Dancing On My Own During Gay Pride
I've been reading this memoir that reads like my life. The End of the World as We Know It: Scenes from a Life. Though, I wasn't raised in the rural south, I had my own misfortunes being reared in the shadow of the largest city in the United States and that comes with its own diseases and strife. Robert Goolrick, how did you ever survive? The photograph of you on the back page depresses me. I still see a deep sadness in your eyes and you're how old? You write about your life with such ease and distance. You claim your "memories are vague [...] and perhaps not accurate." But it really isn't about the specifics, or the details that fold and tear like the edges of newspaper clippings. "I see my own childhood as though it happened to someone else, some person I don't recognize, just a series of brief moving pictures in which I am an insignificant figure," Goolrick writes. This distance you refer to, your depersonalization is what makes you a good writer. It's the reason I'm so enthralled with your story, with your book. I've felt the same way my entire life. It started off as a defense mechanism; a way to counteract the suffering I was found myself drowning in. Let's immediately detach myself from the horrors of a life. A life spent deflecting emotion. There I was with a mirror in my trembling hand trying to reflect the pain away like sunlight. Little did I know this detachment would assemble a heart guarded by stone. It would take a thousand sad songs to penetrate this rock in my chest. Don't get me wrong, there are moments that feel like jackhammers on my ribcage. Some of those moments have happened rather recently, during the early morning hours when most people are asleep. Screaming helplessly in my car, broken glass all over your lap and feet. I rumble tumble out of the car and we say things we don't genuinely mean. Throat dry and hoarse. We spent the night in sweaty New York bars and clubs dancing to Kelis and Ricky Martin. But there are fractures all over this heart. Blood and emotion flood through these channels like gondolas in a Venetian canal. Love seeps through and I'm soaked with it. Overboard with no life jacket, just a riptide, whirlpool, and a current dragging me further away from anything I've ever known. But I'm a swimmer. At summer camp I swam lap after lap, winning races. Each year, I'd swim the mile swim in the black lake using various strokes and getting a patch for succeeding. I'm not worried about drowning. What worries me is how quickly and often I fluctuate between empathy and apathy. One moment I'm in tears imagining your funeral and how lonely I would feel without you and in the next moment I'm the one plotting your death. Goolrick is right, memories are vague. I realized I don't spend enough time documenting my life. When I'm his age, I don't want to be publishing my first novel with vague memories. If I keep up with this journal, memories will never have to become hazy generalizations. There's nothing I can't stand more than generalizations (except maybe clichés). By his age, I wouldn't mind having a few memoirs already published. Even if no one reads them, it would feel good to see them in a neat collection. Robert Goolrick is inspiring me to continue chronicling my life, in whatever form that might be. Through status updates on Facebook or here on Livejournal. Life is not worth living without the proper reflection, without examination. I like studying myself as a protagonist. I hope to construct the various villains and antagonists in my life with heavy detail and symbolism. Whether they be human or vices, there is no difference. They are monsters standing on my feet, pulling me down into the depths of despondency. I remain unmedicated because I find comfort in my depression. No one likes reading happy stories. There's beauty in the breakdown. There's beauty in darkness. There's beauty in my life, but we as readers only want glimpses of said beauty. If the weather was always 75 degrees and sunny we would take it for granted. That's why Los Angeles frightens me. A Hollywood set within a Hollywood set. I'll stick with New York and my change of seasons. Please excuse this interruption...this is a test...a test from the Emergency Broadcast system...
I've been obsessively listening to "Street Lights" by Kanye West. I heard it for the first time in a gay saloon in the 40s. S/D and I were out with his old boss having a drink for his 21st birthday. Yes, the boyfriend can legally drink now. I ordered a Blue Moon and the glass seemed three feet tall. Bradley was munching on peanuts and drinking what I thought was water and lime but later found out was something alcoholic. S/D worried about arriving late because his boss is always punctual. Just five minutes tardy, his boss didn't seem to mind our late entrance. He even bought him a huge oreo cupcake which I drunkenly devoured in the hotel later that night. B bought a few more rounds and his partner Mel showed up. Mel and I were bonding over the recently released Gaga video "Alejandro" and he was informing me of all the allusions and pop citations. Being born in the 80s leaves a boy misguided. I keep telling people Gaga's borrowed pop references are refreshing but I find it difficult to really narrow down why it's different than before. I really need to read up on more art/pop theory. So, this desperately sad song comes on the speakers in the bar and I'm completely floored by it. It's pure pop confection, but it's sad and I need it. I need to pocket it. I need to own it. I need to throw it on my iPod and listen to it on repeat. I don't have an iPhone anymore so Shazam is out of the question. I look at the internet jukebox and can't find the title. I ask everyone around me if they know what song is playing and everyone shakes their heads no. S/D saves the day by pointing out the artist which is at the bottom of the screen on the jukebox. Ooops. Who knew Kanye West could write such a song. It's simple. Autotuned and distant. But for some reason it's like a rush a blood to the head. Or the heart rather...I text myself the title of the song so I don't forget it. After birthday adventures I scour the internet for it and there it is, in all its glory. There are even remixes that finesse and dance it up. After downloading a few, I remain loyal with the original. Repeat, repeat repeat...
Kanye West- Street Lights
Gay Pride was last weekend in New York City. It was my first Gay Pride in NYC. My first Gay Pride (am I supposed to capitalize it?) was in San Francisco during this same exact weekend last year. It was just days after Michael Jackson died. I was in Arizona for a few days visiting family just before hitting up California. I was in the Escalade with my British uncle Ralph when we first heard the news of Michael Jackson. We were on our way for some Mexican food, driving along a road that seemed to go on forever. Beautiful mountains in the distance and a few raindrops hit the windshield in the middle of a suburban desert. The hint of rain was almost as surreal as hearing about Michael Jackson's death. TMZ reported it first and my uncle and I weren't convinced it was true until another source would reinforce it. It was during that moment when another news corporation did and I felt this sharp pain in my chest. Never was I a huge Michael Jackson fan. But I know there are home videos of me mimicking his dance moves in my childhood kitchen. I might not own any of his albums but I listened to his song at the end of Free Willy. While I was learning how to form complete sentences and distinguishing a vowel from a consonant, I was horrified and intrigued by the "Thriller" music video and a boy who would wear one glove. He was part of my childhood, if I liked it or not. He immersed himself within the rearing of every child born in the 80s. It was inescapable. Perhaps that is what Gaga is to children born in the 00s? My little brother and sisters are always singing her songs. They even watch her rather disturbing videos on YouTube. Why do I always turn to popular culture? I was writing about Pride. Pride in San Francisco was awesome. Despite the corporate advertising during the parade I rather enjoyed myself in the hot sun. At night down in the Castro, with streets blocked off so all the gays and lesbians could mingle without cars and trucks running them over in their drunken stupor. Despite it being hot and sweaty, I still had major fun. It was difficult to find a place to purchase a drink or urinate but I managed. I remember finding a leather bar, or what seemed like a leather bar, with slightly older men with all their shirts off, showing off their furry chests. It was my only hope to relieve my bladder. I ended up pissing in a trough with a bunch of other men. It wasn't until a few seconds later that I realized there was a mirror reflecting all of our cocks. Eeeek. And there was this one guy who was chatting with me. Friendly banter...but still...my penis is out in view of about eight other guys.
But I already wrote about that last year. Jump back a year and find out for yourself. Pride in New York was different. I did end up going to some bars I never been to before. Overall, I was a bit underwhelmed. I'm not sure why. I was annoyed by the insane covers at bars that normally don't have a covers. I despised the profiting and financial incentives every establishment looked for during Pride. Bars, restaurants, delis, travel agencies, sushi restaurants all waving their gay flags about. Trying to court us 'mos and lesbians to spend more and more money. It annoyed me. S/D and I walked around the East Village in circles looking for the Boiler Room. Oh, how I miss my iPhone... When we finally find it, there is a huge queue of gays outside. We opt against and walk a few blocks to Woody's. A gaggle of 'mos are smoking outside and we mistake them for another line. We find the correct line and realize we're not on the list. A few dollars poorer we are in and I really dig the space. Dark and loungey with boys dancing in the back. We're only there for three minutes and the repetitious beat is already making me nauseous. I really want to dance. It's my entire objective for Saturday night. Kelis has been working me up all week for a proper night out with hot sweaty bodies groovin and movin on a dance floor. No need for a disco ball. Just a group of people letting their limbs loose. We order two shots and a beer. We need to make up for the half-hour we spent circling the East Village. While we patiently wait for the bartender I notice a familiar face. One of those faces you recognize immediately. But you know you don't know them personally, you just know them from a distance. In this case, this distance is between my right hand and a computer screen. My favorite porn star is standing right there, just a few feet away. I gasp and inform S/D of my sighting. There's a hint of jealousy in his eyes. It reminds me of when I was thirteen and I was obsessed with Fiona Apple and my girlfriend at the time used to get insanely jealous when I would thumb through her album sleeves and watch "Criminal" on repeat on the VHS tape I had dedicated to her. He disappears a few minutes later in the crowd. I sign the receipt with the ridiculous number at the bottom. Boys here are wearing shorter shorts than I and I wonder if I should correct my hemline. Do shorts even have hemlines? We're meeting a friend here. But we want to leave because dancing can't happen here. But we also don't want to leave to get our money's worth. We remember we are stamped and can come back whenever we want. Said friend is standing outside. He doesn't want to pay the ridiculous cover. I tell him about the porn star who happens to be one of his best friends. He spots him outside in the smoking gaggle of gays. He runs over and says hi. S/D and I plan out our next move. Back to the Boiler Room. We walk up to my friend and he introduces us to his friends. And one of those friends happen to be my porn star crush. J already knows about my infatuation and I already know the man behind the porn star mask. He's much more interesting than his "character." Partnered for years. Grad school. Artist. Etc. I leave my wallet on the same counter of the same bodega the last time I went to the Boiler Room. This time I had an excuse. I dropped my drugs on the floor. No more line outside the bar. I'm done drinking for the night. Because I returned the half of vicodin to my pocket from the floor of the bodega. I thank the heavens that the bartender who crushes on S/D isn't there. It's the same bartender he exchanged numbers with while we were dating. Yeah, I know. But we're past that. After Boiler Room we head to the subway back. Brooklyn is in our near future. We walk down the stairs and realize the next train isn't for another 21 minutes. We walk back up. S/D smokes. I sit on some pipe protruding from a building. We joke with some other 'mos who wish us a Happy Pride. We go to Sugarland. I gladly pay a reasonable cover because I know dancing will ensue. Drink for S/D, water for me. We walk over the crowd of dancers where the DJ spins to get to the other side. Outside we stand on the roof while he smokes and I try and get some fresh air around all these smokers. I love it out here. On the roof. In Brooklyn. At night. With the door that leads to nowhere. A larger loud 'mo keeps pushing into S/D while we converse with boys from different hometowns. We converse with another 'mo and his friend. She doesn't like being called a fag hag and we tell her she isn't one. And the term does not always refer to the typical definition. She doesn't think she's large enough or ugly enough to fit the stereotype. She's right. The larger loud 'mo unintentionally starts pushing into me while we chat with these two cousins. One is from Pennsylvania. Two gay cousins. Why does everyone have gay relatives except for me? I guess the better question is why does everyone have openly gay relatives except for me? I awkwardly ask if they are "kissing cousins" despite not really understanding what that means and the conversation held still for a few second too long. The DJ starts playing Robyn's "Dancing On My Own" and I know this is my moment to dance but I have to piss like a busted fire hose. We rush to the bathroom and I join the crowd of sweaty hipsters. S/D stands on the stairs and observes. I continue dancing on the sidelines...by myself and wonder about the irony of the song. I am dancing on my own but I'm not wearing stilettos. I continue dancing even when Robyn is over. S/D signals he's going to go smoke again outside on the roof. I dance. I dance alone. I dance with all these strangers around me, but I don't care. Kelis comes on and I have been waiting for this moment since I downloaded her new album. I'm sipping a cup of lukewarm water, the ice is almost all melted. I see both of the cousins we were talking to earlier on the dance floor. We all continue dancing, this time together. Ricky Martin comes on and I feel weird dancing to it. I tell PA that in his ear and he laughs and jokes about how useless it was when he came out. I tell him I guess we're celebrating his queerness tonight in Brooklyn. The non-PA cousin asks where S/D is I point up to the roof and he goes up there. I notice PA has ugly shoes. Dance dance dance. PA lingers to another boy who has his shirt off and S/D disappears from the stairs again. I check my phone and there is a missed call. We reconvene. It's getting late. Almost 4am. I'm completely sober. At least I think I am. I shove a slice of pizza down my throat just in case. Drive home. The sun is already rising and there's a bad taste in my mouth. A good is turning bad with each mile driven eastward...
Robyn- Dancing On My Own (Acoustic)
I drop S/D at the train station at 7am. He has Gay Pride parade obligations with his old employer. I hurry into my bed and promise to meet up in the afternoon. Exhausted...I lubricate my mind and body with an iced coffee. Get to Brooklyn at a reasonable time. Hop on the subway. Meet S/D on 14th and 5th. I'm walking the parade with him. Thankfully they cut the parade short this year, by twenty blocks. It still felt long. S/D spent the entire morning downing Red Bulls that magically appeared on the float. He's dripping with sweat and every time we kiss he tastes like salt. I don't mind. We catch up with his employer and their float. Their float of twenty singers. Metropolitan Community Church. His ex-boyfriend who is now dating this awesome girl who just published a collection of poems is there jumping around popping bubbles another 'mo is blowing. He's probably on meth. He seems so loopy. I want to throw the bottle of water I have in my hand at his shaved head. We walk down Fifth Avenue holding hands. During a few select moments, I actually understand why the Pride parade exists. There were a few moments when I actually felt prideful; it felt good to hold hands with my boyfriend and watch all the crowds of half-naked people on the sidewalks, waving and screaming, and smiling at us. Perhaps we should be celebrating who we are. Even if we are uncomfortable with who we are. I didn't fear judgment on Sunday, the way I do when I'm holding hands with him in a restaurant or walking down Sixth Avenue on any old Tuesday. Boys with no shirts on, with just briefs and suspenders. Face paint, glitter, and rainbow flags worn as skirts and togas. Cute boys with cute haircuts nodding as we walk past them. Cameras everywhere. Pointing in our direction. I can't tell if they are taking snapshots or filming us. But on each side of the street there are hundreds of people holding up cameras with smiles on their faces. Boys are hanging out of apartment windows. Girls with black tape covering their nipples and areoles. Dads are pulling their children in wagons. It's hot and I wonder if I should put more sunblock on. We walk past Bruce LaBruce who has a microphone in hand lending his comedic charm for the spectators on either side of the street. The parade ends and we separate from the float. The jovial choir that followed us singing Kelis's "Acapella" started to fade in the distance. Parade marchers look exhausted, spent, and oddly fulfilled.
We sit down beside a building in the shade a few blocks away. I watch a police officer ticket a fellow parader who was drinking alcohol from a plastic thermos. I begin to wonder how cold some people's hearts are. Us queer are given one day to march and celebrate who we are but we are still policed, observed and ticketed. We meet up with new friends we made a few weeks ago. We follow them into a bar. Soccer is playing on numerous flat-screen televisions. I could care less. But everyone is cheering cheer cheer cheer and we're standing near an ice machine that growls like a dinosaur every three or so minutes. It terrifies me and Tucker does a good impression of it. After they finish their beers and we hydrate with water we decide to walk to Chelsea and cool down in some guy's apartment. The walk is intense. We run into the drag queen Hedda Lettuce. The same drag queen we saw perform just a few days prior at the Chelsea Clearview where she did commentary during Mommie Dearest. She's wearing Nike's with her drag costume and it seems so wrong. A drag queen without heels? It sounds like a crime. We tell how awesome she is and she seems genuinely excited that we had a good time. Something's off and she even admits feeling a bit aloof. I feel as if I should ticket her for another crime. Drag queens should never seem aloof; they should always be on. Wit is their driving force. She wishes us a happy pride and we continue walking. I didn't tell her I cackled like a hyena during the entire movie. Nor did I tell her I was falling out of my seat hyperventilating with her every joke. S/D can vouch for that because I spent most of the movie burying my face in his lap to stifle my intense laughter.
Pee stops at Starbucks because that is NYC's public restrooms. Ahhhh. It feels nice to just sit...in air conditioning. Everyone makes jokes about lube being all over the apartment. On door handles, area rugs, and leather couches. Supposedly the owner invented the substance or something like that. We pocket some of it when given to us. B logs into Grindr, S/D almost falls asleep in my lap. I read a business card that is on the table. CPA. I see an East Meadow yearbook and I want to look through it so bad. The television is playing Top 40 hits and we're drinking more water out of tiny Dixie cups. The owner comes home in an OCD rush. He starts picking up said cups and throwing them away. He's very Jewish. He's wearing cargo shorts and he keeps looking up and down at all of us. Sizing us up. I think I see him licking his lips when I pull my shorts up a bit. I do notice his eyes lingering on S/D and I. Later on our new friend informs us that S/D and I are the Jew's type. I wish said friend would enlighten me with what type I actually am. Jew's partner comes home and is wearing a Kiehl's tank-top. He just got off their float in the parade. He had a blast. He makes a joke about us being so young. 12 is always the go to number for some reason. I don't want to tell him how old I am. He has a six-pack underneath that tank-top and he's very intrigued by all of us. He sits down right next to S/D and casually interrogates us. Jew just got back from Fire Island and looks sunned out. New Friend who I will call Illusionist from this moment on senses that Jew wants us to leave. Probably to have another orgy, which supposedly happened the night before on the couch that we are all sitting on. I look for cum stains. We gather our belongings and seek food. In a bodega, I stand behind a 'mo in cargo shorts and a pink mohawk trying to retrieve money from an ATM. He seems fucked up on some drug I probably never did and I just want to guide him through the process of withdrawing money. Instead I impatiently wait while he swipes his card yet again. Illusionist is yelling at the clerk behind the register for ripping off Tucker. Supposedly he charged him too much for his pack of smokes. I finally give up and find a bank. Of course it's that scary Asian bank. $3 service fee. I hate banks. Especially that one. We sit down at sushi. Illusionist orders a bottle of sake. Cold sake. It's my first time trying it and it tastes like cough syrup. He then orders another bottle of hot sake and that tastes much better. Another bottle is ordered before dinner is finished and I'm feeling a little more than buzzed. Everyone orders weird looking things that would probably frighten the 'mo with the pink mohwak who is probably standing behind that same ATM trying to withdraw whatever he wants to withdraw. My peanut avocado rolls are mushy because the restaurant thinks peanut butter and avocado would go good together. Every other restaurant I've ever been to uses peanuts. The consistency was off. I felt off. Everyone left to go smoke and the Illusionist and I stayed behind. He tells me S/D and I look cute together and that we seem in love. He says he always catches us kissing. This is true. But the kisses he's referring to are subtle attempts to patch up the wounds which have been bleeding furiously from our chests since early this morning. I kind of hint at some trouble in paradise and I think he gets it. The Illusionist offers a bunch of rolls no one eats to the table next to us. They offer a blow job in return and everyone laughs under their breath. Tucker and S/D are really hitting it off. They are hysterical. S/D interrupts the meal with, "I don't know if I should bring this up but..." and I begin to question is intellect. If you have to preface a statement with such words then you probably shouldn't say it. He says it anyway and no one understands what he's talking about (with the exception of me). I'm one to talk. I was the one who asked two strangers who happen to be cousins if they are "kissing cousins" and they both looked at me like as if I were deranged.
Off to Pier 54 where a gaggle of gays are supposed to be. S/D and I don't have tickets but the Illusionist comes up with a pair. Wristbanded and ready for the special guest to perform we walk towards the water. It's rumored that Lindsay Lohan is supposed to be the surprise guest. S/D checks his bag in and forgets his cigarettes behind so he has to bum off of everyone else. He makes a deal with a security guard that allows him to piss in a water bottle near the fence we are standing near if he can watch and there goes S/D filling up the clear plastic bottle with his light yellow urine. Everyone around us is considerably older. All gay men. Almost all of them have their shirts off. Muscles everywhere. Testosterone just seeping through all their pores. We're standing on line for drink tickets and this completely oblivious 'mo attempts to cut everyone. He's really tall, thick black wavy hair. He has a sick body and stares off into his iPhone 4 trying to casually cut in front of us. He reminds me of Patrick Bateman. The Hispanic gay behind us actually confronts the dude and starts yelling at him but Patrick Bateman just stares into his phone with a slight half smile contorting his face. The yelling persists as we near the table and I'm not sure if the Hispanic gay is going to throw a punch or not. I'm more scared of the quiet seemingly vacuous gay who is pretending none of this is happening. Does he have knife hidden in his khaki shorts? The Hispanic guy wins by pushing in front of him and we order our drink tickets at the same time as Mr. Bateman. I don't mind. I'd rather not get my throat slit. When I see Bateman fingering his money. I realize he's really fucked up. He keeps counting the same four $1 bills over and over and it creeps me out. He still has that half smile on his beautiful face. Ugh. Grab my tickets and run. We are packed like sardines (ughhh I hate cliches) on this pier. It's nearing 7pm and the sun is setting but it still feels disgustingly hot. I'm exhausted. S/D is probably even more exhausted. He didn't sleep for a minute the night before.
The Illusionist starts talking to a a twink whose shorts rest way below his hips. He's wearing underwear which look like a jockstrap. He's ugly, but thin and I guess that is what makes a twink a twink. Thin, hairless, not necessarily cute. The twink's friend who has his shirt off comes up to B and Tucker and starts fingering his hairy chest and says, "Do you like this sweater I got from Neiman Marcus?" I overhear this and vomit a little in the back of my throat. What a creep. Photos are taken with camera phones. The repetitious beat the DJ has been playing for the last hour is drilling through my skull. There is a new cold beer in my hand every time I take a sip. They only serve Bud Light and it takes like water. I feel so drunk and the beers keep coming. Why did I even buy all these drink tickets? We see a guy dealing crystal and there are so many guys dancing grinding dancing up on each other. I can't dance unless there a pop song is playing. Not once do we hear a Gaga song. That depresses me. I blame the old 'mos here. But I'm amazed to hear an Alanis song. Tucker and B's shirts are off and they are tucked behind them in the waist band of their shorts. Smooth bodies. We wait and wait for the special guest. A drag queen comes out and performs a song and we think she's going to introduce Lindsay. She leaves the stage and offers no such introduction. The dance party is over. I'm saddened and annoyed. Two members of our party already left because they couldn't handle the wait. Nor did they want to wait for such a person. We walk and walk walk and walk. Every cab denies us because we are one too many persons. We get in one but he decides to kick us out after just a few blocks because all the streets and avenues are closed. We find ourselves at a piano bar. The Illusionist sees I'm drinking water and orders me a whiskey. The stairs leading to the bathroom frighten me. I'm going to trip. I'm going trip. I'm going to trip. We leave the piano bar and as we're leaving they start singing a song from Grease. Tucker and I stick around and belt out some of the verses. I feel like I'm in junior high again. I claim a table in the pizzeria. S/D knows Mr. Pizza behind the counter. The world is spinning. Tina calls me again. She's out of Michael Winterbottom's movie that was playing just a few blocks away. We have to walk in convoluted circles just to get to another place. We get there. Urinate. Then leave. Tina finds us. Stonewall is even charging a cover. Tina is there with Michael A. and we tell them to meet us in the East Village. At Arrow. We have to make a few pit stops on the way. Oddly enough, it didn't take too long to retrieve backpacks and check-in at the hotel and get to the bar. I'm done. So done and want to stay at the hotel. I lay down on the bed and want the pillows to comfort my whirlwind of a mind. But S/D is stubborn and makes me get up. Off to Arrow. I have a glass of water and everyone has one last drink. Tina is there and I'm all sorts of miserable. Fatigued and too drunk. I wanted dancing and there is no dancing going on here. I feel bad for leaving Tina behind when she didn't even finish he glass of Merlot. I think she understood.
I pay for the cab back to the hotel. I want another delicious cookie from the receptionist. Up up up up in the elevator. I'm squirming on the floor in my American Apparel briefs. S/D tells me to stop acting like a fool. Tucker tells him to stop yelling at me like I'm a dog. I just want to go to sleep. Give me some blankets. It feels like Alaska in here. S/D and I cuddle like a cocoon on the floor. Each time I wake up some body part of mine is frozen because it slipped out of our blanket cocoon. S/D's teeth are chattering. Morning comes. We take showers. S/D and I make out behind the curtain. We're so horny and he goes down on me. I pull him back up so I can stick my tongue down his throat and we stay that way, tongues swirling around each other's mouths as we jack each other off. Mmmmm...I crawl back into bed. Someone already made coffee. I sip B's and crave Stumptown which is only a few blocks away. Tucker and I watch Rachel Ray on some cooking channel. She's in Hawaii. We keep making fun of how hungry and fat she is. It's hilarious. S/D thinks the frosted glass on the hotel across from us is snow. Remembering how cold our slumber was, it did seem very likely. Stumptown happens and I'm starting to feel like a person again once coffee is running through my bloodstream. We want food. We end up walking to Chelsea. I get a grilled cheese and tomato soup at Elmo's. I've never been here before and I don't understand why. S/D makes fun of the waiter's hairline; he reminds me of a friend of a friend who sings show tunes. A family that looks like the cast of The Hills gets seated a few tables away. I swear the woman on her cell phone is famous. I can't figure it out. I want to strangle her daughters with their long blonde hair. I continue eating my soup and I make a joke that the Illusionist's idol is Neil Patrick Harris. The Illusionist confesses that NPH is his friend and that they may or may not have slept together. What?! It makes sense since the Illusionist is actually a professional magician. NPH is all about magic. He's a member of some Magician alliance/organization/cult. I tell the Illusionist that I'm a scorpio and S/D's a gemini. "You probably have really awesome intense sex but equally heated and intense fights," he says. I no longer believe that he's a magician, I think he's psychic because he's completely right. Back to Brooklyn. Hoping my car is not towed or ticketed. I desire a coma and all I get is a nap. I guess that's Gay Pride in New York City. Boyfriend falling asleep on my lap while I drive. Stuck in traffic wondering if I'll stop seeing red.
I've been obsessively listening to "Street Lights" by Kanye West. I heard it for the first time in a gay saloon in the 40s. S/D and I were out with his old boss having a drink for his 21st birthday. Yes, the boyfriend can legally drink now. I ordered a Blue Moon and the glass seemed three feet tall. Bradley was munching on peanuts and drinking what I thought was water and lime but later found out was something alcoholic. S/D worried about arriving late because his boss is always punctual. Just five minutes tardy, his boss didn't seem to mind our late entrance. He even bought him a huge oreo cupcake which I drunkenly devoured in the hotel later that night. B bought a few more rounds and his partner Mel showed up. Mel and I were bonding over the recently released Gaga video "Alejandro" and he was informing me of all the allusions and pop citations. Being born in the 80s leaves a boy misguided. I keep telling people Gaga's borrowed pop references are refreshing but I find it difficult to really narrow down why it's different than before. I really need to read up on more art/pop theory. So, this desperately sad song comes on the speakers in the bar and I'm completely floored by it. It's pure pop confection, but it's sad and I need it. I need to pocket it. I need to own it. I need to throw it on my iPod and listen to it on repeat. I don't have an iPhone anymore so Shazam is out of the question. I look at the internet jukebox and can't find the title. I ask everyone around me if they know what song is playing and everyone shakes their heads no. S/D saves the day by pointing out the artist which is at the bottom of the screen on the jukebox. Ooops. Who knew Kanye West could write such a song. It's simple. Autotuned and distant. But for some reason it's like a rush a blood to the head. Or the heart rather...I text myself the title of the song so I don't forget it. After birthday adventures I scour the internet for it and there it is, in all its glory. There are even remixes that finesse and dance it up. After downloading a few, I remain loyal with the original. Repeat, repeat repeat...
Kanye West- Street Lights
Gay Pride was last weekend in New York City. It was my first Gay Pride in NYC. My first Gay Pride (am I supposed to capitalize it?) was in San Francisco during this same exact weekend last year. It was just days after Michael Jackson died. I was in Arizona for a few days visiting family just before hitting up California. I was in the Escalade with my British uncle Ralph when we first heard the news of Michael Jackson. We were on our way for some Mexican food, driving along a road that seemed to go on forever. Beautiful mountains in the distance and a few raindrops hit the windshield in the middle of a suburban desert. The hint of rain was almost as surreal as hearing about Michael Jackson's death. TMZ reported it first and my uncle and I weren't convinced it was true until another source would reinforce it. It was during that moment when another news corporation did and I felt this sharp pain in my chest. Never was I a huge Michael Jackson fan. But I know there are home videos of me mimicking his dance moves in my childhood kitchen. I might not own any of his albums but I listened to his song at the end of Free Willy. While I was learning how to form complete sentences and distinguishing a vowel from a consonant, I was horrified and intrigued by the "Thriller" music video and a boy who would wear one glove. He was part of my childhood, if I liked it or not. He immersed himself within the rearing of every child born in the 80s. It was inescapable. Perhaps that is what Gaga is to children born in the 00s? My little brother and sisters are always singing her songs. They even watch her rather disturbing videos on YouTube. Why do I always turn to popular culture? I was writing about Pride. Pride in San Francisco was awesome. Despite the corporate advertising during the parade I rather enjoyed myself in the hot sun. At night down in the Castro, with streets blocked off so all the gays and lesbians could mingle without cars and trucks running them over in their drunken stupor. Despite it being hot and sweaty, I still had major fun. It was difficult to find a place to purchase a drink or urinate but I managed. I remember finding a leather bar, or what seemed like a leather bar, with slightly older men with all their shirts off, showing off their furry chests. It was my only hope to relieve my bladder. I ended up pissing in a trough with a bunch of other men. It wasn't until a few seconds later that I realized there was a mirror reflecting all of our cocks. Eeeek. And there was this one guy who was chatting with me. Friendly banter...but still...my penis is out in view of about eight other guys.
But I already wrote about that last year. Jump back a year and find out for yourself. Pride in New York was different. I did end up going to some bars I never been to before. Overall, I was a bit underwhelmed. I'm not sure why. I was annoyed by the insane covers at bars that normally don't have a covers. I despised the profiting and financial incentives every establishment looked for during Pride. Bars, restaurants, delis, travel agencies, sushi restaurants all waving their gay flags about. Trying to court us 'mos and lesbians to spend more and more money. It annoyed me. S/D and I walked around the East Village in circles looking for the Boiler Room. Oh, how I miss my iPhone... When we finally find it, there is a huge queue of gays outside. We opt against and walk a few blocks to Woody's. A gaggle of 'mos are smoking outside and we mistake them for another line. We find the correct line and realize we're not on the list. A few dollars poorer we are in and I really dig the space. Dark and loungey with boys dancing in the back. We're only there for three minutes and the repetitious beat is already making me nauseous. I really want to dance. It's my entire objective for Saturday night. Kelis has been working me up all week for a proper night out with hot sweaty bodies groovin and movin on a dance floor. No need for a disco ball. Just a group of people letting their limbs loose. We order two shots and a beer. We need to make up for the half-hour we spent circling the East Village. While we patiently wait for the bartender I notice a familiar face. One of those faces you recognize immediately. But you know you don't know them personally, you just know them from a distance. In this case, this distance is between my right hand and a computer screen. My favorite porn star is standing right there, just a few feet away. I gasp and inform S/D of my sighting. There's a hint of jealousy in his eyes. It reminds me of when I was thirteen and I was obsessed with Fiona Apple and my girlfriend at the time used to get insanely jealous when I would thumb through her album sleeves and watch "Criminal" on repeat on the VHS tape I had dedicated to her. He disappears a few minutes later in the crowd. I sign the receipt with the ridiculous number at the bottom. Boys here are wearing shorter shorts than I and I wonder if I should correct my hemline. Do shorts even have hemlines? We're meeting a friend here. But we want to leave because dancing can't happen here. But we also don't want to leave to get our money's worth. We remember we are stamped and can come back whenever we want. Said friend is standing outside. He doesn't want to pay the ridiculous cover. I tell him about the porn star who happens to be one of his best friends. He spots him outside in the smoking gaggle of gays. He runs over and says hi. S/D and I plan out our next move. Back to the Boiler Room. We walk up to my friend and he introduces us to his friends. And one of those friends happen to be my porn star crush. J already knows about my infatuation and I already know the man behind the porn star mask. He's much more interesting than his "character." Partnered for years. Grad school. Artist. Etc. I leave my wallet on the same counter of the same bodega the last time I went to the Boiler Room. This time I had an excuse. I dropped my drugs on the floor. No more line outside the bar. I'm done drinking for the night. Because I returned the half of vicodin to my pocket from the floor of the bodega. I thank the heavens that the bartender who crushes on S/D isn't there. It's the same bartender he exchanged numbers with while we were dating. Yeah, I know. But we're past that. After Boiler Room we head to the subway back. Brooklyn is in our near future. We walk down the stairs and realize the next train isn't for another 21 minutes. We walk back up. S/D smokes. I sit on some pipe protruding from a building. We joke with some other 'mos who wish us a Happy Pride. We go to Sugarland. I gladly pay a reasonable cover because I know dancing will ensue. Drink for S/D, water for me. We walk over the crowd of dancers where the DJ spins to get to the other side. Outside we stand on the roof while he smokes and I try and get some fresh air around all these smokers. I love it out here. On the roof. In Brooklyn. At night. With the door that leads to nowhere. A larger loud 'mo keeps pushing into S/D while we converse with boys from different hometowns. We converse with another 'mo and his friend. She doesn't like being called a fag hag and we tell her she isn't one. And the term does not always refer to the typical definition. She doesn't think she's large enough or ugly enough to fit the stereotype. She's right. The larger loud 'mo unintentionally starts pushing into me while we chat with these two cousins. One is from Pennsylvania. Two gay cousins. Why does everyone have gay relatives except for me? I guess the better question is why does everyone have openly gay relatives except for me? I awkwardly ask if they are "kissing cousins" despite not really understanding what that means and the conversation held still for a few second too long. The DJ starts playing Robyn's "Dancing On My Own" and I know this is my moment to dance but I have to piss like a busted fire hose. We rush to the bathroom and I join the crowd of sweaty hipsters. S/D stands on the stairs and observes. I continue dancing on the sidelines...by myself and wonder about the irony of the song. I am dancing on my own but I'm not wearing stilettos. I continue dancing even when Robyn is over. S/D signals he's going to go smoke again outside on the roof. I dance. I dance alone. I dance with all these strangers around me, but I don't care. Kelis comes on and I have been waiting for this moment since I downloaded her new album. I'm sipping a cup of lukewarm water, the ice is almost all melted. I see both of the cousins we were talking to earlier on the dance floor. We all continue dancing, this time together. Ricky Martin comes on and I feel weird dancing to it. I tell PA that in his ear and he laughs and jokes about how useless it was when he came out. I tell him I guess we're celebrating his queerness tonight in Brooklyn. The non-PA cousin asks where S/D is I point up to the roof and he goes up there. I notice PA has ugly shoes. Dance dance dance. PA lingers to another boy who has his shirt off and S/D disappears from the stairs again. I check my phone and there is a missed call. We reconvene. It's getting late. Almost 4am. I'm completely sober. At least I think I am. I shove a slice of pizza down my throat just in case. Drive home. The sun is already rising and there's a bad taste in my mouth. A good is turning bad with each mile driven eastward...
Click to viewRobyn- Dancing On My Own (Acoustic)
I drop S/D at the train station at 7am. He has Gay Pride parade obligations with his old employer. I hurry into my bed and promise to meet up in the afternoon. Exhausted...I lubricate my mind and body with an iced coffee. Get to Brooklyn at a reasonable time. Hop on the subway. Meet S/D on 14th and 5th. I'm walking the parade with him. Thankfully they cut the parade short this year, by twenty blocks. It still felt long. S/D spent the entire morning downing Red Bulls that magically appeared on the float. He's dripping with sweat and every time we kiss he tastes like salt. I don't mind. We catch up with his employer and their float. Their float of twenty singers. Metropolitan Community Church. His ex-boyfriend who is now dating this awesome girl who just published a collection of poems is there jumping around popping bubbles another 'mo is blowing. He's probably on meth. He seems so loopy. I want to throw the bottle of water I have in my hand at his shaved head. We walk down Fifth Avenue holding hands. During a few select moments, I actually understand why the Pride parade exists. There were a few moments when I actually felt prideful; it felt good to hold hands with my boyfriend and watch all the crowds of half-naked people on the sidewalks, waving and screaming, and smiling at us. Perhaps we should be celebrating who we are. Even if we are uncomfortable with who we are. I didn't fear judgment on Sunday, the way I do when I'm holding hands with him in a restaurant or walking down Sixth Avenue on any old Tuesday. Boys with no shirts on, with just briefs and suspenders. Face paint, glitter, and rainbow flags worn as skirts and togas. Cute boys with cute haircuts nodding as we walk past them. Cameras everywhere. Pointing in our direction. I can't tell if they are taking snapshots or filming us. But on each side of the street there are hundreds of people holding up cameras with smiles on their faces. Boys are hanging out of apartment windows. Girls with black tape covering their nipples and areoles. Dads are pulling their children in wagons. It's hot and I wonder if I should put more sunblock on. We walk past Bruce LaBruce who has a microphone in hand lending his comedic charm for the spectators on either side of the street. The parade ends and we separate from the float. The jovial choir that followed us singing Kelis's "Acapella" started to fade in the distance. Parade marchers look exhausted, spent, and oddly fulfilled.
We sit down beside a building in the shade a few blocks away. I watch a police officer ticket a fellow parader who was drinking alcohol from a plastic thermos. I begin to wonder how cold some people's hearts are. Us queer are given one day to march and celebrate who we are but we are still policed, observed and ticketed. We meet up with new friends we made a few weeks ago. We follow them into a bar. Soccer is playing on numerous flat-screen televisions. I could care less. But everyone is cheering cheer cheer cheer and we're standing near an ice machine that growls like a dinosaur every three or so minutes. It terrifies me and Tucker does a good impression of it. After they finish their beers and we hydrate with water we decide to walk to Chelsea and cool down in some guy's apartment. The walk is intense. We run into the drag queen Hedda Lettuce. The same drag queen we saw perform just a few days prior at the Chelsea Clearview where she did commentary during Mommie Dearest. She's wearing Nike's with her drag costume and it seems so wrong. A drag queen without heels? It sounds like a crime. We tell how awesome she is and she seems genuinely excited that we had a good time. Something's off and she even admits feeling a bit aloof. I feel as if I should ticket her for another crime. Drag queens should never seem aloof; they should always be on. Wit is their driving force. She wishes us a happy pride and we continue walking. I didn't tell her I cackled like a hyena during the entire movie. Nor did I tell her I was falling out of my seat hyperventilating with her every joke. S/D can vouch for that because I spent most of the movie burying my face in his lap to stifle my intense laughter.
Pee stops at Starbucks because that is NYC's public restrooms. Ahhhh. It feels nice to just sit...in air conditioning. Everyone makes jokes about lube being all over the apartment. On door handles, area rugs, and leather couches. Supposedly the owner invented the substance or something like that. We pocket some of it when given to us. B logs into Grindr, S/D almost falls asleep in my lap. I read a business card that is on the table. CPA. I see an East Meadow yearbook and I want to look through it so bad. The television is playing Top 40 hits and we're drinking more water out of tiny Dixie cups. The owner comes home in an OCD rush. He starts picking up said cups and throwing them away. He's very Jewish. He's wearing cargo shorts and he keeps looking up and down at all of us. Sizing us up. I think I see him licking his lips when I pull my shorts up a bit. I do notice his eyes lingering on S/D and I. Later on our new friend informs us that S/D and I are the Jew's type. I wish said friend would enlighten me with what type I actually am. Jew's partner comes home and is wearing a Kiehl's tank-top. He just got off their float in the parade. He had a blast. He makes a joke about us being so young. 12 is always the go to number for some reason. I don't want to tell him how old I am. He has a six-pack underneath that tank-top and he's very intrigued by all of us. He sits down right next to S/D and casually interrogates us. Jew just got back from Fire Island and looks sunned out. New Friend who I will call Illusionist from this moment on senses that Jew wants us to leave. Probably to have another orgy, which supposedly happened the night before on the couch that we are all sitting on. I look for cum stains. We gather our belongings and seek food. In a bodega, I stand behind a 'mo in cargo shorts and a pink mohawk trying to retrieve money from an ATM. He seems fucked up on some drug I probably never did and I just want to guide him through the process of withdrawing money. Instead I impatiently wait while he swipes his card yet again. Illusionist is yelling at the clerk behind the register for ripping off Tucker. Supposedly he charged him too much for his pack of smokes. I finally give up and find a bank. Of course it's that scary Asian bank. $3 service fee. I hate banks. Especially that one. We sit down at sushi. Illusionist orders a bottle of sake. Cold sake. It's my first time trying it and it tastes like cough syrup. He then orders another bottle of hot sake and that tastes much better. Another bottle is ordered before dinner is finished and I'm feeling a little more than buzzed. Everyone orders weird looking things that would probably frighten the 'mo with the pink mohwak who is probably standing behind that same ATM trying to withdraw whatever he wants to withdraw. My peanut avocado rolls are mushy because the restaurant thinks peanut butter and avocado would go good together. Every other restaurant I've ever been to uses peanuts. The consistency was off. I felt off. Everyone left to go smoke and the Illusionist and I stayed behind. He tells me S/D and I look cute together and that we seem in love. He says he always catches us kissing. This is true. But the kisses he's referring to are subtle attempts to patch up the wounds which have been bleeding furiously from our chests since early this morning. I kind of hint at some trouble in paradise and I think he gets it. The Illusionist offers a bunch of rolls no one eats to the table next to us. They offer a blow job in return and everyone laughs under their breath. Tucker and S/D are really hitting it off. They are hysterical. S/D interrupts the meal with, "I don't know if I should bring this up but..." and I begin to question is intellect. If you have to preface a statement with such words then you probably shouldn't say it. He says it anyway and no one understands what he's talking about (with the exception of me). I'm one to talk. I was the one who asked two strangers who happen to be cousins if they are "kissing cousins" and they both looked at me like as if I were deranged.
Off to Pier 54 where a gaggle of gays are supposed to be. S/D and I don't have tickets but the Illusionist comes up with a pair. Wristbanded and ready for the special guest to perform we walk towards the water. It's rumored that Lindsay Lohan is supposed to be the surprise guest. S/D checks his bag in and forgets his cigarettes behind so he has to bum off of everyone else. He makes a deal with a security guard that allows him to piss in a water bottle near the fence we are standing near if he can watch and there goes S/D filling up the clear plastic bottle with his light yellow urine. Everyone around us is considerably older. All gay men. Almost all of them have their shirts off. Muscles everywhere. Testosterone just seeping through all their pores. We're standing on line for drink tickets and this completely oblivious 'mo attempts to cut everyone. He's really tall, thick black wavy hair. He has a sick body and stares off into his iPhone 4 trying to casually cut in front of us. He reminds me of Patrick Bateman. The Hispanic gay behind us actually confronts the dude and starts yelling at him but Patrick Bateman just stares into his phone with a slight half smile contorting his face. The yelling persists as we near the table and I'm not sure if the Hispanic gay is going to throw a punch or not. I'm more scared of the quiet seemingly vacuous gay who is pretending none of this is happening. Does he have knife hidden in his khaki shorts? The Hispanic guy wins by pushing in front of him and we order our drink tickets at the same time as Mr. Bateman. I don't mind. I'd rather not get my throat slit. When I see Bateman fingering his money. I realize he's really fucked up. He keeps counting the same four $1 bills over and over and it creeps me out. He still has that half smile on his beautiful face. Ugh. Grab my tickets and run. We are packed like sardines (ughhh I hate cliches) on this pier. It's nearing 7pm and the sun is setting but it still feels disgustingly hot. I'm exhausted. S/D is probably even more exhausted. He didn't sleep for a minute the night before.
The Illusionist starts talking to a a twink whose shorts rest way below his hips. He's wearing underwear which look like a jockstrap. He's ugly, but thin and I guess that is what makes a twink a twink. Thin, hairless, not necessarily cute. The twink's friend who has his shirt off comes up to B and Tucker and starts fingering his hairy chest and says, "Do you like this sweater I got from Neiman Marcus?" I overhear this and vomit a little in the back of my throat. What a creep. Photos are taken with camera phones. The repetitious beat the DJ has been playing for the last hour is drilling through my skull. There is a new cold beer in my hand every time I take a sip. They only serve Bud Light and it takes like water. I feel so drunk and the beers keep coming. Why did I even buy all these drink tickets? We see a guy dealing crystal and there are so many guys dancing grinding dancing up on each other. I can't dance unless there a pop song is playing. Not once do we hear a Gaga song. That depresses me. I blame the old 'mos here. But I'm amazed to hear an Alanis song. Tucker and B's shirts are off and they are tucked behind them in the waist band of their shorts. Smooth bodies. We wait and wait for the special guest. A drag queen comes out and performs a song and we think she's going to introduce Lindsay. She leaves the stage and offers no such introduction. The dance party is over. I'm saddened and annoyed. Two members of our party already left because they couldn't handle the wait. Nor did they want to wait for such a person. We walk and walk walk and walk. Every cab denies us because we are one too many persons. We get in one but he decides to kick us out after just a few blocks because all the streets and avenues are closed. We find ourselves at a piano bar. The Illusionist sees I'm drinking water and orders me a whiskey. The stairs leading to the bathroom frighten me. I'm going to trip. I'm going trip. I'm going to trip. We leave the piano bar and as we're leaving they start singing a song from Grease. Tucker and I stick around and belt out some of the verses. I feel like I'm in junior high again. I claim a table in the pizzeria. S/D knows Mr. Pizza behind the counter. The world is spinning. Tina calls me again. She's out of Michael Winterbottom's movie that was playing just a few blocks away. We have to walk in convoluted circles just to get to another place. We get there. Urinate. Then leave. Tina finds us. Stonewall is even charging a cover. Tina is there with Michael A. and we tell them to meet us in the East Village. At Arrow. We have to make a few pit stops on the way. Oddly enough, it didn't take too long to retrieve backpacks and check-in at the hotel and get to the bar. I'm done. So done and want to stay at the hotel. I lay down on the bed and want the pillows to comfort my whirlwind of a mind. But S/D is stubborn and makes me get up. Off to Arrow. I have a glass of water and everyone has one last drink. Tina is there and I'm all sorts of miserable. Fatigued and too drunk. I wanted dancing and there is no dancing going on here. I feel bad for leaving Tina behind when she didn't even finish he glass of Merlot. I think she understood.
I pay for the cab back to the hotel. I want another delicious cookie from the receptionist. Up up up up in the elevator. I'm squirming on the floor in my American Apparel briefs. S/D tells me to stop acting like a fool. Tucker tells him to stop yelling at me like I'm a dog. I just want to go to sleep. Give me some blankets. It feels like Alaska in here. S/D and I cuddle like a cocoon on the floor. Each time I wake up some body part of mine is frozen because it slipped out of our blanket cocoon. S/D's teeth are chattering. Morning comes. We take showers. S/D and I make out behind the curtain. We're so horny and he goes down on me. I pull him back up so I can stick my tongue down his throat and we stay that way, tongues swirling around each other's mouths as we jack each other off. Mmmmm...I crawl back into bed. Someone already made coffee. I sip B's and crave Stumptown which is only a few blocks away. Tucker and I watch Rachel Ray on some cooking channel. She's in Hawaii. We keep making fun of how hungry and fat she is. It's hilarious. S/D thinks the frosted glass on the hotel across from us is snow. Remembering how cold our slumber was, it did seem very likely. Stumptown happens and I'm starting to feel like a person again once coffee is running through my bloodstream. We want food. We end up walking to Chelsea. I get a grilled cheese and tomato soup at Elmo's. I've never been here before and I don't understand why. S/D makes fun of the waiter's hairline; he reminds me of a friend of a friend who sings show tunes. A family that looks like the cast of The Hills gets seated a few tables away. I swear the woman on her cell phone is famous. I can't figure it out. I want to strangle her daughters with their long blonde hair. I continue eating my soup and I make a joke that the Illusionist's idol is Neil Patrick Harris. The Illusionist confesses that NPH is his friend and that they may or may not have slept together. What?! It makes sense since the Illusionist is actually a professional magician. NPH is all about magic. He's a member of some Magician alliance/organization/cult. I tell the Illusionist that I'm a scorpio and S/D's a gemini. "You probably have really awesome intense sex but equally heated and intense fights," he says. I no longer believe that he's a magician, I think he's psychic because he's completely right. Back to Brooklyn. Hoping my car is not towed or ticketed. I desire a coma and all I get is a nap. I guess that's Gay Pride in New York City. Boyfriend falling asleep on my lap while I drive. Stuck in traffic wondering if I'll stop seeing red.