I went to this guy's house on 18th Street. He had advertised saying he wanted someone to come deliver a slice of pizza and then get naked/jack off for a big tip. Sounded totally easy and it was. When I talked to him on the phone, he said don't even worry about the pizza. At his house, I was pretty shocked by how huge it was. I think it is the biggest apartment I have ever been to in New York. And to make things even better, he was pretty hot and so we jacked off together and it was one of the more fun sexual experiences I have had in a while. He came, then I did, and then he paid me.

As I was leaving his apartment, I noticed some of the prints from Mapplethorpe's version of Rimbaud's "A Season in Hell." He has this prints hanging up in his fucking living room! The amount of money some people have shocks me to no end. He was impressed that I knew where the photos were from and so he did a quick show off of his art, pointing and me naming, going down the hallway, him pointing, me saying Larry Clark, him pointing, me saying Terry Richardson, Terry Richardson again, Damien Hirst, and then the one he was really proud of took me a few seconds to recognize, but then I realized who it was and got real giddy and said Cindy Sherman. So fucking crazy that people have these things in their own apartment, that they can be on their way to the bathroom in the middle of the night and pass by without even caring these pretty gigantic pieces of art that I have seen antholigized in various places.

It was when I was walking to the T-Mobile store from his house that I realized his was a house, and I live in a fucking hovel by comparison. I was thinking thoughts like these and some perverse thoughts since once I got my phoned turned back on, I was supposed to call someone who was going to spank me. A block away from the phone store, I stopped to get a slice of pizza because I was hungry and because you need exact change for those stupid bill paying machines. I leisurely ate my pizza, glancing at the clock, so content with myself and with getting things done, making my money, being able to get my phone back on, and generally just feeling awesome.

Done with my slice, I walked across the street to the T-Mobile store to find the door locked. I scream because this is ruining it all, the great moment I was having, the cockiness with feeling that things in this world were going my way, and here was something about to ruin it all, a locked T-Mobile store. And to make things all the more painful, they closed at eight. I was there at eight o two. Shut the fuck up. You have to be kidding me, I said, so mad at myself that had I not stopped to sit down and eat the pizza, my phone would now be working again.

But yes, for some reason, my phone still allows incoming calls, so if you want to do something tonight, you know, maybe give me a little ring.