He was cute, really cute. He was wearing 70s style running shorts, short things showing off his nice legs. He was either just coming from or just heading to the gym. It was real easy to imagine what his body looked like underneath his clothes. In fact, it was too easy. I soon realized that I already knew what his body looked like underneath these clothes, that this guy was even sexier than I thought, that his body was insanely ripped.
I had flirted with this person on Scruff months and months ago. We had exchanged nude pictures and talked about how much we wanted to such each other's dicks - lots of dirty talk, lots of trading dick pics. It was one of those heavy flirtations that never went anywhere for some reason, for once not because of my own laziness or half-interest.
So I was staring at him on the train today as I was headed to class, hungry as anything. I wanted this person. I wanted his dick in my mouth. I wanted to take down those little running shorts, to take off that tight shirt, to consume this person. I think he could spot my hunger, my eyeing of him. I don't think he recognized me from chatting with him on Scruff a few months ago, probably just thought I was some horny creep eyeing him on the F train (which, duh, I am).
He got off at York Street, the same stop I got off at. It takes forever to get out of that station. There is a long tunnel to get to a long staircase to get to a long ramp until you get to the other set of long stairs that you take to finally get out of the station. At the exact moment as I was about to get off the train behind him, Metallica's "Enter Sandman" started playing on a podcast I was listening to. There is no better song to blast in your headphones as you follow a sexy man you want to have sex with through a long series of underground tunnels than Metallica's "Enter Sandman." Not one song better. This song is the only song you should be playing during such circumstances. It makes you feel so theatrically creepy and sinister and you are absolutely okay with that because the scene is just so badass with this rocking song that you have on as you march ahead banging your head back and forth mouthing the lyrics to this song.
I shaved my head a couple days ago. The blonde is gone. I was tired of it, tired of dying it, but I already miss it. I miss not only having hair, but also having some cute hair-do that people complimented me on. I am not used to seeing myself like this. I also know I look less cute with a buzzed head than with the white hair. I knew this already right after doing it, but saw this expressed in the face of a lot of people who saw my hair today, telling me they were sad to see the blonde hair go.
Other things of note:
-Orange is the New Black is amazing.
-Russia is fucked up.
-My bathroom ceiling has fallen and my landlord told me to call him on Thursday about it.
-There was a trail of white powder on the sidewalk from the subway back to my apartment tonight. I had no idea what it was.
-There was a trail of potato chips on the entire first flight of stairs in my apartment building that someone had failed to clean up and that will probably be there for a week until I get sick of looking it and clean it up since no one else in my building ever picks up their trash in the hallways.
-I kind of want to move out of Bushwick and quit spending so long commuting.
-I want to be on a beach with a joint in my hand.
-I want to be sucking this guy's dick that I saw on the train today.
-I want to be eating tacos.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
open fire hydrants, open eyes
You become more aware of your body when someone touches it, calls attention to its physicalness with even, say, just a hug. The touch of something to your skin, something for you to push back inwards against, allows you to observe that you are bound by this human body, that you are nothing more. Your mind for a moment becomes at peace because it recognizes and accepts where it is, inside this mass of flesh, aware of its boundaries, happy with that awareness. A colony's outlines are traced out on a map and you look at the map, happy to see the thing demarcated, its existence more validated now that its outlines can be traced, its borders pointed to.
In the summer, I know where my body ends. In heat like this, thick and beautifully oppressive, the heavy stuff in which movements are harder through, more labored, I know that I am a human body. I know my body's limits and am more aware of the world my body exists in. I also know the thing this body is a piece of. I am aware of this air, these elements, that my body inhabits, a little dot in some massive thing. I like the flirtation with the air that happens in the summer. It's a tease, a physical tease, that makes me absolutely ravenous when I encounter attractive men in public these days. The weather and its touch has me in a constant state of heightened physicality, so that when thoughts of sex come, which they do way more often in this weather, they come on with such an intensity and a force that is far less restrained than usual - no wariness about exposure of various forms, about putting oneself at risk for rejection. Because there is none. There is no such thing. Someone can turn down your advances and you are still going out on to that hot street at the end of the night where that air just sits against your skin, and the feeling of that is a physical sensation that has pleasures all its own that rival the pleasures of a great deal of sexual encounters.
What am I saying is that I love summer, this particular type of weather happening right now, this heat wave of days in the mid-90s. I love how it affects my mood, how it affects your mood, how it affects the mood of the general populace of this city. We become a Southern Gothic novel. There is an undercurrent of sex and rage just below the surface of the air, its heaviness barely keeping our desires in check. I love seeing families sitting on their stoops at 11pm. I love that children in the city never seem to sleep in the summer and are out running through sprinklers at all hours of the night. We are all out for fun, for the joys this life is capable of providing, and in weather like this we are less restrained about admitting these things, chasing after those joys.
I jerked off with the hot exhibitionist guy that goes to my gym that I have developed a huge erotic attraction to. I finally told him that I wanted to mess around with him outside the gym sometime. He told me his name, said he would give me his card. In the steam room, the heat sought indoors even, that weather-induced delirium, I quickly came, so turned on by this guy. He saw me come and he quickly put his head back on my dick to eat the come. I think one of my co-workers witnessed a bit of this encounter, certainly knows I was jerking off with this guy in the shower stalls and then in the steam room. And the little with which I care that some co-worker I don't particularly like most likely saw me jerking off in the locker room with some muscle daddy is because of this weather. This weather makes me give zero fucks.
I have looked at some men shamelessly on the train the last few days, have really given into these erotic impulses I have been having. Because there's not that much to lose by letting a guy see you looking at him, because eye contact is fun, because I am this bit of skin and the way this mass of flesh talks, lives, is through touch, and it likes being alive (which is to say, I like being alive) and so it keeps on living, keeps on seeking out other bits of skin that want to be alive together for a while.
In the summer, I know where my body ends. In heat like this, thick and beautifully oppressive, the heavy stuff in which movements are harder through, more labored, I know that I am a human body. I know my body's limits and am more aware of the world my body exists in. I also know the thing this body is a piece of. I am aware of this air, these elements, that my body inhabits, a little dot in some massive thing. I like the flirtation with the air that happens in the summer. It's a tease, a physical tease, that makes me absolutely ravenous when I encounter attractive men in public these days. The weather and its touch has me in a constant state of heightened physicality, so that when thoughts of sex come, which they do way more often in this weather, they come on with such an intensity and a force that is far less restrained than usual - no wariness about exposure of various forms, about putting oneself at risk for rejection. Because there is none. There is no such thing. Someone can turn down your advances and you are still going out on to that hot street at the end of the night where that air just sits against your skin, and the feeling of that is a physical sensation that has pleasures all its own that rival the pleasures of a great deal of sexual encounters.
What am I saying is that I love summer, this particular type of weather happening right now, this heat wave of days in the mid-90s. I love how it affects my mood, how it affects your mood, how it affects the mood of the general populace of this city. We become a Southern Gothic novel. There is an undercurrent of sex and rage just below the surface of the air, its heaviness barely keeping our desires in check. I love seeing families sitting on their stoops at 11pm. I love that children in the city never seem to sleep in the summer and are out running through sprinklers at all hours of the night. We are all out for fun, for the joys this life is capable of providing, and in weather like this we are less restrained about admitting these things, chasing after those joys.
I jerked off with the hot exhibitionist guy that goes to my gym that I have developed a huge erotic attraction to. I finally told him that I wanted to mess around with him outside the gym sometime. He told me his name, said he would give me his card. In the steam room, the heat sought indoors even, that weather-induced delirium, I quickly came, so turned on by this guy. He saw me come and he quickly put his head back on my dick to eat the come. I think one of my co-workers witnessed a bit of this encounter, certainly knows I was jerking off with this guy in the shower stalls and then in the steam room. And the little with which I care that some co-worker I don't particularly like most likely saw me jerking off in the locker room with some muscle daddy is because of this weather. This weather makes me give zero fucks.
I have looked at some men shamelessly on the train the last few days, have really given into these erotic impulses I have been having. Because there's not that much to lose by letting a guy see you looking at him, because eye contact is fun, because I am this bit of skin and the way this mass of flesh talks, lives, is through touch, and it likes being alive (which is to say, I like being alive) and so it keeps on living, keeps on seeking out other bits of skin that want to be alive together for a while.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
"Estoy Aquí"
I was getting ready to go out last night when I read the news that George Zimmerman was found not guilty for the murder of Trayvon Martin. Not guilty. Typing that right now makes me so angry and so sad. There are so many layers of bullshit in this that it is difficult to even begin to parse out all the ways in which our country is fucked up. You have some fucking yahoo with a gun thinking he's John Wayne following a black teenager who is probably stoned and on a stoner run for snacks. This guy with the gun harasses this teenager, stalks him on his way home, and then, when things escalate, shoots him dead. These things are not in dispute and yet this murderer is a free man despite having admitted to killing an unarmed teenager. But because this teenager is black and because the world fears black men, this murder is somehow justified as self-defense thanks to Florida's absurd and disgusting Stand Your Ground laws.
You then have right-wing talk shows, talking heads, and various idiot bloggers taking up the cause of George Zimmerman, as if he is somehow being wronged here for people wanting him to be held accountable for murdering an unarmed teenager. In all this coverage and talk, you really begin to understand the depth of the fear and hatred of black people that is still is out there in most of America. It is beyond disgusting and makes me so, so angry.
Then a smaller thread in this shameful story is the fact that Trayvon Martin's body had traces of marijuana in it. This is mentioned by a lot of the people justifying this murder. This was mentioned during Zimmerman's trial to the jurors deciding his guilt - that Trayvon Martin had drugs in his system. We need to get over our fear of marijuana. It is not PCP - it not a drug that makes one violent. If we lived in a sane world, the prosecutors (not the defense) would have been the people bringing up this point, bringing it up to prove that someone stoned and on the hunt for Skittles and iced tea is not a violent person. It is so fucking sick how people think the use of weed by someone somehow makes their life less worthy, that their murder is somehow justified with this evidence, that everything about them somehow becomes more questionable. Absolute bullshit!
I want to love you, America. I want to so badly. I do most of the time. But then there are moments like this that really crystalize how fucked everything is and how difficult change seems.
And so after reading this news and wanting to destroy something, anything, to tear it all up, to burn it all down, going out seemed somehow frivolous and unworthy of the historical moment. But I had already told people I was going to meet them at Secret and so I got dressed and met them there. I almost didn't go in because the door guy was an asshole and there was a $15 cover (despite it being advertised as free before 12), but my co-workers begged me to stay since they were on their way and one had come in from New Jersey to go there. It had been several years since the last time I had been to Secret, a black gay club in west Chelsea, and it wasn't nearly as fun as I remembered. There was too much R&B being played and not enough sexy men. The go-go boys though. Right as I was about to leave, they got on top of the bar, and kept me there for longer than I had intended. These were some of the biggest dicks I have ever seen in my life. Every go-go guy had a massive, almost unbelievably huge dick - jaw dropping stuff. They each had their cock somehow wrapped in a piece of fabric so it was just these massive cocks, their shape explicit, barely covered by fabric. At one point one of the go-go guys, justifiably proud of his dick, asked my friends and I to come closer, to watch. He squatted down close to us and pulled back the fabric from his dick and easily licked the head of his dick because it was that goddamn large.
I eventually pulled myself away from these sights, said goodbye to my friends, and headed off toward the Lower East Side to go to the Rico Suave party that I had wanted to go to in the hopes of seeing Alex Anwandter sing. I got there around one and was immediately so happy to be there. It was hot and sweaty. Everyone was drinking various Mexican beers. It was pretty much all Spanish music. It was so beautiful. Lots of attractive Latin gay dudes with great style I had never seen before. It was everything I wanted.
I danced around with Deanna and Nicky. They had poppers and we kept on sniffing them on the dance floor. The poppers made everything more magical, fun, and blurred. This moment on that dance floor crossed time and space and I kept on believing that I was in various Mexico City bars I remembered. I danced with a couple of cute boys. I flirted with more. I fell in love about twelve times before the night was over. I saw Alex Anwandter and probably around three asked him if was still going to be singing. He told me that he already had sang earlier in the night. Sadly, while I was staring at guys with massive dicks with the ability to self-suck, I missed this person perform that I had been excited to see for weeks. Oh well - at least I saw some big dicks. I danced and danced until about four in the morning. It was such an incredibly fun night, all the more so for being a different crowd and different music than I normally encounter when going out. Toward the end of the night, Shakira's "Estoy Aqui" came on and I was so, so happy. On the street, I talked to this beautiful man named Javier. We exchanged numbers and with any luck I will at some point hang out with him, at some point make out with him.
I grabbed a slice of pizza on Delancey and caught a taxi home thinking about the America I do love.
You then have right-wing talk shows, talking heads, and various idiot bloggers taking up the cause of George Zimmerman, as if he is somehow being wronged here for people wanting him to be held accountable for murdering an unarmed teenager. In all this coverage and talk, you really begin to understand the depth of the fear and hatred of black people that is still is out there in most of America. It is beyond disgusting and makes me so, so angry.
Then a smaller thread in this shameful story is the fact that Trayvon Martin's body had traces of marijuana in it. This is mentioned by a lot of the people justifying this murder. This was mentioned during Zimmerman's trial to the jurors deciding his guilt - that Trayvon Martin had drugs in his system. We need to get over our fear of marijuana. It is not PCP - it not a drug that makes one violent. If we lived in a sane world, the prosecutors (not the defense) would have been the people bringing up this point, bringing it up to prove that someone stoned and on the hunt for Skittles and iced tea is not a violent person. It is so fucking sick how people think the use of weed by someone somehow makes their life less worthy, that their murder is somehow justified with this evidence, that everything about them somehow becomes more questionable. Absolute bullshit!
I want to love you, America. I want to so badly. I do most of the time. But then there are moments like this that really crystalize how fucked everything is and how difficult change seems.
And so after reading this news and wanting to destroy something, anything, to tear it all up, to burn it all down, going out seemed somehow frivolous and unworthy of the historical moment. But I had already told people I was going to meet them at Secret and so I got dressed and met them there. I almost didn't go in because the door guy was an asshole and there was a $15 cover (despite it being advertised as free before 12), but my co-workers begged me to stay since they were on their way and one had come in from New Jersey to go there. It had been several years since the last time I had been to Secret, a black gay club in west Chelsea, and it wasn't nearly as fun as I remembered. There was too much R&B being played and not enough sexy men. The go-go boys though. Right as I was about to leave, they got on top of the bar, and kept me there for longer than I had intended. These were some of the biggest dicks I have ever seen in my life. Every go-go guy had a massive, almost unbelievably huge dick - jaw dropping stuff. They each had their cock somehow wrapped in a piece of fabric so it was just these massive cocks, their shape explicit, barely covered by fabric. At one point one of the go-go guys, justifiably proud of his dick, asked my friends and I to come closer, to watch. He squatted down close to us and pulled back the fabric from his dick and easily licked the head of his dick because it was that goddamn large.
I eventually pulled myself away from these sights, said goodbye to my friends, and headed off toward the Lower East Side to go to the Rico Suave party that I had wanted to go to in the hopes of seeing Alex Anwandter sing. I got there around one and was immediately so happy to be there. It was hot and sweaty. Everyone was drinking various Mexican beers. It was pretty much all Spanish music. It was so beautiful. Lots of attractive Latin gay dudes with great style I had never seen before. It was everything I wanted.
I danced around with Deanna and Nicky. They had poppers and we kept on sniffing them on the dance floor. The poppers made everything more magical, fun, and blurred. This moment on that dance floor crossed time and space and I kept on believing that I was in various Mexico City bars I remembered. I danced with a couple of cute boys. I flirted with more. I fell in love about twelve times before the night was over. I saw Alex Anwandter and probably around three asked him if was still going to be singing. He told me that he already had sang earlier in the night. Sadly, while I was staring at guys with massive dicks with the ability to self-suck, I missed this person perform that I had been excited to see for weeks. Oh well - at least I saw some big dicks. I danced and danced until about four in the morning. It was such an incredibly fun night, all the more so for being a different crowd and different music than I normally encounter when going out. Toward the end of the night, Shakira's "Estoy Aqui" came on and I was so, so happy. On the street, I talked to this beautiful man named Javier. We exchanged numbers and with any luck I will at some point hang out with him, at some point make out with him.
I grabbed a slice of pizza on Delancey and caught a taxi home thinking about the America I do love.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Blonde Life
I have been too busy to write here, too busy out there living. But these are the times I should be writing, documenting these changes happening in my life, so that the record of my life were I to look back on it on a bored day, would be something more than stoned entries about how I comfort my loneliness in this city, in this world, in whatever this thing is, this life, with burritos. Unfortunately though that is when I most feel like I have the time to write in my diary. Right now, for instance, I should be going to bed since I have another day lasting from 7am-10pm ahead of me tomorrow, but before doing that let's first engage in a little bit of documentation. Let's put up some scratches on the cave wall to show what life was like in this particular moment for this particular cave dweller.
First, we will start off with the fact that I am a blonde. This is all shorthand for now because I want to explore this topic in more depth on some future date. A couple weeks ago, gay pride weekend, I was rejected again by P. The next day I was feeling hungover, had quite a bit of regret and anger, and it was a Britney moment, an impulsive hair decision brought on by some desire for change. I bleached my hair. It took several bleachings and tonings to get it to where I wanted, white enough. But I eventually did and it turned out way better than I had expected - I was expecting I would really have to have a Britney moment and shave my head, that it would end up looking terrible. It did not.
I am still surprised by how much other people seem to like it. I know I look more attractive with this hair - I see it myself when I am getting dressed in front of my mirror. I am not sure why bleached blonde hair should have this effect - and it may be temporary, may be just the newness of it - but I am enjoying the benefits of it. People have been a lot nicer to me, boys. Lots of guys have complimented me on my hair. I have been getting a lot more "Hey girl" looks from guys on the subway and on the street than I ever have. It's all a very nice feeling and one that is helping rebuild my confidence after the couple of hits it had taken in this insane, dogged pursuit of this boy despite his continued rejection of me. I am a new woman with this blonde hair - a sexy woman full of confidence - feeling how Madonna looks on the cover of True Blue. It's a pose, a character, but the hair helps me inhabit the role pretty well. So, what am I saying, is guard your heart cause this new woman I am just wants to break it, just wants to roll around on fancy sheets and pose for the camera above me.
The other thing to mention, certainly probably of more importance, is that I started school a couple days ago, which is why I am so exhausted and why I believe I should not spend time writing that instead could and should be used to get desperately needed sleep. I am going to advertising school to study copywriting in a two year program. I want to find my way out of hospitality and into something that allows me to indulge my creative impulses in a fashion from which I could make a living. I am really excited to be doing this, only wish that I had done so earlier. So far, I like the people teaching my classes, and they all have me excited about trying to work in this industry.
I do not, however, like the commute to Dumbo from Bushwick - it is way too long to be commuting every day and I am dreading doing this for two years. I also am exhausted from working each day before class. And also, I am not so thrilled about this life of poverty I see ahead of me for the next couple years. My recent payment for this semester put my account into the negative until pay day, this Friday. Today, at the grocery store by my house, with the eight dollars I had left in my wallet, I went grocery shopping. I added up the cost of the various items I picked up in my head before heading to the register, seeing that they would come to just under eight dollars. The eggs I bought rung up for about twenty-five cents more than they should have. That difference brought the total to just slightly over eight dollars. I pointed out the price discrepancy to the cashier, a little shamefully, suddenly being hit with flashbacks to being a kid at the grocery store with my mom, the frugal shopper that she had to be as a working mom raising two kids, pointing out price discrepancies to cashiers over items advertised one price on the shelf and being rung up as another at the register. I remembered how that always used to embarrass me and was a bit embarrassed to ask this cashier about the price difference, but literally only having eight dollars in your wallet really changes quickly what you think is too petty, too embarrassing. It also makes you really fucking appreciate how amazing your mom was and is. The manager changed the price and I was able to purchase these eggs.
In two days, I will have money in my bank account again. I will be buying some more hair bleach on that day. I will also be dancing somewhere, shaking this blonde hair around in the air, because that's what we do, us blondes - dance, have fun, get drunk, break hearts, slut it up.
First, we will start off with the fact that I am a blonde. This is all shorthand for now because I want to explore this topic in more depth on some future date. A couple weeks ago, gay pride weekend, I was rejected again by P. The next day I was feeling hungover, had quite a bit of regret and anger, and it was a Britney moment, an impulsive hair decision brought on by some desire for change. I bleached my hair. It took several bleachings and tonings to get it to where I wanted, white enough. But I eventually did and it turned out way better than I had expected - I was expecting I would really have to have a Britney moment and shave my head, that it would end up looking terrible. It did not.
I am still surprised by how much other people seem to like it. I know I look more attractive with this hair - I see it myself when I am getting dressed in front of my mirror. I am not sure why bleached blonde hair should have this effect - and it may be temporary, may be just the newness of it - but I am enjoying the benefits of it. People have been a lot nicer to me, boys. Lots of guys have complimented me on my hair. I have been getting a lot more "Hey girl" looks from guys on the subway and on the street than I ever have. It's all a very nice feeling and one that is helping rebuild my confidence after the couple of hits it had taken in this insane, dogged pursuit of this boy despite his continued rejection of me. I am a new woman with this blonde hair - a sexy woman full of confidence - feeling how Madonna looks on the cover of True Blue. It's a pose, a character, but the hair helps me inhabit the role pretty well. So, what am I saying, is guard your heart cause this new woman I am just wants to break it, just wants to roll around on fancy sheets and pose for the camera above me.
The other thing to mention, certainly probably of more importance, is that I started school a couple days ago, which is why I am so exhausted and why I believe I should not spend time writing that instead could and should be used to get desperately needed sleep. I am going to advertising school to study copywriting in a two year program. I want to find my way out of hospitality and into something that allows me to indulge my creative impulses in a fashion from which I could make a living. I am really excited to be doing this, only wish that I had done so earlier. So far, I like the people teaching my classes, and they all have me excited about trying to work in this industry.
I do not, however, like the commute to Dumbo from Bushwick - it is way too long to be commuting every day and I am dreading doing this for two years. I also am exhausted from working each day before class. And also, I am not so thrilled about this life of poverty I see ahead of me for the next couple years. My recent payment for this semester put my account into the negative until pay day, this Friday. Today, at the grocery store by my house, with the eight dollars I had left in my wallet, I went grocery shopping. I added up the cost of the various items I picked up in my head before heading to the register, seeing that they would come to just under eight dollars. The eggs I bought rung up for about twenty-five cents more than they should have. That difference brought the total to just slightly over eight dollars. I pointed out the price discrepancy to the cashier, a little shamefully, suddenly being hit with flashbacks to being a kid at the grocery store with my mom, the frugal shopper that she had to be as a working mom raising two kids, pointing out price discrepancies to cashiers over items advertised one price on the shelf and being rung up as another at the register. I remembered how that always used to embarrass me and was a bit embarrassed to ask this cashier about the price difference, but literally only having eight dollars in your wallet really changes quickly what you think is too petty, too embarrassing. It also makes you really fucking appreciate how amazing your mom was and is. The manager changed the price and I was able to purchase these eggs.
In two days, I will have money in my bank account again. I will be buying some more hair bleach on that day. I will also be dancing somewhere, shaking this blonde hair around in the air, because that's what we do, us blondes - dance, have fun, get drunk, break hearts, slut it up.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
die young
Yesterday, riding the ferry back from Fire Island, I realized I would have to put on a shirt soon. For three days, I had basically not had to wear a shirt and it was so nice. For three days, I drank pretty much non-stop, lounged by either a pool or the ocean, cruised boys, fooled around with boys, and danced.
There were three minutes on Friday night when my happiness was at its greatest. I was in Cherry Grove dancing in my underwear at the Ice Palace with hundreds of other gays, my friends nearby, cute boys also nearby that I wanted to sleep with, and Ke$ha's "Die Young" came on. For reasons inexplicable (or perhaps explicable if you have ears and like pop music), this song makes me lose my mind. A fog of giddiness and excitement came over me and I stomped around the floor, losing my mind to this song. There was also perhaps a lot of identification with the lyrics in that moment. That I seemed on a path to die young with my consumption intake over those few days. Numerous lines of Adderall were snorted, an absolutely insane quality of vodka was drank, spliffs and cigarettes were smoked as if there was no known correlation between lung cancer and tobacco, and pot brownies were eaten. But the activities are given a fun pop theme song to make it seem all okay, part of life. And it was and it is.
I felt really presently alive despite the substances consumed. I was so happy during these days, met some really nice folks, hooked up with some really nice folks, spent one night alseep outside next to a pool with a young doctor, cuddling under sheets and sucking each other's dicks.
When I realized I would have to put on a shirt again on the ferry ride back, it was an awareness of other things as well, that a metaphorical shirt would be put on as well, that the fun, abandon, sand, and nameless boys would soon give way to work, school, asphalt, and these same boys I seem to obsess over here in New York. I held off for as long as possible, waited until the ferry docked in Sayville before putting back on again the one shirt I had brought with me three days earlier when I thought I was just going to Fire Island for the day.
There were three minutes on Friday night when my happiness was at its greatest. I was in Cherry Grove dancing in my underwear at the Ice Palace with hundreds of other gays, my friends nearby, cute boys also nearby that I wanted to sleep with, and Ke$ha's "Die Young" came on. For reasons inexplicable (or perhaps explicable if you have ears and like pop music), this song makes me lose my mind. A fog of giddiness and excitement came over me and I stomped around the floor, losing my mind to this song. There was also perhaps a lot of identification with the lyrics in that moment. That I seemed on a path to die young with my consumption intake over those few days. Numerous lines of Adderall were snorted, an absolutely insane quality of vodka was drank, spliffs and cigarettes were smoked as if there was no known correlation between lung cancer and tobacco, and pot brownies were eaten. But the activities are given a fun pop theme song to make it seem all okay, part of life. And it was and it is.
I felt really presently alive despite the substances consumed. I was so happy during these days, met some really nice folks, hooked up with some really nice folks, spent one night alseep outside next to a pool with a young doctor, cuddling under sheets and sucking each other's dicks.
When I realized I would have to put on a shirt again on the ferry ride back, it was an awareness of other things as well, that a metaphorical shirt would be put on as well, that the fun, abandon, sand, and nameless boys would soon give way to work, school, asphalt, and these same boys I seem to obsess over here in New York. I held off for as long as possible, waited until the ferry docked in Sayville before putting back on again the one shirt I had brought with me three days earlier when I thought I was just going to Fire Island for the day.
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