King Cobra

So the other night, I watched King Cobra, the true-crime movie following the story of Brent Corrigan, who I used to be more than a little obsessed with, whose videos I used to jerk off nonstop, whose story I was insanely drawn to.

Watching it sent me spiraling, twirling back through time. The movie, a phone booth in a Circle K parking lot, taking me to places I had forgotten about, to times long past. It was all brought up again, that time in my life when I used to be really fascinated by this man who was this sex object, about what that meant, and to a time when there were internal desires, tuggings at wanting to be a sex object as well, tuggings that led me to try go-go dancing, to working in a massage parlor, to doing other lines of work, and finding fun and adventure in these explorations, a thrill unparalleled. Seeking out men, desiring their attention. There is a certain hunger and a certain power dynamic at play there that only works well when one is in their early twenties, which I most certainly am not any longer.

Yesterday, I got contacted by this guy I hadn’t heard from in years and I replayed those moments. The timing, days after viewing this film and while all those feelings and remembrances were still fresh, seemed fortuitous. To him, I was still this sex object. I got to play a role. I got to have someone physically desire me in a unique and explicit way that is so rare outside of this particular dynamic.

The hotel carpet that I was kneeling in, giving this man a blowjob, was giving me rugburn. I did not care. I did not care one bit. I loved the feeling actually, the debasement, the Times Square hotel room, the view of the city outside, this man I did not know, his desire for me. I came on that same rug that was burning my knees, payback for the rugburn. He did also. He was polite, wiped the up cum from the carpet, and told me I looked good for my age.

Frank Ocean - Nights

Sorry, I just don’t know how to relate to other human beings.

This is what I, a human being, said to another human being, as he got dressed. This is what I said as some means of apology, of explanation, after having hooked up with him and then asking him to leave.

It was 4 something in the morning. We had just had sex. He was this cute nice guy that I have known for a couple years, hooked up with once or twice before. It was friendly. He had mentioned he wanted to cuddle. I was drunk and stoned. I wasn’t in the mood to cuddle or to be around other human beings.

I am less and less good at this aspect of being human, of the intimate one-on-one moments. It’s almost like I have forgotten how to do them. And yet I look at men on the subway, on the beach, on the streets, and I tell myself that I want something with them, imagine them as future boyfriends, though what that would mean for someone that has trouble sharing a night in bed with someone these days, I have no clue.

He left a bracelet at my house in his hurry to get dressed at that late hour, at that early hour. I texted him about it. He’s going to come over again soon.

Once I finally woke up yesterday, I plopped down on the Christopher Street Pier under cloudy skies and listened to the amazing new Frank Ocean album, playing “Nights” in particular on repeat over and over again:

Did you call me from a seance?
You are from a past life.
Hope you’re doing well bruh.
I been out here head first.
Always like the head first.
Signal coming in and out.

A Day at the Beach

The water was warm. There was none of the tip-toeing baby steps into the ocean, slowly getting in inch by inch until your skin, your body, is comfortable enough to proceed further. Instead, yesterday it was embrace, a friend you hadn’t seen in months, a lover you were excited about hopping into bed with. I walked into the water with the same amount of hesitancy that I have walking into air - that is, none whatsoever. It just was. It was the elements that I exist in.

I swam around in the waves, the sunlight lighting up glowing patterns on the crests of the waves, falling, rising, shifting, these white sketched neon lines - an old-school computer screensaver playing out across the Atlantic Ocean in front of me. I started talking to this attractive Indian man. Soon we were making out, jerking each other off under the water, bobbing around together in these shifting lines, interrupting them with our embrace.

As I sucked his dick underneath the water, my mouth kept filling up with saltwater. Again, I was in the elements, in my element. It was a perfect moment in a beautiful day in a wonderful life.

On the shore, I drank rose, smoked cigarettes, and let my eyes take in the sight, the beautiful sight, of all of the sexy men around me, and my brain and other parts of my body did various things with that visual stimuli, imagined romantic and sexual scenarios playing out with all of these people around me.

If I were to use two words to describe my condition yesterday, they would be: boy crazy.

On the bus ride home, I ended up sitting next to this stranger, this really cute Australian. I flirted with him the whole way home and exchanged numbers before he got off the bus.

I ate burritos in my backyard with the friends I went to the beach with and then after having stared at the feet of one of these guys the whole time I was eating the burrito, imagining them on my face, in my mouth, we took a shower together before tumbling into my bed. And those feet I had fantasized about just moments earlier were all over my face. His cock was in my mouth, mine in his. We came. He left. And I fell asleep in my bed, curving my body around the still wet cum stains on my sheets.

4th of July

There was a moment yesterday at Riis Beach when I saw myself, saw the scene I existed in, and was so happy to have such a gay life. I was wearing an American flag thong, drinking a vodka/soda, and losing my mind dancing to a Deborah Cox remix. Life truly does not get better. Or gayer.

It has been such an insane weekend - basically a mid-thirties gay version of some Girls Gone Wild Spring Break adventure.

Saturday on the beach, there is the guy that I think is one of the cutest people on the planet, long-running crush that I used to work with. He was wearing some vintage running shorts with nothing underneath, the outline of his dick so clear. It was so beautiful. The image is burned in my memory. As soon as I got back from the beach on Saturday, I showered and jerked off, recalling the memory, replaying it again and again, while it was still crisp, before it started to fade.

I have been recalling that dick, the brief glimpse I got of it while talking to him, recalling it over and over all weekend, waking up the image all I think about for my first ten minutes away.

I tried to convince him to come Sunday, but probably for the best he did not, probably for the best because I would have been a thirsty, drooling mess around him. But I found other people to occupy my attention, other boys to crush on. On the bus ride home, I sat next to this boy, cute, and we made out most of the way home to Williamsburg.

Today, I am in a world of pain, of hurt, my body upset with me for raging so hard for four days straight, raging so hard for four days gay.

God Bless America.

Pride and Hangover

Hungover, it’s the day after Pride. I am sitting at my desk at work drinking a Tropical flavored Red Bull, listening to house music, and wishing that I was still partying in the streets, in the sunshine, shirtless, losing my mind, with gays surrounding me, filling the streets, everywhere, us.

The weather was beautiful. I was with great friends. I drank a lot of nutcrackers on the street and had so, so much fun. After the parade, I ended up at the Standard and watched the fireworks over the Hudson River from the rooftop at Le Bain, before going to the Grindr party at Boom Boom Room. The doorman told me I wasn’t dressed appropriately since they don’t allow tank tops up there. And after joking about how it’s a slutty Grindr party, he said I just need to not wear the tank top. So I danced around shirtless in the posh Boom Boom Room all night, overlooking the city, most of the surrounding skyscrapers all done up in rainbow lighting. I made out with several people there, danced, at had a fucking ball.

At some point, the drinking nonstop for two days straight caught up with me and it was time to call it a night. I grabbed some pizza, stuffed my drunken face with it, hopped on the L train home, and then cruised Grindr from the comfort of my bed, but was too drunk, tired to do anything. Left a party sponsored by Grindr to go home and cruise on Grindr. That sentence. So gay. This weekend. So gay. I fucking love Pride so much!

Rio in photos

Rio

These diary entries have become less and less frequent. The energy I used to expend on writing about my life, trying to make sense of it, and trying to frame it (and by extension life itself) into some beautiful poetic order, has taken a backseat to other things - those other things being work, my Burrito Fever project, and just that general laziness that afflicts all of us as we spend hours at night mindlessly scrolling through Facebook, Instagram, and Snapchat with the time that we used to use for reflection, reading, watching intelligent films, and having sex.

I did just return from Rio de Janeiro a couple days ago and feel like the experience should be added to this diary project I have been working on for years now regardless of how little I currently write in here, that at some future date I will wish that I had written down some memories.

We flew out on Friday night, an overnight flight, landed in Rio early Saturday morning, too early to check in to the apartment where we were staying. We dropped off our bags and made our way to have brunch at Parque Lage. Holy fuck. Immediately in those first few cab rides around town I was blown away by the city, by the mountains surrounding it, by how magical it all was. I had been dreaming about coming to this city since I was a kid, was one of those places I had always seen pictures of and wanted to see in person. It was just as incredible in person as those pictures led me to believe, more so.

Parque Lage is one of the most beautiful places not just in Rio, but in the world. I couldn’t believe that that was our first stop in Rio. Unreal. This old colonial building that has a courtyard serving food from which you can see an absolutely insane view of the Christ the Redeemer statue above you.

After brunch, we hiked up to that statue, all the way to the top of that insane mountain. It was a workout that had all of us gasping for breath, wondering why we had all thought it a good idea to do this hike. But once we made it to the top, again, holy fuck! The views from there are insane. I thought up there that I should live here, what it would be to constantly experience such an insane level of natural beauty.

And from there the week turned into a blur. Lots of drinking, lots of time at the beach, very little sleep, very little food. I turned 35 that first night. We went out to various bars around town. Nick and I ended up heading back to Ipanema (where we were staying in a gorgeous apartment) and partied at Galeria Cafe, a small divey club until 4 in the morning.

I spent a day wandering around downtown with Mark, went to things that were closed, but it was still beautiful to see the city, to walk among its street and the daytime office workers. Another day was spent going to Santa Teresa and to Lapa, checking out the sights there.

Days were spent on the beach at Ipanema, nursing hangovers, drinking capirinhas, buying swimsuits, looking at all the beautiful men of Rio.

The men! I could write books about them. There is so much to say, but there were literally the most beautiful men I have ever seen in my life every which way I looked. I want to go back there again and again, and there are a lot of reasons for that, but chief among them is I want to again see and be near such insane male beauty. Bodies shaped by constant physical activity and whatever genetics they were blessed with.

Luckily, we went with Levi, who is Brazilian and so got to experience some magical stuff we wouldn’t have otherwise. His cousin brought us into Santa Marta favela where she is taking lessons at the samba school and we got to watch this massive samba school rehearse and drink at some divey storefront. It was such an amazing experience, one that I will always remember.

Another day, we drove to this amazing beach, Praia do Abrico, with one of his friends, this really cool guy, Jorge. It was a nude beach isolated from everything and just surrounded by insane natural beauty, a cartoon of what a beautiful beach is supposed to look like but entirely real.

And then our last night there, the memory that actually may stick with me the most from the trip is that we went to this divey gay bar in Lapa, Buraco da Lacraia, for a drag show. I didn’t understand anything being said of course, it all being in Portuguese, which is actually a lot harder of a language than I had imagined, and spoken nothing like Spanish. However, it was still a joy to watch and the basic plot points of the show came across. I loved looking at the packed room full of people, enthralled by and laughing at this show so much. At the end of their show, they did a Portuguese version of “We Are The World,” following by a reading of the 49 names of people killed in the Orlando attacks. All throughout the audience, people were sobbing as they read through the names, knowing that an attack on a gay bar halfway around the world was still an attack on them. It was an attack on all of us, that we are one big gay family. It was the most emotional, beautiful gay moment that I have ever had and really put the world into perspective for me.

I got back to the US Sunday morning and spent the last two days recovering from having partied straight for the previous eight days. I can’t wait to go back.

Prince

There is the news you’re never ready for, the news that when someone tells you, you think, surely, they must be joking, that this is a terrible joke, that this can’t be real. That was the case yesterday when a coworker casually mentioned that Prince had just died.

No. Not Prince. Impossible. A bad Internet hoax. A rumor.

Sadly, though, yes. Yes, Prince. Possible. Not a hoax. Not a rumor.

I am still unable to fully fathom that I currently live on this planet and that Prince does not. He has been with me nearly my whole life, through so many phases of my life, always teaching me new things. As a kid, I remember watching his videos, hearing his songs, and loving them. As an early teen, through BMG Music Club or one of those similar subscription services that I was always delinquent in paying for, I received the 3-disc set “Hits and B-Sides.” To say I played the shit out of those CDs is an understatement. I learned every single word to every single one of those songs, playing them again and again, making mixtapes with those songs featuring prominently on them.

He was my first lover. He was everyone’s first lover. Which is why his death hurts so fucking much. Before I ever kissed anyone, before I ever made any awkward gropings in the dark with someone, before I ever had sex, or felt the power of touch, I felt it through his music, through his erotic charge that came through so much of those early songs of his. He made some of the sexiest music ever made and it taught me what it was to be human, what it was to be a sexual being, how those feelings were worthy of celebration, were worthy of song.

So there is that, which is no small thing.

As importantly, he allowed me to be queer. He created a space in popular culture for femme, flamboyant males. He lit an alternative path, something other than the normal constricts of masculinity. As an awkward teen, unsure about my sexuality, trying my best to deny it, to not be that word faggot that other kids in high school called me, he presented a confidence and an assuredness in his self-presentation, as gay as gay could be, and yet not even gay. For me, that meant so much, and in retrospect I can see how much an influence he had on me, how his liberated self allowed me to strive toward my own self-liberation.

He liberated me in so many senses. His dancing. His fucking dancing. I don’t dance with the same enthusiasm anymore, but when I first went to college, at all those parties, when all those Prince songs came on, and they seemed to come on all the time at those New College parties, I danced free, in love with movement and with what my body was capable of, of putting on a show, of feeling the music. That was learned from watching Prince videos, from him showing what was possible, those splits (which obviously I was never capable of), and that careening, sailing around the stage. Every time I danced to a Prince song, I was Prince, was trying to be, was trying to have the same grace, sexiness, and charisma while dancing.

I can’t believe this man is gone.

In later years, once I was living in New York, I downloaded his whole discography and went through album by album, amazed at this man’s talent. So all of the above, the space he created with his persona, that’s one thing, but then there is just his insane level of talent on vivid display throughout his insanely huge catalog of music, music that he made almost entirely by himself (session musicians aside). That he played every instrument on his first album (released at the age of 20!) just boggles the mind. A level of talent with songwriting, singing, guitar playing, piano playing, dancing - perfect at every single one of them. It almost seems unfair that one single human could be so talented, have so much skill, but he was hungry and had a work ethic that none of mere mortals could ever hope to approach. But still I hold him and his work ethic up as my lodestar - something to aspire to - to try to approach art and making stuff with the same level of intensity and passion.

I saw him perform twice in concert and both times were religious experiences. The amount that this man means to me had me sitting on the edge of my seat, just blown away, experiencing floods of overwhelming emotions, knowing how lucky I was to see him live, that it would be something I would always hold tight for the rest of my life, those memories.

The music slices right through me like nothing else. Rhythm is fucking life and this man’s sense of rhythm and melody just prove what a life-force this man was. He was just on another plane and had an understanding of things and translating those things to art in a way that is nothing short of breathtaking.

“If I could I would give you the world, but all I can do is offer you my love.”

But Prince, you did. You gave me the world. Thank you, thank you, thank you for everything.

"Let Me Know" - Roisin Murphy

Two nights ago, I found out that I didn’t get this job I really wanted. I cried in my bed as I went to sleep, having wanted this job so, so bad, and feeling myself so close to it after two rounds of interviews. In a way, it felt like a romantic rejection - it was the same sort of hurt, the same type of insecurity, and the same fear about what my future would be. But it was also something more than that and a new experience for me - there was also a layer of artistic judgement in it, that I had failed to impress, that something in my work came up short.

It was for a copywriter role at a really hip, trendy agency. The people that worked there seemed great and the work they make is awesome. I showed them my work, but more than my ad work, they were really into my burrito project, which I had talked to one of the creative directors about in passing, mentioning that it was probably NSFW. He was super into it and shared it with the other creative directors there, which is what got me the second interview there. It was a feeling of validation that they got it, saw what I was trying to do, and really liked it.

And so believing myself so close to this job after a really good second interview and already dreaming about what I was going to say in my resignation letter to my current place of employment, it was immensely painful when I saw the email come up on my phone and I could read the first line even more opening it, spotted that tell-tale “Unfortunately.” Anything that starts with that word is never good news, and I knew even before opening it that I didn’t get the job.

So the job search continues. The crying session was helpful in that it showed me that I am doing the right thing, that I have never cried about jobs in the past because I never really saw them as reflective of me or my skills, but rather as some form of income. The crying let me know officially that I am an adult and I cry about jobs now, not boys. It let me know that I am doing what I want to be doing and that’s why not being able to do it where I wanted to stung so bad.

I didn’t get it and it sucks and yeah I felt totally bummed and depressed and really didn’t want to go into work the next day. But I did and I am doing shit. There are other opportunities out there and I just need to chase them harder. I wrote a recruiter yesterday and she’s putting me forward for another job. I am working on my burrito project. I am teaching myself new skills. I am getting fit. I am alive. There is so much happening. It’s fucking Spring and let’s take over the world, let’s carve out a space for us to live happily, confidently, where we can do shit that we want to do, shit that we’re proud of.

Big Ang

Last night, Big Ang died. I read the news on Facebook, as bad news often seems to be encountered these days. I don’t know what to say about it but I do feel that something needs to be said, that I need to commemorate in some small ways what this woman meant to me. She was an inspiration to me in her brashness, in her love of life, and in her bigness. Yes, she was a reality tv star, but something human shone through all that and from the first time I saw her on screen, I was captivated by this woman and for a while something close to obsessed with her.

She was so expressive in all of her facial reactions and in her body language. She was so alive and engaged with the world in such a beautiful way. I wanted to be her, to have that same liberated sense of fun she seemed capable of. She was all about the good life and, yes, it’s living that good life too much that caused her to die at an early age. But she was so alive, more alive than most people ever will be, during her time here.

I met her once at her Brass Monkey bar when she had an outpost of it in Dumbo. I went to it opening night, knowing that she would be there. She was and for an hour or so, I watched her and her friends drunkenly party all over the bar, waiting for some moment when I could approach her and tell her how much I loved her. I told her and she was blasted but excited to chat with me briefly, appreciating the love. I took a photo with. She squeezed my cheeks, and that night I was the happiest person on the planet, having finally encountered in person this larger-than-life figure who meant so much to me.

And so last night, her death, while making me insanely sad also reminded me of what it is to be alive, what a short thing this is, our time here on Earth, and how there are innumerable approaches to what to do with that time, but certainly one of the best ways of using that time would be to follow Big Ang’s example and to fucking live loudly.

That’s what I have been trying to do lately - to have fun, to not have shame, to follow my passions where they may lead me unconcerned about what some people may think, to live, and to try to make the most of this time here on Earth.

Last week, I went on a date with this incredibly sexy guy, my first time going on a date with a guy in...honestly, I can’t even remember the last one... a year maybe? It was nice, but when he first got to the bar where I was meeting with him, I got nervous, clammed up, and felt crazy insecure, thought this person was too good for me, too attractive for me, that something about this equation wasn’t right. So despite this person looking at me in a way I could definitely tell meant he was attracted to me, that deep-rooted insecurity of me grew branches and started sprouting all over the place. I did a mental aboutface though. I realized that this person was here because he wanted to be, that he was looking at me because he was attracted to me, and that I needed to get ahold of myself very quickly if I didn’t want this date to go off the rails.

There is a self-sabotaging part of myself that comes out often in my interactions with people that I am attracted to, that for whatever reasons I don’t believe that I am deserving or worthy of affection and so do my best to make that the case. And this was one of those instances, but then I hit the brakes and engaged. I became present. I became alive. It’s so fucking easy to start doing laps in your brain, running through various things and thinking why things won’t work or why this person shouldn’t like you. But I muted that annoying talk show happening and became present in the scene. And from that point, the date went great. We had a lovely dinner, snacked on pig’s tails, and then went back to his place and had amazing sex. He lives behind my favorite burrito place in the world, which I take to be a sign, a very important sign.

I met with a recruiter yesterday about getting a new job. I am serious about living my best life and having the most fun while doing so. Big Ang, I fucking love you!

riding in white Broncos through the fog of nostalgic memories

John Travolta as Robert Shapiro is otherworldly. I watched The People vs. O.J. Simpson last night and have been thinking about his performance in it all morning long. It was one of those incandescent performances that glows long after the show’s over. I’m not sure what that thing is about a particular performance that stirs something inside of us, why I am so moved, astounded, wowed, and still thinking about his portrayal, about the magic that human beings are capable of.

Probably because I am trying to find my own magic, to get better and more committed about harnessing it, about summoning it, putting whatever talents it is I do have to use.

It’s a constant process but I am getting better at it.

And so watching that performance last night, I saw it, saw other people harnessing their magic. This is why things like this inspire us, stir us, because it’s a reminder to keep on chasing the dream, that we are capable of thrilling things, that amazing art is possible.

And what that means in my case is that I am getting more and more serious about this Burrito Fever project I am pursuing, thinking of visual approaches and what it means to document oneself, what it means to document food, what the culture of selfies, and sexy Instagram accounts mean, what they represent - all of the numerous things to unpack. And I love this process of process, of working through these things by doing, of finding things, of finding one’s self.

There is a certain level of fearlessness and moxy that I am embracing lately and which I love. The more I embrace it, the happier I feel with the stuff I am making.

Work drains me, which is nothing new. I am on the job hunt, which also is nothing new. A seeming constant in my life. I want to be doing bigger things than my current job allows. I want to be changing the fucking world and not just writing funny tweets.

I am a blonde. I bleached my hair last weekend and it feels great to look in the mirror. I see myself. I see a different self, the self I hadn’t seen in awhile. Changing my appearance allowed me to become more aware of my appearance, to see this thing that I had been unable to see because I had become too accustomed to it, too used to it. I saw this person, myself, and I liked what I saw. I like what I see.