I was supposed to hang out with this boy tonight but I canceled that date because I was feeling a bit sick still. Instead of sitting at home writing and watching movies while consuming warm liquids like I had planned, I trekked up to Hell's Kitchen where I saw this man for money. He was this musclely dude and before we had sex he smoked a bunch of crystal, which amazingly I had never actually seen anyone do, and it was fascinating and a bit depressing, depressing because as soon as I saw the person I thought to myself that he looked like a methhead. It was depressing to watch this and yet I drank a beer as I watched it, and yes some thoughts did cross my mind about where lines are and whether those lines are based upon anything other than social acceptability, drinking now a fairly acceptable practice for a few centuries (discounting that brief Prohibition era), and my drug a drug still the same.

He sucked my dick for a while, lifting me while doing so, me really turned on by holding on to his back and feeling that mass of muscles there, his biceps, a type of body I am not used to at all. Then I started to fuck him and he came probably within a minute of me doing so, disappointing me because I was really enjoying the sex and wanted it to last longer. I jerked myself off, made some awkward post-sex chit chat, and then headed back home.

At home, a message from that boy asking if I was sure that I didn't want to hang out. I told him to come over. We watched Coffey on my couch and the conversation was a bit awkward, lacking steam. He is a nice boy, cute, and reminds me a bit of early John Cusack. For these reasons, I should like him. For these reasons, I don't.

After the movie, a great movie by the way, we laid in my bed and I tried to sleep, not really wanting to have sex, being a bit sick and also spent from just having sex with some other dude. My attempts to just sleep next to each other though were foiled by touching and kissing on his part, a turning of the tables from how it usually is when I sleep with people, me normally being the pawer at someone else's backside. Eventually I gave in, or horniness did, and we fooled around a bit and jerked off. He went to the bathroom afterward to clean himself up and started talking about all the bug bites on him. I got out of bed to see and, true enough, his back was covered in all these swelling bug bites, very clearly from my bed. It was pretty embarrassing. I didn't have any bug bites but he had so many. And so maybe he was bitten by bedbugs and maybe by fleas, but certainly not by anything anyone wants a stranger to be bitten by in their bed. Rather than get eaten totally, he left, deciding to go home. He asked me to walk him to the subway station, a bit of a rough walk, and I knew that this was why he had asked me to walk him, and it was that, that softness, that lack of edge, that niceness, that prevents me from being able to get smitten with him. I got dressed and at 3:30 in the a.m. walked him there, not pointing out how I would have to make the same walk back by myself, not really caring, excited about my bed to myself.

In that period before we started to fool around and where I really did try to fall asleep, we talked about Coffey and it was a pleasant conversation, the question being asked by me to him why it was that movies like Coffey are so enjoyable, movies in which one person alone kicks ass, kicks the asses of about thirty people. He responded that we like them so much because we wish things worked that way, wanted them to.