie was interviewing more widows on the Today show; welling up listening to the voicemail a man on one of the planes left his wife while he was still in the air, a part of a special segment on All Things Considered. (Good news: I managed to pick up a decent radio signal today!) But I felt a lot better after discussing everything with my shrink and the other guys for an hour and a half, so that was good. Ah, the magic of therapy!

I can't believe I've turned into such a fucking crybaby though. At least the cute DJ boy in my group, on whom I can never decide if I have a crush, admitted to crying his eyes out watching some cheesy Dateline NBC special last night. That really turned me on for some reason. And plus his hair looked especially good tonight. If he weren't recently broken up, constantly hooking up with guys online, and a little smarter and less transparent, I think I'd be in love with him, even though that would mean we'd both have to quit the group because sexual or romantic relationships between members are "strongly discouraged."

In other news, Expert Guy showed more interest in me today, after I went up to see him, without any work-related reason, specifically to determine whether he likes me. After asking me where I went to school, he kind of backtracked for a second and apologized for asking me so many questions, which I took as a positive sign. I found out he's only a year older than me--definitely a downer, especially after I was thinking he was several years older. But he also said that he's considering moving here to work in his firm's new office uptown. We'll see about that. Too bad I have absolutely no practical need to interact with him anymore, although I sense he's probably not right for me anyway, so it's not really a loss. Then again, I've been trying to go against my normal type and date investment bankers and other business-type guys, and this one fits the bill. He's tall, too, which is good.

Monday, September 09, 2002

To my great surprise this morning, a genuinely cute guy happened to be riding in the same subway car as me. I've been riding the same damn train for the past six months and never spied anyone worth looking at; most of the passengers, corporate drone types, depress the hell out of me, and most of them are straight anyway. But this kid was fine, and I got excited and projected all sorts of desires on to him, including, of course, secret or not-so-secret queer ones. He was wearing a light blue shirt that was a little too tight for him (though it showed off his tight little body, complete with small little love handles), tucked into grey dress pants, with Prada-ripoff black shoes. And he had spiky messy hair, sort of like my own. He looked kind of ethnic, maybe Italian, and if I could remember whether he was already in the car when I got on or whether he got on after me, I might have theorized that he was from deep Queens, still living with his folks, sleeping in the same bed he slept in as a child. He never looked at me, however, despite my best, subtle efforts to guide his eyes my way. We got off at Broad St. together, then I darted to work and didn't look back.

Work was a whole 'nother story. For the past six or seven weeks I've been working fairly unscrutinized at my own little cubicle, doing dumb indexing and shit like that, but at least I got decent cell phone and radio reception and could surreptiously make personal calls and listen to NPR and other news/talk programming all day long, and then I could leave whenever the hell I felt like it. (Backstory: I toil as a temporary paralegal at this big huge prestigious corporate law firm downtown, where I've been at for almost six months now. It's starting to make me sick.) Today, though, as part of my "upgrade," if you could call it that, I got to move to an official case room with an official supervisor, and I got to take on even more responsibility--which I've been studiously trying to avoid. I'm also surveiled now (I was even asked how long I was going to take for lunch, for chrissakes!), and I no longer get any kind of reception whatsoever, except for the freakin' static in my head. I wasn't a happy camper to say the least, but my horoscope today said, essentially, to make the best of a bad situation, and that's what I'm going to do.

On the plus side, although I had to stick around until almost 10 p.m. in case any of the attorneys needed me to FedEx some bullshit for them, I did get to watch that trifle of a film Dick, which was fucking hysterical. Also on the plus side, one of the so-called experts reviewing case documents for us, some young computer dude from out of town (either Denver or Chicago, I couldn't tell which), seemed to be flirting with me whenever I walked into his conference room to collect files. Every time I was in there I felt a charge, strong but faint at the same time, like his body odor. He even asked me if I grew up in New York, which I interpreted as indicating a higher level of interest than would otherwise be required or expected. Some of the other legal assistants later confirmed my suspicion that he's gay, so we'll see what happens. I have a big fantasy/fear that we'll end up hooking up right there in the conference room, violently humping on the large mahogany meeting table.... Could be fun.

Sunday, September 08, 2002

So, anyway, this is the inaugural post to my new blog Show World, which I've decided to do after noticing so many references to blog culture lately. Even the TV critic for is doing a blog on 9/11 programming this week! I did some research yesterday, checking out some local NYC boys' blogs and was impressed--and inspired enough to start my own. We'll see how long it goes til I get bored. (I did a version of a blog my first year of college that lasted about a year, or two semesters at least, so that's the benchmark I suppose...)

Here goes: Last night I was out rather late, working my friends' party at a little basement club on Avenue A, where I've been spending one or two Saturday nights a month since I got involved with their operation. Mainly I promote and do the mailing list for their one queer shindig, which occurs once a month, but occasionally I'm roped into helping out with their other efforts, as happened last night, when I got a call around 8 asking if I could cover the mailing list. Since I need the money (I get paid about 50-75 bucks a pop to do the list) and I hadn't made any other plans yet, I said yes. Showed up at 12:30, worked the room for two hours soliciting e-mail addresses, then tried to dance the night away as best I could, seeing as how I was wearing slightly uncomfortable pointy black boots, which I love but which are not the best things in the world to boogie down with. Plus I wasn't totally in the mood. I really just wanted my cashola, but unfortunately I had to wait til the party concluded for that. Needless to say, I survived. I left close to 5 a.m. with a few bills stuffed in my pocket (last time they conveniently forgot to pay me, and I felt hard-pressed to complain) and walked home down Avenue A.