blurred lines

He had Magnums and lube by the bed. The bed was made nicely, covers pulled taut over the edges. This is how the beds used to look in my grandmother’s house, a skill that older people must have all been taught in other more orderly generations, a task that they still seem to practice while the rest of the world has let their bedsheets lie in disarray, a world gone to hell. The centre cannot hold. Making my bed, something rarely done, involves just throwing the comforter over my sheets, hiding disorder rather than actual creating order.

It was easy, was mostly fun. There was that thrill that is always there in these cases, the erotics of money, of power, of desire, of these things intersecting. He came and I pulled out. I was going to jerk myself off but when I saw the condom on my dick, I knew I could not just rip it off and toss it to the ground. It was totally covered in shit. I went into the bathroom to take it off, gently pulled it off, trying not to get this person’s shit on my fingers, tried not to gag while doing so.

I took a shower to rinse myself off. He had really nice plush towels. We talked about the paintings on his walls as I got dressed. He had a nice collection of art. We talked about Brooklyn, about rich people, about what New York is becoming.

I left his apartment, walked to the subway and I continued this conversation about New York with myself. I thought about how great and how not great this city is, thought about how I always seem to manage though, thought about how the house might not always win, or how maybe they do but that they let me win enough for it to not feel that way.

At home, I ordered a burrito, drank some Modelos, and listened to the Robin Thicke album on repeat for hours while I spent a Friday night in, happily doing homework, thinking about this city, about life, about human bodies.