white pants

There is a hurricane working its way up the Atlantic Ocean. We know it is coming. People are buying groceries, bottled water, batteries. People are getting ready for it, for an unknown. It could very well be a blip that passes by quickly. It could be otherwise.

Hungover all day, I did little but look at Facebook, jerk off, and watch episodes of The Walking Dead.  The show and the impending hurricane overlap each other, both inspiring thoughts about the the end of the world, about what matters, about those close to you, about who, if anyone, at this point in my life, post-breakup, I consider close. In the last hurricane that threatened the city, I thought constantly of Jacob who was in another part of the city, stuck in Manhattan. The few remaining living people on the show care so much about their still living loved ones, that that is really all that drives them through a hell of a world overrun by zombies.

This storm, I am alone. I won't have anyone to worry about in that particular way I did last time. I will have no one to hug with a bit more meaning, having had a storm and its threatened destruction making me again realize the short and unpredictable nature of our lives here on this planet.

We get dressed up and we dance. We spin and spin until the dance is over.

Last night, I dressed up as a zombie sailor and drank a lot of vodka and a lot of rum. I thought of boys. I looked at boys. I danced to songs I don't remember. I sent a dumb text message. I headed toward home and stopped at Dunkin Donuts at four in the morning, a habit I am beginning to form now after drinking. Some guys, gay guys, stopped me out front to chat with me. They told me I looked cute. I told them I was headed into Dunkin Donuts and walked away. I could hear them discussing whether they should have invited me over to have a drink. I went inside. I ordered a donut and a sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich.

I was a sailor on shore leave, careening around a port city, drunk, horny, unattached.

balut

Two night ago, I had balut for the first time. I had this with along other very yummy Filipino food, ate these things amongst good company. Afterwards, I went to Phoenix with of these fellows, a very attractive married man, and we talked about relationships, about sex, and about creativity, amongst other topics. I wanted to kiss him, but didn't try. There was a part of me that thought he was so handsome and another part of me, newly formed, that didn't want to be any part of helping to ruin a relationship. I also have recognized recently that I am pretty bad at having gay male friends, that usually there is a sexual attraction on someone's end that eventually spoils the attempt at friendship. His being married actually makes it easier to be his friend in my case.

I bought a black bandana yesterday after work and then caught up on desperately needed sleep. I am drinking coffee and thinking about an impending storm.

the songwriter

I had yet to have sex in my new apartment until last night. Aside from the pleasure obtained from the act itself, there was a relieved feeling when I fell asleep last night after the guy had left, that this would not be some sexless apartment, that I had broken it in in some sense, that this was now more of my home. 

Even before he came over, I had thought the pictures he sent me of his naked body looked quite a bit like Diego's. When he came over there was that. But there was also distractingly the nose of this boy Clay, this boy I had had a brief fling with in Florida, and a boy that I found pretty annoying. I was trying to remove these layers of associations I saw on this boy from the actual boy underneath these things I was projecting on to him. As I get older though, is this how it is bound to be? At this point in my quite experienced sexual life, numerous romantic partners now behind me but still present somewhere in memories, will these men show up in the features of new sexual partners? That with the more partners I have, the more difficult it will be for me to see them independent of who they remind me of?

There were these recollections of years gone by, of boys I had had romances with in this city and others. I told him to get undressed. We started kissing and fumbled our way to my bed. And with my eyes open less, with my hands and the back of my mouth, with my cock and with my asshole, I experienced this boy through sensations other than sight. It was a really fun, sweet, and dirty time. 

He is actually a very nice guy, just young, which at this point in my life makes me a bit wary. Afterwards, we watched Mariah Carey videos on my laptop. We talked about pop music, yoga, and Mexican food.

spank

There was this boy with a beard last night. There were a lot of boys with beards last night, a fair number with mustaches as well. I had chatted with him on Grindr a while ago, tried to chat with him. It didn't really go anywhere. I saw him a couple times last night as I flitted around the warehouse space where Spank was hosting a dance party. I never said hi, never wanted to, couldn't imagine those necessary steps. I just wanted to be naked in a bed with him. Not even though. A dark hallway, a bathroom stall - anything would have done. It was a fantasy I played out in my mind each time I walked past him.

I was a bit drunk. I had had a couple beers, a purple Four Loko (cause it matched my outfit), an ill-advised shot of vodka, and then quite a few whiskies on the rocks. At some point in the night, I started repeatedly huffing from a bottle of poppers that someone had very wisely thought to bring with them. I danced for a while but found it hard to really lose myself in the music. It either wasn't loud enough, I couldn't reach a point of fucked-upness to get into "dance" music, or my love of more easily identifiable hooks along with the presence of a human voice singing lyrics was too much of a hurdle on this particular night. I was also distracted by boys. There were so many of them, so many cute ones all over the place. Nick at one point said it was like Brooklyn Grindr come to life, that all of these cute faces were now in one space together. And while that may have been true, the pathetic thing is that it might have actually been easier for me to talk to these people on Grindr. I have fallen out of practice with talking to new people, hitting on boys. There were moments, many last night, when I wondered how this is done.

I took the subway home at some point. I stopped at the 24 Hour Dunkin Donuts by my house at four something and bought a doughnut and a breakfast sandwich. I woke up this morning on my couch, the sunlight pouring through my kitchen windows at some early hour, and a mental note was made to buy curtains later in the day.

a purple wall, a sky close to it

I have only a few days left of my gym membership. I put in my cancellation notice there a month or so ago, an acknowledgement to what my new economic realities would be, to rent that cost me about twice as much as before, that I would no longer be able to indulge in luxuries such as memberships to fancy and heavily-gay gyms.

However, with its imminent end in sight, I am considering actually renewing it, figuring out a way to scrape by, that going to this gym really keeps me feeling sane, happy, and healthy. Sometimes you do have to be willing to pay for your happiness I have realized over the years, that certain things may cost money, maybe a lot of money, but sometimes these things are more than worth it for the joy they give you.

I jerked off in the steamroom across from this burly bear of a man. He had a beautiful upturned penis. I was really into our encounter, into sitting across from each other, admiring each other's bodies, admiring our own bodies via the other person's admiration of ours, and stroking our dicks. Some other guy came in, some creeper of a guy who always sits near me in the steamroom and jerks off. I got up and went into the showers. I came in the stall. I changed. I bought some red wine and some dental floss. I took the subway home.

From the train, I walked through Maria Hernandez Park. I noticed that the leaves were changing colors on some of the trees, that it seemed like they had been for a while now. I have been failing to pay attention to my surroundings, to the world around me. I am beginning to again. It was a beautiful walk home. I walked between kids racing across the center of the park on their skateboards, these lines quickly forming, striking past me, running out of steam, other lines cutting different paths, all through the center, kids attempting to catch air, some succeeding, some not but always trying again and again. I had my own path that I followed carried by feet at a steady pace. These people had some attachment to the center that I briefly pondered as I cut through it and caught the view, the setting sun over buildings on Knickerbocker giving a large portion of the sky a fantastic pink hue, the trees with their leaves beginning to yellow, beginning to orange, all the people here and taking pleasure in their presence on this planet.

Dekalb Avenue

I woke up today for the first time in my new apartment on Dekalb Avenue. Yesterday, I finally packed up all my stuff into boxes and bags when I ran out of boxes and said my goodbyes to my last apartment, the home I had created with Jacob on Meserole Street. It was a sad goodbye. I am still angry, more so than at first actually. All of the reasons he had told me he wanted to break up were lies - independence, being single, making more art, more time alone, etc. The day after - literally the day after - he broke up with me he started hanging out with M, who he is now dating. The fact that I have just been traded out for another boyfriend, another sort of domesticity, is quite depressing. If he were slutting it up across town, I would take more comfort from that, feel less hurt. As is, I am quite upset with him and don't think I need to be hanging out with him anymore. But that's an insanely depressing prospect to think of, that the boy who has been my constant companion and source of comfort for the last three years will no longer be in my life. I think it is probably for the best though.

I am not good at goodbyes.

Brendan and I packed up a UHaul van full of my stuff and I told Brendan that I would run upstairs and grab the last bag and say goodbye to Jacob. I took a look at the apartment, half empty, looking ransacked, and a flood of memories from the last two and a half years all came pouring over me. I suddenly found myself incapable of even speaking. I wanted to say a nice cordial goodbye to Jacob, but I couldn't even talk. My eyes swelled with water and my throat was blubbering, wanting to ball that this period of my life was now officially over and done, that there would be no going back any longer. I gave Jacob a hug as I held back tears and then I left, a sad, sad walk out of this building that from this moment on would no longer be my home.

Brendan and I drove away toward my new apartment, van full of my belongings. I turned on the radio. Al Green's "So Tired of Being Alone" came on. I immediately changed it to a Spanish station, my Spanish not good enough to understand what probably were some equally lovesick lyrics. At some point, one of the songs had an English chorus about love. There was not even respite here on the Spanish station. I turned the radio to a pop station as we got closer to my new apartment. As we circled looking for a parking spot, Taylor Swift's "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together" started playing, which was a little easier to swallow, its anthemic vocals proudly, not sadly, declaring the end of a relationship.

We unloaded all of the cargo into my new apartment. My neighbor across the hall, Spanish grandmother, came out into the hallway, nosy to see what was going on, and before introducing herself told us that if we were going to smoke weed in our apartment, then we needed to burn incense, that she has a 15 year old grandson she is trying to protect. It might be added that we were not smoking weed, or about to, but just moving boxes up a flight of stairs.

Once we had moved everything out of the van, we got back in the van to return it, and Pink's "Blow Me (One Last Kiss)" was playing on the radio. So insanely appropriate. I cranked it up loud and we cruised down Knickerbocker Avenue in the UHaul van.

Susan Miller has told me that for the last three years Saturn has occupied the fifth house of true love and romance. She has pointed out that on October 15th, a new moon, today, I would see a release of the last three years. When I read her monthly horoscope a couple days ago, my mind was blown with the specificity with which she talks about the events in my life over the last three years.

I am alive, folks! That means everything. I made it out of my last apartment. I have suffered a brutal and swift end to what was an ideal love for me and there were many days when the news seemed unbearable, something I would never recover from. But there are silly pop songs that have helped me raise my head higher. There are people who told me to get out of my apartment, who told me to, yes, sign this lease even if it seems expensive, just do it. There are people who helped me pick up furniture from Queens, from South Brooklyn, from my old apartment, and I am so appreciative of it. And life goes on. Yes, it does. It's a new moon today. I am starting over and not looking back anymore.

goodbye 180 Meserole Street

Yesterday, I said my goodbyes to my home for the last two and a half years - 180 Meserole Street. It was a much more painful goodbye than I had anticipated. There were photographs of the two of us and cute souvenirs from our travels attached to the fridge. There were cute notes from him left for me in happier days that I had stored in the bottom of my underwear drawer. There was a piggy bank he gave me on this past Christmas with a picture of a beach in Costa Rica in the background, an enticement for the two of us to save money to go there together. The trip never happened. I left the piggy bank behind, did not need that memento staring at me everyday.