Romancing the Bone

Letting It All Hang Out - VillageVoice.com, October 2005

2009-09-09T20:35:00.001-04:00

Toilet Boys - HX Magazine, December 2007

2009-09-09T20:30:00.000-04:00

Carlos Campos - HX Magazine, February 2009

2009-09-09T20:26:00.001-04:00

Rochambeau - HX Magazine, February 2009

2009-09-09T19:01:00.002-04:00

Stevie Nicks - HX Magazine, April 2009

2009-09-09T18:57:00.001-04:00

Sandra Bernhard - HX Magazine, December 2008

2009-09-09T18:53:00.001-04:00

Every Guy I've Ever Slept With...

2009-07-15T12:46:00.001-04:00

Check out my new semi-weekly blog project:

Every Guy I've Ever Slept With...

And tell all your friends!

Some Comfort

2008-07-26T15:47:00.001-04:00

There are days—Saturdays and Sundays mainly, but really, at this point, all bets are off—when I wake up and think to myself, Well, at least I didn't put my finger in anybody's anything last night. And that's some comfort.

Magic Moments

2008-04-13T17:43:00.002-04:00

Nothing warms my heart like that magic moment when two gay dudes pass each other on the street and they have to give each other dirty, whithering looks, you know, just to let each other know that they're not checking each other out.

The City of the Future

2008-03-01T00:48:00.003-05:00

When did New York become Tokyo?

I'm sorry, I just don't want to live in the city of the future.

New Crush

2008-02-26T23:35:00.001-05:00

I have a new crush.

I want him to be my boyfriend.

Then I can dress up as his tattoo for Halloween.

Marc Jacobs

2008-02-05T21:40:00.000-05:00

Is anyone else sick of seeing Marc Jacobs shirtless?

Aseptic New Year

2008-01-02T00:01:00.000-05:00

New Year's Eve, the ball drops and people kiss and embrace, throw confetti, blow their cardboard horns and make a whole lot of noise and one hell of a mess. Then, everywhere, all over the world, cell phones start vibrating. Calls from loved ones, text messages from friends in far off places, people you haven't spoken to in years spontaneously resurface throwing all kinds of warm wishes and sentimental nonsense at you, that lands with a thud of guilt as you realize just how wide that gap between us really is. It falls around you like so much sodden confetti, clotted with sticky spilt Champagne. All those untidy, over-dramatized emotions suddenly gushing forth for no good reason.

Well, I'll tell you something, I'm not doing it this year. My cell phone may have rung, buzzing and twittering like a retarded digital insect, but I wasn't answering. It's not that I don't love you too. I just can't be bothered to experience emotions in such an unnecessarily overwrought fashion. I cannot participate in these sentimental displays.

I've decided to leave the emotions behind in 2008. I crave an antiseptic new year, something WASPY and entirely more efficient. I would hate for you to think that I'm bitter. I'm not. I'm leaving the anger behind as well. It may be cold outside, but my 2008 is no barren wasteland, no arctic tundra. No, my new year is a clean white room. Clinical. Neat. Comfortably air-conditioned.

Should you find your way into my white room, don't be afraid. I'll greet you with a polite smile and ask if there's anything I can do for you. And then I'll send you on your way with a peck on the cheek and a no lingering glances as you leave. And if you think you want to stay, I'm very sorry, but there's no loitering here.

Just remember, I'm perfectly fine, and none of this is about you.

White Trash Christmas: Aftermath

2007-12-27T17:49:00.000-05:00

People talk about "The Holiday Season" and frankly I have no idea what they're talking about anymore. They probably mean that feeling kids get around the end of November, the anticipation and the swirling, engulfing, all-encompassingness of Christmas. You know, back when Christmas was a whole season and not just a day filled with obligaion that speeds towards you and leaves you exhausted and empty. I think people who talk about "The Christmas Season" are just longing for that feeling they remember from childhood and think they're supposed to still have. As if anyone with a job and a life actually feels that.

I don't mean to sound cynical. I've tried so damn hard not to be one of those now horribly clichéd people who hates the holidays. I've tried to be enthusiastic and throw myself into it with an open heart and warm intentions. But for me, Christmas is one of the great disappointments of adulthood.

The weeks slip by filled with crowds and soul-less marketing nonsense. Everywhere you look people are frantically purchasing meaningless gifts for people they barely know and don't seem to like all that much. It's a time of consumerist panic, as we try to fill the gaps between us with stuff; not heartfelt tokens of true affection, but stuff. Stuff we don't need and don't want. Stuff that makes us wonder if the people we love know us at all. Stuff that we now have to lug home in overstuffed suitcases that are over the airline's maximum weight limit for checked baggage, costing us not only emotional distress, but also $80 extra in traveling expenses!

The orgy of gift receiving is over and the hollow places inside me seem to be expanding. That imagined feeling of home and safety, of a family brought together in love and peace by the holidays is replaced by freshly minted memories of sniping and bickering, of impatience and dissatisfaction, of spoiled children, glassy eyed with greed, screaming and throwing tantrums. Of imperfect people incapable of putting their petty disagreements and resentment aside for this one day.

White Trash Christmas: Part II

2007-12-25T13:19:00.000-05:00

Uncle Joey walks out on his wife of six months the day before Christmas Eve. There was a fight over someone's prescription pain killers, so he shows up at your house with his eight year old daughter—he's trying to get custody from his ex-girlfriend, who was arrested a few months ago in Ohio for child neglect and endangerment—in his white work van, and proceeds to have a shouting match with your grandparents on the phone over the dubious affect this may have on the greater custody battle.

The general consensus is that everyone—those of you merely involved by way of blood relation—should just ignore the situation.

White Trash Christmas: Part I

2007-12-24T11:29:00.000-05:00

Mamma wants you to know she just can't get over those Coach pocketbooks in New York. We don't have nothing like that here in North Carolina. Maybe a few styles, but nothing like the selection up there. Of course, Kate Spade is her absolute favorite, but the Belk store in the mall won't carry them because they wanted to put them where the Coach pocketbooks are displayed. She hates Dooney & Burke, though. They're so heavy!

They're opening up a new mall sometime in the next year or two. Mamma just can't wait.

The Goddess’ Chosen People

2007-12-13T13:26:00.000-05:00

I was at a party last night, and there were all these Radical Faeries there. It was at this really swanky place near Gramercy Park, where none of us belonged. But the place smelled of cat piss, like some senile 76-year-old lady’s apartment. People kept complaining and wondering if maybe there really was a cat somewhere like at the corner bodegas, you know? To catch mice and rats and whatnot. But then I realized, no, actually it was the Radical Faeries and all their unwashed beards and fake feathers and cheap fur. Cause you know these guys glam it up—they turn. it. out.—but they don't wash the shit!

This guy came up to me and started talking about something or someone, and I was just baffled by what he was saying to me—I don't even remember what it was.

"I'm not a faerie," I said.

And he looked at me and said, "You're not? You don't feel a deep centered, primal connection to the earth? You don't feel the goddess calling you and manifesting herself through you to be a gatekeeper to the spirit world on this plane of existence? You don't feel that in your heart?"

I said, "No. I live in New York."

Dior Spring '08

2007-11-18T23:30:00.000-05:00

Ugh. Seriously?

Kris Van Assche bores me to tears. I want Hedi back.

Thom Is The New Tom

2007-11-15T12:31:00.000-05:00

I'm gonna go ahead and say it: Thom Browne is the new Tom Ford.

Only less annoying and more interesting. I saw him on the subway once and I thought, "That man is either poor, crazy, or wearing a Thom Browne suit."

Now I want to marry him.

Dior Homme

2007-11-13T18:33:00.000-05:00

Buy me all of this. Thanks.

White Chalk

2007-10-04T13:12:00.000-04:00

Just when you think she can't get any more amazing...

Seriously. This album is brilliant.

I'm feeling really fragile and hung-over today. I'm going to listen to this and cry a whole lot.

Menagerie

2007-10-01T21:51:00.001-04:00

Max is surprised. “That guy? Really?”

“Yeah, totally.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m telling you. I don’t have a type. It runs the gamut.”

There’s a pause. “They kind of all look like woodland creatures.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kind of shaggy and scruffy.”

“Yeah, I guess I like guys who look sorta...”

“Mammalian!”

“...like animals.”

Too Much Birthday

2007-08-28T22:59:00.000-04:00

This is kinda how I feel right now.

This Week...

2007-07-24T10:31:00.000-04:00

Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday.

This weekend just might kill me.

Who's a Hot Mess?

2007-07-23T14:14:00.000-04:00

Hot Mess last night. I'm crippled by some kind of weird phantom hangover today. Which is weird, because I didn't really drink that much.

Sometimes I take photos of myself before leaving the house. You know, just to make sure. That's Thomas on the right, a.k.a. Lusty Charms, our little Irish go-go boy. We had a contest where some dudes got up on the bar and competed for a date with him. I picked the contestants.

Lady K and...uh, that guy. Tranny gots to beat 'em off with a stick, I'm tellin' you. And Logan being Logan. As Logan as he can be.

And the boys were cute too. Lil' Presto (a.k.a. Jason Preston, the former Mrs. Marc Jacobs) brought one of the Pussycat Dolls. She was cute, but I don't think anyone was star struck. On the left: Kirk, whose life has been ruined by Harry Potter. On the right: Ben Andrews, porn star, and possibly more well known that that Pussycat Doll, at least at this party.

FYI: Tommy Hottpants was bartending for us and let me just say that I want to bite him. Everywhere. Like, everywhere on his body. And also, everywhere in the world.

Mika

2007-07-01T23:47:00.000-04:00

Using an essentially queer, Post-structuralist concept like the rejection of labels to excuse your reticence to come out of the closet because of the negative affect it may have on your marketability and money making potential? Lame.

Unisex Salon: Acid Crisis Center

2007-06-06T23:17:00.000-04:00

This is where you should be tonight. You're on Lusty J's list!

No One Belongs Here More Than You

2007-06-05T12:55:00.000-04:00

You should read this book right now. And then comment about it here. It'll be like a book club. Like Oprah's, only way more nihilistic.

Our first title is a quirky collection of short stories by performing artist and filmmaker Miranda July. I think "Birthmark" is my fave. What's yours and why?

Nearly Perfect Lemon Risotto

2007-06-04T04:11:00.000-04:00

Nearly perfect lemon risotto is no small feat.

So why can't I make you love me?

Boneyard

2007-05-30T18:05:00.000-04:00

Have you forgotten me?

Reasons I'm Glad I Didn't Go to the Black Party

2007-03-25T10:26:00.000-04:00

Last night, I briefly toyed with the possibility of making a late appearence at the Black Party. Like, 4 a.m. late, when the price drops for boys under 26. I'm glad I didn't. And here's why:

1) 4 a.m. is a retarded hour to start partying.

2) $40 - let alone $140 - is a retarded amount to charge for a cover.

3) HX Magazine's Black Party Commandments.

4) Someone OD'd last night. It wasn't me!

5) Someone got HIV last night. It wasn't me!

6) I didn't really want to dance and make out with sweaty 40-something year-old tourists, did I?

7) This.

Photo by Joe Oppedisano.

Unisex Salon

2007-03-20T01:05:00.000-04:00

Starting this Thursday night, I'm officially hosting at Unisex Salon at the Delancey. So, come on out and have a drink with me and Acid Betty and John Cameron Mitchell and the gang. Michael Musto will be reading from his new book and there's some bands and open bar from 10-11pm. Tell 'em you're on Lusty J's list for $5 cover all night! I swear to God I'll make out with you if you come.

PREF: Random Acts

2007-03-19T15:42:00.000-04:00

If you A) are in France or New York and B) have a firm grasp of the French language, go out and purchase yourself a copy of the latest issue of PREF right now! For all my non-Francophonic peeps out there here's the English version of my latest piece.

RANDOM ACTS...

Of Spite
I smile at Eric when I spot him across the smoky basement of Happy Valley, one of the few clubs in New York where nobody seems to care about anti-smoking laws.

Bastard, I think as I walk toward him, still smiling.

“Hi!” he says, slipping his arms around me and kissing me dangerously close to the mouth. I can tell right away he’s drunk. “How have you been? You know, I’m really sorry about what happened between us.” Eric and I sort of used to be boyfriends. Or as close to boyfriends as either of us was really interested in being. Then, about a year ago, he dropped me, rather unceremoniously, for an aging gossip columnist and his model groupies.

“Come home with me tonight,” he slurs, arms still circling my waist. “I could arrange a group thing if you want.” He nods toward two baby-faced, 20-year-old models.

I’m speechless, baffled, and more than a little embarrassed for him. Drunkenly propositioning an ex just seems beneath him.

And then he kisses me. It’s a sloppy, artless kiss, full of teeth and tongue and stubble. It’s not something I want to be doing. Me and Eric; it’s not something I want to revisit. And for some reason, my mind shifts into revenge mode. He’s drunk, and throwing himself at me. I’ve got the upper hand. It’s not exactly a Machiavellian situation, but I’m feeling spiteful. I want Eric to feel a little disappointment, a little rejection. I want him to see what it’s like. But mostly, I want him to know just how over him I am.

So I tell him, yeah, I’ll think about going home with him, but I’ve got to find my friends first. I let him kiss me one more time, I let him put his hand on my ass, and I walk away. And I ignore him for the rest of the night.

As I’m leaving, I spot him near the coat check and I give him that smile. That patronizing smile you get from people you’ve been flirting with, who have no interest in talking to you further. It feels so good to be the one smiling that smile. I know it’s nothing. I know it’s stupid and petty, but in the cab on the way home I can’t help feeling a little bit pleased with myself.

Of Utter Perversion
The porn star Tyler Mason is whimpering. We’re in the back of his friend’s van, heading back to his hotel from a party. There are two other guys – also porn stars – in the seats behind us, half watching us, half engrossed in their own, in my opinion less impressive, backseat groping. My hand is in Tyler’s pants, my middle finger rubbing just outside his hole. His legs are spread, his hips lifted slightly, his eyes glassy and rolling.

He reaches for my belt, trying to unbuckle it.

“Uh-uh,” I say, glancing at the guys in the backseat. Actually, they’re not even paying attention to us anymore. But being fully clothed with my hands on Tyler, doing things to him, creeping underneath his clothes, past his defenses, touching him where he’s soft and vulnerable, that means I’m in control. I like being in control. Maybe I’ll keep my clothes on all night, I think.

Tyler, on the other hand, is naked almost before we’re inside his hotel room. He’s smaller than me – shorter, skinnier; a pocket-sized porn star – and he is, what they call in the industry, a power bottom. All of which makes me feel oddly virile and aggressive. He’s like a rag-doll I can toss around, a bone for a rabid dog to gnaw on, and he’ll enjoy it. He goes to the sink for a glass of water and I press myself against him from behind, rough denim against his soft, pale buttocks. He arches his back and turns his head to kiss me, but I push him down, flat against the imitation marble sink and slip my hand between his cheeks. His ass is small, but shapely. One cheek fits in the palm of my hand. I rub harder, pressing the side of my hand against the little button of anus. He loosens slightly and I can feel the smoother, hotter, rawer skin just inside him. I reach around and slip the fingers of my free hand into his mouth.

“I want to take a shower,” he moans.

“Ask me nicely. Say please.”

“Please,” he gasps, my finger on his lips, “Please, can I take a shower?”

“Ok,” I say, and I take my clothes off while he runs the hot water. He washes himself, rinses, and I kneel down behind him and spread his ass cheeks. He’s wet and slippery and it’s easy for me to slide my index finger into him. I slide in and out of him, one finger, then two, then three. I have him turn around so that he’s facing me, and slip my fingers back in. I have all four fingers inside him, up to the knuckle, and he’s riding my hand, bucking his hips faster. The sounds he’s making are high, soft sighs and grunts and gasps. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. I can feel him stretching out, my fingers opening him wider, and I’m suddenly afraid that I’ll rip him apart, that he won’t know how far is too far before it’s too late. I gently slide my hand out of him and he collapses against me, exhausted. I turn off the shower and carry him to bed.

Of Drunken Weirdness
It’s three in the morning. I’m drunk as fuck. Drunk as fuck and feeling kind of emotionally fragile. And also horny. I make a phone call to the guy I’ve been seeing. He doesn’t answer. I call another boy, someone I’ve slept with a few times, and he answers, but doesn’t remember ever having met me. I hang up on him.

I’m bored, and 3 a.m. suddenly seems like an amazingly stupid hour for the whole world to be asleep. There’s only one other person I can think of who would be awake and at home at 3 a.m. I call my friend Ryan. As soon as he answers, I start to believe, from the bottom of my booze soaked heart, that I’m actually in love with him. It’s a ridiculous notion. I’m not in love with Ryan, but at this moment I honestly believe that I am.

“Come visit me,” I mumble into the phone. “I’ll cook for you.” I have all these thoughts about the two of us running around New York, hand in hand, going to parties together, side by side, inseparable, him curled up next to me in bed. I wonder what it would be like to have sex with him.

“I just want you to be happy,” I say, and that part is true, actually.

“Um. You could give me a friendship blowjob,” he says.

None of this will make sense in the morning.

RIP Roxy

2007-03-12T15:46:00.000-04:00

So, I thought I was really sad about the Roxy closing its doors this Saturday night. Not that I ever went to the Roxy except once or twice for Motherfucker. But it just seemed like the Roxy should be there. That great cavernous space filled with shirtless Chelsea boys every Saturday night has been a part of New York clubland for over a decade, and its demise at the hands of real estate developers is just another sign that the city is heading toward something dim and homogenous and really depressing. It seemed a little bit like a tragedy.

Then I read this article in today's New York Times and realized that the Roxy already symbolized something dim and homogenous and really depressing:

The clubgoers were in their 20s and 30s. Most had short hair or shaved heads. They wore low-slung jeans, sneakers or work boots, and faux-vintage T-shirts that bore the insignias of athletic departments that don’t exist...A good number of men on the dance floor went with a bare-chested look. This typically included barbed-wire tattoos encircling their biceps, dog tags around their necks and baseball caps with curved bills, such that a visitor unaware of the event taking place might have thought he had walked onto a set where somebody was reshooting the volleyball scene from “Top Gun.”

Where will we go to find tweeked out pseudo-straight Jersey boys now?

Valentine's Day Resolutions

2007-02-14T09:30:00.000-05:00

Armistead Maupin’s More Tales of the City, one of my all time favorite books, opens with Michael “Mouse” Tolliver’s 30 Valentine’s Day Resolutions. This year, I’m taking Maupin’s cue. Because while I may not really be celebrating Valentine’s Day in the traditional sense, I still kind of like the idea of the holiday. So I’m thinking about what I want to improve upon – or at least do differently – in 2007. Hopefully next year conditions will have improved…

Valentine’s Day Resolutions

1. Message those cute guys on MySpace. It can’t hurt, right?

2. Buy more cute underwear.

3. Buy red sheets.

4. Three words: abs, arms, butt. Work on those.

5. Stop comparing my life to Grey’s Anatomy, Sex and the City, or similarly chick focused television drama.

6. Attempt to slightly overestimate my own hotness. Because confidence is sexy.

7. Stop letting my love/sex life distract me from frustrations with career trajectory.

8. Only date guys who are at least as oversexed as I am.

9. Be a little more secretive. No need for everyone to know what’s going on.

10. Stop expecting love to change my life.

Happy V-Day!

Image by Matthew Brindle

Style Jack

2007-02-13T17:50:00.000-05:00

Did anyone read my short-lived column, Style Jack, on SeeJackShop.com? Does anyone read SeeJackShop.com? We may never know. Anyway, click the image above to read my profiles of iconic men of style.

Fall 2007 Menswear

2007-02-02T09:15:00.000-05:00

Woo! It's Fashion Week here in New York, but I'm still sifting through the looks from the European Menswear shows. Check it:

Alexander McQueen.
Balenciaga.
Burberry Prorsum
Costume Nationale
Dior Homme
Dolce & Gabbana
Gucci
Of course, I can't afford any of this, so if you want to send me free clothes you are more than welcome to do so.

PREF: Broken Hearted, NYC

2007-01-26T22:44:00.000-05:00

PREF issue 18, now available in better magazine shops all over NYC. The Universal News Cafe on 23rd between Fifth and Sixth Ave. has it, I saw it myself! Go purchase it and you'll be able to see all the French hotness. Here's the original English version of this issue's piece.

WHAT TO DO WITH A BROKEN HEART IN NEW YORK

Do Not: Answer the phone.
Andy calls from Portland and says he isn’t thinking about moving to New York anymore. He says there’s someone else, someone who’s breaking his heart. And I think, My god, you’re breaking mine.

I hang up and that’s when I start to panic. But it’s a calm sort of panic, like panicking in slow motion. Suddenly I have all this nervous energy and I don’t know what to do with myself. I start wandering around my apartment aimlessly, opening closets and cabinets not really looking for anything. I turn off the TV. I don’t want to hear anything. But the quiet isn’t peaceful; it’s oppressive, it’s suffocating. I look around and my apartment seems too big and too small, all at the same time. It seems too big for me to manage, to control, to keep in order, but also so small, so claustrophobic I can’t breath.

It’s almost 1 a.m. when I decide to leave my apartment.

Do: Get out of the house.
The subway ride down to West 4th Street feels longer than normal. The dark, fluorescent/aluminum/plastic environment inside the train is just as hopeless and annoying as my apartment. A surly looking dude in baggy jeans and a baseball cap gets on at 42nd Street and starts eating Chinese take-out from a carton, filling the train with the smell of greasy brown lo mein. At 23rd Street, a couple gets on, so drunk it takes them two whole stops to realize they’re on the wrong train. I’m beginning to think going out wasn’t such a good idea.

But once I’m aboveground everything changes. It’s a warm, early fall evening, and the whole city seems to be wandering around the Village. The fratty NYU kids. The bratty underage New Jersey ghetto gays. The girls in pretty dresses on their way to or from fabulous parties. The aging fags smoking outside the piano bars. There’s something amazing about wondering around in New York, especially like this, in the middle of the night, when everyone should be in bed. It’s like the lost boys and girls have been let loose in an amusement park, long after all the children and parents and normal people have gone home.

Wandering around alone amongst all these people, I feel invisible, inconsequential, a secret eye watching everything. I’m anonymous. I don’t have to be broken hearted or brave or anything. It’s incredibly sustaining.

Do: Go to a bar.
It’s a gay bar, of course. I would have preferred a quiet, dimly lit hotel bar, the bartender in a vest and bowtie, someplace old and austere, someplace where people don’t go to hang out, someplace where people don’t go at all.

Instead, I end up at New York’s version of a gay dive bar. It’s not someplace where I usually hang out. It’s a little bit under the radar, a little bit off my beaten path, and, no, I’m not going to mention its name. A boy has to keep some secrets.

I plant myself on a stool at the bar and order a dirty martini.

“You look depressed,” says the bartender (t-shirt, Puerto Rican accent, no vest, no bowtie), “You want a shot?”

I tell him no. Shots are for fun, shots mean it’s a party. I want to get drunk, but I want to get drunk slowly. I kinda need to feel this, sink into it, let it wash over me, and then slip away from it.

In the movie version of my life – or, I don’t know, the hour-long primetime TV drama of my life – the bartender would stick around, ask me about my troubles. He’d listen, and then dole out his surprisingly poignant brand of no-nonsense wisdom. “Listen, kid,” he’d say, “I’ve heard just about everything working behind this bar, and here’s what I think…” But he doesn’t say that. He just pours my drink and moves on to the next customer. It’s a busy Friday night, after all, and I suspect that type of benevolently wise bartender doesn’t really exist.

Do: Think about him when you masturbate.
It’s early morning. The sun is streaming in through my bedroom windows. I woke up with an erection. A warm, comforting, eager morning erection. I kick the sheets back and take hold of my cock, gently at first, moving my hand up and down slowly, just feeling things out, waking up the flesh.

And then I’m thinking of Andy. Thinking of his skin, his smell, the last time I had his cock in my mouth. It was in the shower, in my apartment. He hadn’t been in the mood to get it on, but when he saw me getting into the shower he decided he needed to get in with me. I knelt down, like we were in some lame porno, and he slipped his cock into my mouth. It was smooth and silky, and I could feel him flexing. When he was done, I stood up and he pulled me close to him. “Thank you,” he said, and he kissed me.

Now, that’s all I can think of. Kneeling in my shower. His cock. His smooth, slight muscles. His eyes closed. His pouty lips slightly parted. That’s the image I hold as I stroke myself. And when I come, it’s short and shallow and not particularly comforting.

Do Not: Tell people you were in love with him.
“I wasn’t in love with him.”

“You said you were in love with him.”

“Yeah, I know what I said. I was wrong.”

I’m trying to explain the Andy situation to my friends. For months I’ve been telling them how intensely I felt about him, and how he felt about me. I needed to impress upon them how different this was from every other relationship before it. He was going to move to New York. I was going to wait for him. This felt like it would last forever. This was real. This was something that would change my life forever.

These are words I have lived to regret.

A word to the wise: Never, ever tell people you are in love with someone. It’s a fundamentally insipid sentiment that can neither be proven nor disproved, even to yourself. That’s not cynicism, it’s just common sense.

“Ok, so you weren’t in love. Then what’s with all the drama?”

Actually, nobody asks that question. But I can tell they want to. The thing is, when you tell people you’re in love, and then nothing comes of it, you look like a fool. All that hoping and planning, all those breathless conversations about your man and the life you think you’ll have together; it all seems stupid in retrospect. It all sounds so melodramatic. The only way to avoid being the silly boy, who gets all worked up about minor romantic follies is to never tell anyone that you’re in love. Deny deny deny. That’s my policy.

So, no, I don’t think I was in love with Andy.

Or maybe I was. I don’t know.

The New Sad

2007-01-25T01:59:00.000-05:00

In college, my best friend told me that she thought I’d be a lot happier if I didn’t listen to such depressing music. Moping around the dorm listening to PJ Harvey and Tori Amos and Fiona Apple was no way to live one’s life, she said. She prescribed a regimen of quirky pop-punk (Pain), endearingly bizarre shock rock (Mindless Self Indulgence), upbeat emo (pre-OC Phantom Planet), and all manner of ska. I listened to a lot of good music, but I can’t say that it worked. I still went back to what she called “sad bastard music.”

To be honest, sometimes it’s kind of nice to be sad. It’s a sort of cocooning, familiar feeling, just letting go and allowing yourself to feel not-ok. I’m a little bit sad at the moment, and these are the songs I’m listening to. They’re self-indulgent and self-pitying, and really really beautiful. And they’re sort of the only thing keeping me on my feet.

“9 Crimes” – Damien Rice
I think this is probably the saddest song I know at the moment. It sounds like the end of the world, the sort of thing you’d hear amidst the looted, burned out, crumbling ruins of, I don’t know, your heart, once all the fighting has stopped, in the quiet aftermath, once the dust settles. It sounds helpless and hopeless.

“Don’t Forget Me” – Way Out West
Leave it to the Grey’s Anatomy soundtrack to introduce an electro tinged tearjerker like this. It kind of makes me imagine my life as one long gray winter day where I’m leaving something behind, letting it go, it’s out of my hands. Maybe it’s snowing and it’s all in slow-motion.

“Grey” and “Welcome To” – Ani Difranco
Ani Difranco does sad in a way that not many other people do. It’s not about a break-up. It’s not about a broken heart. Sadness, Ani style, is about a broken spirit. It’s about exhaustion and ennui and self-pity and the persistence of such things, beyond the circumstantial. Nothing makes it better, “no amount of stoned makes you feel ok.” It’s a sadness that lives in your bones and never ever leaves, no matter how good things get. Listening to these two songs, in my opinion the saddest in her vast catalogue, it’s hard not to mourn. Not for something lost, but for something never found.

“Love Too Soon” – PJ Harvey
This one’s just unapologetically melodramatic. Very woe is me! Very soap opera. Very tongue in cheek. Still, it’s kind of a lovely song, and in the right mood it gets me more than a little misty-eyed.

“Colorblind” – Counting Crows
Remember Counting Crows? The goofy overweight white dude with the dreads? I barely do. But “Colorblind” is a little masterpiece, if you ask me. Utterly devastating, and the imagery is stunning. “Coffee black and egg white…taffy stuck and tongue tied/stutter shook and uptight.” It makes me think of ghosts and abandoned people.

“Language” – Scott Matthew
When it’s quiet, “Language” wraps around you like a blanket. It’s a lullaby. Gently plucking guitar and Scott Matthew’s velvety soft voice sort of ease the endlessly spinning thoughts in your head. And you just drift off to sleep.

“Half Boyfriend” – Jay Brannan
“Are you ok?” he asks.

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, I listened to the song on your MySpace page.”

It’s funny when you find a song that so closely mirrors what you’re feeling, even down to the specific circumstances that made you feel that way. That’s the type of song you put on your MySpace page to subtly, maybe a little passive aggressively, let someone know that he’s broken your heart. Well, maybe not broken it. Hairline fractured it. But if we’re talking about failed romance here, I have to say that at a certain point, if there’s someone who cannot, for whatever reason, just let you love him, well, you can love this song instead.

Divas '07

2007-01-23T11:22:00.000-05:00

"Here’s a groundbreaking revelation: Gay boys love divas. Give us a crazy bitch with a drug habit – talent optional – and we’ll worship her for life. Or until she overdoses..."

Cybersocket had me write about the up-and-coming "divas" of 2007, including my new favorite, Regina Spektor. (Although why they had me write about Bianca Ryan and Taylor Hicks I'll never understand.)

Read it: The Diva List 2007

"Jerk-Off Story"

2007-01-02T17:57:00.000-05:00

Some erotica I wrote for a job I didn't get. They wanted "a jerk-off story."

I first spotted Serge the day my realtor showed me the apartment I live in now. We’d been all over the city that day, in the stifling mid-August heat, seeing cozy brownstones, stylish lofts, condos with all the amenities - mostly out of my price range. This, our last stop, was pretty under-whelming: a studio, 300 square feet, fifth floor walk-up, modern kitchen, recently remodeled bathroom, the smell of grease and fried food wafting up from the Chinese take-out place downstairs.

The realtor – Danielle, I think her name was – had to take a call, leaving me alone in the stuffy little apartment. I walked over to one of the three windows facing out over the alley. There was only eight, maybe nine feet of airshaft between my building and the one next door. I pressed my forehead against the glass, feeling frustrated, exhausted.

And that’s when I saw him: a pale, dark haired slip of a boy asleep on a red sofa in the apartment across the airshaft from mine. He was naked, lying on his stomach, one leg dangling off the sofa, smooth, round little ass on display. It reminded me of the way house cats stretch out in the sun, all lazy, aloof sensuality. I could feel my tightening, tender flesh pressing softly against fabric. Why doesn’t he close the curtains? I thought. And then, I hope he never does.

I heard Danielle’s cell phone snap shut behind me as she re-entered from the hall. “So what do you think?” she asked skeptically, as if to say, Yeah, I know it’s kinda a dump.

“It’s...actually…” The boy across the airshaft shifted in his sleep, rolling over onto his back. His uncut dick nestled in a thick tuft of black pubic hair, his full pink lips slightly parted. “It’s actually just what I’ve been looking for.”

* * * *
His name’s not really Serge, that’s just what I call him. Although, it might be. I don’t know his real name, so I guess I don’t know that it’s not Serge. It would be pretty weird if it was. He looks vaguely Eastern European, so Serge it is.

I’ve lived in this apartment for almost a year now. Serge renewed his lease six months ago. I watched him sign it at the coffee table in front of his red sofa, fold it up, slip one copy into an envelope which he licked with his perfect, strawberry red tongue. I’ve seen him do other things with his tongue. He’s constantly bringing other guys home to fool around. Usually they head to the bedroom, where I can’t see them. But every now and then they’ll stay in the main room, on the red sofa. Serge loves to suck cock, from what I can tell, anyway. He’ll push the guys down on the sofa and unbutton their flies. They’re usually hard before he even pulls it out of their boxers or tighty whities, pre-cum oozing out of the tip. He’ll wrap his hand around it, mouth open, and look up and the guy, blinking. He’ll flash a wicked smile and, without breaking eye contact, he’ll slip that cock into his mouth and down his throat. I don’t know if it’s something they talk about before, something he tells them he likes, but the guys usually end up grabbing Serge’s head with both hands, grasping his dirty shaggy hair and fucking his face. They pull out and cum all over those pretty cherry lips. It happens almost every time.

But most of the time I just watch Serge at home, all on his own. During the summer he’s naked more often than not. And he’s constantly masturbating. I guess that’s because he’s young, 18, maybe 19, in his sexual prime. Today, he’s home early from class (Intro to Sociology; I watched him study last night). He drops his messenger bag at the door, pulls his white t-shirt over his head, kicks off his Chuck Taylors. He falls onto the sofa in his faded jeans and studded leather belt, starts rubbing his crotch. He unbuckles the belt, slides his jeans off.

And then he looks right at me.

I freeze. A deer in headlights. I duck behind my curtains, wait, then slowly peek back around them. Serge is smirking at me, still naked, holding his belt in one hand, the other on his freshly shaven cock. He winks at me and puts the belt around his cock and balls, pulling them up. He slides the belt between his legs and rubs himself on it, letting the rough leather slip between his ass cheeks. He’s getting hard. His cock quivers and stands up all on its own. He bounces it for me. He tosses the belt aside and leans back on the sofa, stroking his cock with one hand, the two fingers of the other in his mouth. He lifts his thighs and shifts in my direction, so that I can see his pink asshole. He takes the two fingers from his mouth and rubs the little puckered button. He slips one inside, slowly, and then the other. He’s playing with himself, lips parted, eyes closed. If I could hear him, I know he’d be making soft whimpering sounds. His skin is flushed a deeper pink than usual. He starts bucking his hips into his own hands, fingers sliding over his cock, in and out of his ass. He’s wide open, his mouth a gaping, trembling O, the sound a long deep moan as he comes all over himself.

Serge stands up, licks some of the cum off his hand and blows me a kiss.

The next day, the curtains are drawn over Serge’s windows.

Anna On Barbara

2006-12-13T23:14:00.000-05:00

Four minutes? That's the probing Barbara Walters/Anna Wintour interview? Four stupid minutes of annoyingly good PR? Lame. I wanted tears and teeth gnashing, rending of flesh and Balenciaga fabric.

It's already on YouTube.

Public Glitter

2006-12-05T20:33:00.000-05:00

"It was only a matter of time before Goldfrapp released a remix album. With club hits like 'Number 1' and 'Ride a White Horse', Supernature’s lush electro tinged sound practically demands it...

Reviewed Goldfrapp's new remix album, We Are Glitter, and Lady Sovereign's debut, Public Warning in this month's Cybersocket. Pick up a copy or read 'em online.

The (Lady) British Invasion

I Am the Imaginary Socialite

2006-11-27T22:17:00.000-05:00

I kind of adore this picture of me from the Imaginary Socialite. It reveals several things about me: I apparently look 23 years old; I have sleepy eyes; I did not recognize myself with the new haircut; I have dreadful posture. To answer some very pressing questions:

1) single or taken?
Single. But ask again in a week or so.

2) straight or gay?
Duh.

3) uptown or downtown?
You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares.

4) Killers or Bravery?
Umm...the Bravery...is this a trick question?

PREF: My Pretend Boyfriend

2006-11-15T01:11:00.000-05:00

New piece from the November/December issue of PREF. Buy it if you can find it!

SEX WITH MY PRETEND BOYFRIEND

Andy lives in Portland. He does PR for a middling lounge-pop band, which brings him to Manhattan a few times a year. Whenever he’s here, he calls me up. He takes me out, he holds my hand, he takes me home. He’s not my boyfriend, but I like to pretend he is.

The Hotel
Andy’s hotel room is on the 14th floor overlooking Lexington Avenue. It’s 2 a.m. We’ve been to Hiro at the Maritime Hotel all night, where we spotted Björk near the bar. We drank champagne and danced a lot, and kissed a lot, and made people jealous. I particularly enjoyed making people jealous.

The room is one of those odd old New York hotel rooms with a four-poster bed and a clawfoot tub. It’s lovely, but I can’t help thinking about all the Midtown executive types who’ve brought their mistresses here. All those suits and ties and belts thrown on the floor, the blowjobs during lunch hour...Maybe it’s just my booze soaked brain, maybe I’m just horny, but it’s like some kind of wicked sexual ghost lives here.

Andy has his old Polaroid camera in his hands.

“Mind if I take some pictures of you?”

He’s rearranging lamps, taking their shades off. I start taking off my clothes. Andy takes off his shirt. He tells me what to do, where to move, snapping photos as he talks. Watching him moving around the room, half naked, I start to think about all the things I want him to do to me. He tells me to stand in front of the mirror, and he comes up behind me and presses himself against me. He reaches around and puts his hand on my cock. He takes a photo.

I turn around and start kissing him, fiercely. I push him down onto the bed and climb on top of him. The camera’s gone, I’m not sure where. His jeans are off and we’re pressing against each other, hard, desperately. It’s then that I realize how much I love sex with Andy. I love the tumble and the tussle, the way we crash into each other like waves against a rocky coast, the way he looks at me before, during, after.

He props himself up against the head board and tells me to turn around and lean against him. My back to him, he tells me he wants to watch me play with myself. Behind me, I can feel his chest rise and fall as he breathes. I feel his warm smooth skin against my back. He puts one arm around my waist and grabs my cock with the other. I push backwards into him, resting my head on his shoulder, his cheek next to mine. He turns and kisses me, and the world explodes in bright, hot spasms.

The Blindfold
The blindfold is made of thick, pebbly leather. It’s black and shaped like a domino mask without eye holes.

“Do you want to wear it, or should I?” I ask. We’re in Andy’s bed, in his house in Portland. It’s three in the afternoon. We’ve just come home from a late lunch. We started getting naked the minute we walked in the door.

“I don’t know,” he says.

It seems like we’ve been having sex nonstop since I arrived in Portland two days ago. This weird, slow-moving city lets you do things like that on the weekend. I’m used to New York, where the pace and the pressures of living in the most ruthlessly fabulous city in the world keep you from wasting an entire Sunday in bed with someone. I’m used to the meanness and the danger. But Portland is just so...nice. It’s kind of making me homesick. I need to inject a little meanness and danger before I leave. So, the blindfold...

I slip it over Andy’s eyes and he smiles. “I’ve never done anything like this,” he says. I smile, thinking of some of the horribly perverted things I’ve done and how they might compare to this harmless little blindfold.

Andy stretches out on the bed and I start to touch him. I put my hands on him lightly, like he might break if I don’t handle him gently. I move my hands over his entire body, touching every part of him except his penis. His breathing is slow, rhythmic, and he barely makes a sound. Then I put my mouth everywhere that my hands have been. I run my lips over his skin, sometimes kissing, sometimes licking, sometimes just breathing. And I watch as his penis plumps, stiffens, and stands erect. It’s an amazing thing to watch a penis getting hard without touching it.

The Proposal
I’m having a particularly upsetting day at work. I lock myself in the bathroom and call Andy.

“You want to go to Milk and Honey tonight?” he asks.

I laugh, thinking he’s fucking with me. “Sure, I’ll meet you there at eight,” I say, sarcastically.

“Actually, our reservation is for 10:30.”

He’s not kidding. I’m confused and frustrated. I’ve fallen into some Bizzaro version of my life where Andy lives in New York and can just take me out to fabulous, hidden speakeasies like Milk and Honey whenever I’m having a bad day.

“I’m in town,” he says. “I flew in this morning.”

That night, I drink four sweet, strong cocktails that taste of, well, milk and honey. Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong are playing. The bar is dark and quiet, and there’s something really benevolent and calming about our waitress. This is perfect. This is exactly what I needed. I find myself wishing that Andy could be there whenever I have a bad day at work, whenever I have a good day at work, whenever…

That’s when I realize I’m falling in love. Somewhere between the visits and the phone calls, between having sex and holding his hand, between the Pacific North West and the Big Apple, I’ve managed to fall in love.

We go back to my place and fall into bed. The sex is soft and slow, kinda like dancing to Ella Fitzgerald or Louis Armstrong. We stop every now and then, and just lie there, tangled up in each other, breathing. The weight of his body presses against mine, but there’s no urgency, no frenzy. There’s time. Because, maybe we could do this for the rest of our lives.

“You should move to New York,” I whisper. “If you lived in New York, I think I’d try to make you my boyfriend.”

He shifts in bed. “If I lived in New York I’d be too busy finding an apartment, a new job, establishing myself. I wouldn’t have time for a boyfriend.” He looks at me and something inside me falls, collapses inward.

“You shouldn’t count on me as a potential boyfriend,” he says.

V&R @ H&M

2006-11-10T13:33:00.000-05:00

I got up at 9 a.m. – 9 a.m.! – so I could get to H&M as soon as they opened and fight the crowds for the Viktor & Rolf collection. I’d heard horror stories about years past when Karl Lagerfeld and Stella McCartney debuted their one-off, high end meets middlebrow collections. The crowds lined up at dawn; they stampeded as soon as the doors opened; hair was pulled; clothing ripped; flesh rended. Both collections sold out within hours – I read somewhere that Stella’s sold out in 11 minutes.

But I had a plan. The night before, I’d clicked through the menswear collection on H&M’s website. I made a list of the pieces I wanted. And then I prioritized. I wanted the shoes, the tank and underwear set with the tux pleats, the argyle sweater, the suite, and the trench coat. The tank and undies and shoes would be relatively easy to snatch up, so I’d go for them first. At $299 the trench might not move as quickly, so that would be next, followed by the suit, which would take longest to size properly. The sweater I wasn’t too sure about, so that could wait.

Of course, I was running late. I got to the H&M on Fifth Avenue at quarter after 10, 15 minutes after they’d opened, and already there was barely anything on the racks. The ground floor was swarming with wannabe fashionistas and Eurotrash, arms loaded with obscene piles of garments.

Luckily, the men’s side of the store was relatively calm; a dozen or so gay boys rifling through what was left; a few women taking what they could get for their boyfriends or gay-boyfriends or whoever. The women’s side, though…it looked like a war zone. Crazy eyed ladies snatching up whatever they could and carrying it off to deserted parts of the store where their mothers guarded their cache; desperate latecomers waiting for the staff to bring out more pieces; vultures eyeing you, waiting to seize a skirt the minute you let go of it. It was a truly harrowing sight.

Stay calm, I thought. You don’t want to make a scene.

I spotted three pairs of shoes. The first pair I picked up was my size. I managed to get the trench and the suit as well. By the time I found the undies my arms were full and I couldn’t bother to rummage through the racks. I noticed a cute blond guy shadowing me. He obviously wanted something I had and was waiting for me to set it down. I started to get nervous and decided it was time to pay for my loot and get out of there.

On my way out I noticed they had brought more argyle sweaters out. I grabbed a small and looked it over. I liked it, but the more I thought about it the more it seemed stupid to buy it. It was so recognizable. I could just imagine walking around Chelsea this winter and seeing six of the same sweater within a 10 block radius. And for that matter, wouldn’t it be the same with the shoes and the trench? All of which begs the question, was all this really worth it? What’s the point of getting designer clothing when everyone knows you got it at H&M? Is it really all that special when hoards of crazed shoppers are grabbing it off the racks like contestants on Shop ‘Til You Drop?

“Excuse me. You had the shoes earlier…” It was the blond boy.

“Yeah.”

“Did you buy them?”

“Yeah, I did, sorry.”

He smiled and rolled his eyes. “I’m just sort of waiting around like a moron for them to bring more stuff out.”

I put down the sweater and walked away.

Socket to Me

2006-11-03T10:35:00.000-05:00

"If you still remember the Cardigans as the cutesy '90s pop band with the cute blond front woman who sang that cute song 'Lovefool,' well dear, I fear you’re facing a problem..."

This month I reviewed new albums by the Cardigans and the Scissor Sisters for Cybersocket Magazine. Read the piece online here:

The Cardigans, Scissor Sisters Issue New Cuts

I'm the Carrie!

2006-11-01T12:59:00.000-05:00

I like to think of Halloween the same way crusty old society ladies think of the fall social season: the parties, the events, the clothes. My calender was booked solid the whole weekend leading up to Tuesday night. Three parties, three costumes, lotsa photos...

Left to right: Saturday night's Dia De Los Muertos costume, slightly smudged and melted, unfortunately; dressed down and incognito as the Grim Reaper at the Park on Sunday night; and my take on Carrie at Motherfucker.

Justin's Tin Woodsman costume; hot guy at mr. Black (is it weird that I'm turned on by his Hannibal Lecter mask?); Kiki and Charlie at Motherfucker's Carrie Prom Night.

Acid Betty, Astro Earl (in a much better Dia De Los Muertos look), and Epiphany at Motherfucker. Morningwood and Hot Chip played. The trailer for the upcoming Motherfucker documentary was shown. I'm a little embarrassed at how excited I was to see myself in some of the footage. We never made it to Susanne Bartsch's party at Avalon, but I heard it got shut down pretty early.

And of course, crazy shirtless peeing death!

Pre-Halloween

2006-10-27T22:27:00.000-04:00

It's Halloween, lovelies! This is my pumpkin. I carved it tonight whilst watching Carrie.

I spent the day dressing hot wealthy guys for this big fetish themed party thrown by some former Olympic bronze medalist. Hot 30-something former athletes with black American Express cards. Australian jet setters squeezing their big, beefy asses into PVC shorts and still managing to look mouth watering. I helped two American former rowers pick out clothes and got to watch them change, their big dicks flopping around in their boxer briefs. I put one in a neoprene wrestling singlet and red spandex hood, the other in black vinyl pants and a spandex muscle shirt. I really really wanted to be pressed between them for the rest of my life.

Oh, and that surly, yet adorable, actress whose character died last season on that network television action adventure show? She was in, too. Bought a rubber skirt and top. She's much nicer in person than Page Six would have you believe.

I've almost got my costumes sorted out. All three of them. One for each party.

Skeeters

2006-10-25T00:49:00.000-04:00

I like too many boys. But also, no boys at all. Which is to say that I like a lot of boys, but I don’t like any of them enough to actually do anything about liking them. It’s making me pensive and stay-at-homeish. On top of which, mosquitoes have somehow been getting into my bedroom every night, keeping me up until the wee hours of the morning trying to kill all of them and making me very grumpy indeed.

Like the mosquitoes, the boys seem to come out of nowhere, inexplicably multiplying. I wish I could swat them all, leaving just one perfect bug-man to love me and suck the blood from my veins.

Toby
I met him at a party in Chinatown. I went because I thought I might be into the host – we’d sort of been flirting for a few months – and I needed to make sure. Turns out, I wasn’t. I spent almost the whole night sitting in a very low beach chair on the roof talking to Toby. I could tell almost immediately that he liked me, which is odd, because later he told me that his initial impression of me was, “Eh, another gay boy.” We talked about writing and his growing fear of his new iPod. I tried to make him talk about Kate Bush.

Weeks later, we’ll go on a date and end up, accidentally, in an obscenely romantic bar with a fireplace on a miserable, cold, rainy night. “Is this a date?” he’ll ask, and I’ll say, “Insofar as ‘dates’ are things you do to get to know each other better, then yes, this is a date.” We’ll get a little drunk and he’ll mention his therapist twice, and then we’ll go to the movies where he’ll put his hand on my thigh in the most nervous, unsexy way, which, oddly enough, makes me want to kiss him.

Rex
His name’s not Rex, but he looks like it could be. Shaved head, square jaw, stubble. So that’s how I think of him. Rex. My friend Glen brought him to the Shortbus after-after-party at the Delancey.

“You look so familiar,” I kept saying. Apparently I met him through a friend whose sort-of-virginity he sort of took.

“It was such a mistake,” he said. “It was like he just tried to imitate what he’d seen in porn.”

Midway through the night, we were alone by the fountain on the roof. Well, not alone, but amongst strangers, so it sort of felt like we were alone. I was trying to flirt without seeming flirty, and wasn’t sure if I was getting anything back. Then Glen dragged us all downstairs to dance and I lost track of Rex.

“Where’d he go?” I asked. Glen looked at me, shaking his head slowly and deliberately, the universal girlfriend signal for “You don’t wanna get involved with that.”

But I really think I want to get involved with that.

Shane
I was checking him out at a vintage store after work one night. He had a big dog and long black hair, and he kind of looked like he was from another planet. I was trying to be obvious so he’d notice me. He didn’t notice me. But he started talking to my friend Jimmy. They knew each other years ago. He wasn’t exactly cute. He was weird lookin’. And suddenly, I was thinking about what it would be like to kiss him, to get naked with him. I wondered what he looked like with his weird, poorly chosen clothes off. I wondered what we’d do in the sack and if it would be any fun.

Emory
In a way, Emory is sort of my boss. I’ve written for his magazine. But we won’t get into that. I thought he was cute before he was sort of my boss.

When I met him he was dating someone else. He asked to take my photo at Duvet. I said something disparaging about electroclash, which made him frown and walk away. I thought that was pretty odd until I found out, months later, that he’d actually sort of coined the term a few years ago. We kept trying to go out and have drinks last year, but it never happened.

He doesn’t live in New York anymore. He doesn’t even live in the US anymore. But we’re friends on MySpace. I try to send him flirty sounding messages, which is surprisingly difficult. They end up sounding awkward and stalker-ish. Secretly, I keep hoping he’ll get deported and have to move back to Brooklyn.

I guess I could potentially fall in love with any of them. I just don’t know if I want to.

You Want Useless IV

2006-10-17T14:11:00.000-04:00

“I started in Milan with this Italian photographer saying, in a cheesy Eurotrash accent, ‘Yeah yeah. Gimme sexy. Gimme strong.’ And I was like, ‘You better back the fuck up nigga!’”

Read the rest of my interview with Margo Stilley - high school classmate and star of Michael Winterbottom's 9 Songs - in issue 4 of Useless Magazine, plus interviews with Richard Kern, Dennis Cooper, The Presets, etc. Get it in New York at Saint Mark's Bookshop or order it on the Useless MySpace page.

P is for Puh-Party

2006-10-16T19:21:00.000-04:00

Along with apples and pumpkins and back-to-school shopping, fall apparently brings us scads of new parties. I'm workin' on getting myself out to all of them, but in the meantime these three are where you should be boozin' and dancin'.

Some of NYC's fiercest glamazons - led by Kevin Aviance, Shane Savant, Austin Head, and Acid Betty - create panic on the runway at this weekly performance, art, fashion, rock'n'roll debacle. There's free candy, the hosts give out drink tickets like, well, candy, and if you're super sweet DJ Jeffo just might play that obscure Kate Bush song you've been dying to dance to. Seen last week: designer Zaldy and the boys of Dangerous Muse. Go now before every faggot in the city kicks back the covers and hops out of bed for this Thursday night spectacle.

Boston's long-running queer punk rock dance party is taking New York by storm. This clusterfuck of bois, grrrls, tranies, and the breeders who love them settles into the Delancey on the second Friday of every month and injects a much needed DIY queer sensibility back into the Lower East Side. Expect live bands, scrawny go-go boys, and DJ Sir Loins' infamous sausage links.

Usually home to the posher-than-thou, Guest House lets the riff raff in on Sunday nights for Les Freaques. Sophia Lamar, Milan (of Da LipStyxx), and Jose the Hopper host a cast of fabulous freaks, including Skyla Versai and Gaisha Anne Rysee as the Ice Breaker Match Makers at the Friends of Friends table and DJ Tekshur as the cutest fucking DJ on the planet. Opening night saw Nicky London celebrate his birthday, plus appearances by UK club legends Stefán and Mika Doll. See you there next week. You pay for the bottle service.

My Life as a Toriphile

2006-09-26T16:03:00.000-04:00

As much as I truly loathe admitting it, I don’t think I’d be who I am today if I wasn’t a Tori Amos fan. I was a teenage Toriphile. Go ahead, laugh. Today, Tori releases Piano: The Collection, a career spanning five CD box set. A box set, that’s a pretty big deal. It’s 15 years of this woman’s work, a huge chunk of her life. But it’s also a huge chunk of my life, as a fan...

Happy Workers
The first time I ever heard a Tori Amos song I didn’t even know it was a Tori Amos song. I’d never even heard of Tori Amos and I wouldn’t for at least another four years. It was 1992, I was 10 years old, and my mom took me to see the Robin Williams movie Toys. In one of the opening scenes, where you see how cute and fun the toy factory is, and how much the workers love their jobs, there was a weird, up-beat, but somehow ominous song playing. A woman was singing in a creepy, strained monotone. I loved it. I was singing the song for weeks, and I think I even asked for the soundtrack that Christmas. The song was "Happy Workers". The woman singing was Tori Amos. But I didn’t know that until years later.

Unplugged
1996. My CD collection consists of the Cranberries, the My So-called Life soundtrack, Janet Jackson’s The Velvet Rope, and whatever random pop songs I’ve heard on the radio this week. It’s a school night. I’m flipping channels and just happen to catch the beginning of MTV’s latest episode of Unplugged. Tori Amos. I recognize the name. It’s the woman who wrote the introduction to Neil Gaiman’s Death: The High Cost of Living, my favorite comic book. I’m intrigued. I watch this 36-year-old redhead grind her piano bench, sing songs about sex and God and the void between. I watch her play pop music on the harpsichord. I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.

The first Tori Amos album I buy is Boys for Pele, probably her most difficult and inaccessible work. But I love it. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before. I quickly buy her first two albums, Little Earthquakes and Under the Pink, and I listen to them constantly. I buy Tori Amos biographies; I hunt for import singles and bootlegs in the few indie music shops in my hometown; I check fan websites daily for news on TV appearances, magazine articles, her latest releases. I know almost everything there is to know about Tori Amos and I talk about her constantly.

More importantly, though, I relate to what I’m hearing in her music. I’m 14 and I’m just starting to think about the world around me. I’m thinking about my Catholic upbringing. I’m thinking about the fact that I’m queer. I’m thinking about what I’ve been told about sex and what I actually feel. I’m thinking about art and music and literature and their ability to inspire and provoke. I’m thinking about science and psychology, about Carl Sagan and Carl Jung. I’m reading Alice Walker and starting to understand racism, sexism, globalization. I’m starting to realize how important it is to know what’s going on in the world. I’m writing. I’m writing really really bad poetry, but I’m still writing.

Plugged
I saw my first Tori Amos concert a week before my 16th birthday, on her Plugged ’98 tour. My friends and I skipped school to drive to Charlotte, NC, just a few miles from where Tori was born. We got amazingly stoned on the way. The concert was like a religious experience. It was the first time she’d ever toured with a full band and the things they did with some of the older songs blew me away.

I saw her twice on that tour. The second time was in Raleigh, NC. After the show, my friend and I were waiting for my parents to come pick us up. The crowds had pretty much disappeared when my dad came strolling toward us from the parking lot. He said there was a small crowd of people near where he’d parked and they said that Tori was coming out to do a meet and greet. I thought he was bullshitting me, but the crowd was there. I squeezed my way through and managed to catch a glimpse of her: wet hair, small, Nike running shoes. She signed my tour program. I think my parents – who were pretty indifferent about Tori Amos – were almost as excited as I was.

Since then I’ve been to almost a dozen Tori concerts, but that tour was my favorite. To this day, seeing Tori play live, especially with the band, is one of the most awesome things I have ever beheld.

Venus
When To Venus and Back came out in 1999 I was a senior in high school and I was madly in love with a bisexual boy. He ended up falling for my best friend, Christina, and they were together for about three years. It devastated me. I think it’s the first time my heart was ever actually broken and it felt like my world had fallen apart. I listened to Venus everyday for that entire year.

Now, when I listen to that CD, I’m right back there. I feel everything all over again: the loneliness, the betrayal, the sickening ache. I even smell my car, my school, his cologne. Possibly more than any other song or album, To Venus and Back is bound up with a really painful time in my life.

Scarlet
Scarlet’s Walk was the beginning of the end. I was in college. I don’t know what I was listening to, but it wasn’t Tori Amos. I guess I was just sort of growing out of it: the angst, the faux religious scholarship. I wanted to hear about politics; Tori was still writing about religion. And Scarlet’s Walk, despite an interesting concept (a scathing look at post-9/11 America through the eyes of a Cherokee descendant), was just really boring, musically. It was softer. It was so...adult contempo. I didn't want to be one of those crazy, unquestioningly loyal fans. I started to get why so many people found Tori annoying. I stopped listening.

When The Beekeeper was released last year, I didn’t buy it. I didn’t go see Tori on her tour that summer either.

Renaissance
In an airport in Portland, Oregon. My flight has been delayed. I walk to a magazine shop and there it is: the new paperback version of Tori Amos’s autobiography. I’ve flipped through it before, started reading the first chapter and got really annoyed with all the metaphorical, spiritual mumbo-jumbo about archetypes. But today, for some reason I buy the book. And I read the whole thing on the flight to New York.

The next day, I put a bunch of Tori Amos songs back on my iPod. And the next time I see my friend Dave, I ask to borrow his copy of The Beekeeper. I put that on my iPod, too. I read somewhere that Tori is back in the studio, that she’s working on material that’s drastically different from anything she’s done in the past few years, that now that her daughter is older, she’s not holding back anymore.

I’m starting to get excited about her music again. I’ll probably never be the fanatic I was in high school – thank God. But I’ll always keep my Tori Amos CDs. I’ll always go see her when she tours. When I have kids, I’ll sing them "Black Dove (January)" for their lullaby. Maybe at my funeral, they’ll play a sweet, sad Tori Amos song, maybe "Hey Jupiter". And that will be my life, as a Tori Amos fan.

Ass Shot

2006-09-25T16:45:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago at mr. Black I had my photo taken with the Ass. He's really adorable in person. The photos are from his blog, Ass Shot.

My friend Benji got rowdy and partially naked and got his photo taken as well. Isn't Benji the cutest damn thing you've ever seen? Picture, if you will, Jay McCarroll and two inexplicably cute boys on a red leather sofa engrossed in some kind of three-way smooch-fest, 'cause that's what was going on just to the right of the Ass in this photo. Jay kept pulling his enormous hood over his face to keep people from recognizing him, as if anyone A) didn't know what he was doing, or B) cared.

Bathroom Interview: Joanna Angel

2006-09-23T10:33:00.000-04:00

In twenty years I think people will look at Joanna Angel the same way they look at Ron Jeremy now. She's already well on her way to icon status in the porn industry. She's undoubtably one of the smartest women in the business. She's ridden the alt-porn wave and carved out her own little niche within the niche. Her website, BurningAngel.com, is not just a porn site, it's a community where tattooed models write blogs and get naked. Her latest DVD with VCA, Joanna Angel's Guide to Humping, premeires tonight at Theo and Michael T's Rated X. I caught Joanna in the bathroom at Tristan Taormino's DVD release party way back in February. Maybe I sat on this interview a little too long...

What first drew you to work with Tristan Taormino?
I think she’s the most amazing woman to walk the earth. I used to stalk her, kind of. I used to read her books and go see her speak. I tried to interview her for my [college] paper. I’d never really had, like, an idol and I just thought she was amazing. Two years later she came up to me at AVN and was like, “You’re Joanna. You’ve been doing an amazing job.”

What is feminist porn to you?
You know, it’s hard, because I really don’t think it means anything. I think that a feminist…is a feminist. And someone who’s not a feminist is not a feminist. I think it has a lot more to do with the porn you make than the porn you watch.

When are we going to see Joanna Angel strap on a dildo and fuck a guy?
I don’t know! As much as I love being in control and being the leader of a movement, when it comes to sex I’m submissive. I like to be roughed up, whether it’s a guy or a girl. It’s almost an empowering feeling for me when someone can just throw me around and call me a whore and just fuckin’ beat the shit out of me. And to be honest, the desire to fuck a guy with a strap-on…it doesn’t really turn me on. I’d like to put another girl doing it to a guy in one of my movies.

What’s happening with BurningBoys.com?
Oh god! It’s an idea we had a long time ago, and we want to launch it. But it’s very hard because Burning Angel is a small company where me and one other person have to do everything. When it’s at the point that Burning Angel runs by itself, we can take on another project. I don’t want to do Burning Boys unless we really do it right and we can throw all our energy into it.

What is the perfect porno soundtrack for you?
Well, in Joanna’s Angels Rancid was on the soundtrack and so was Death By Stereo. I really want to get Turbo Negro to sing in one of my movies because all their songs are about, like, fucking and having fun and giving head and going to parties and being crazy. And that’s what my porn is all about.

Do you have trouble getting bands to lend their songs to pornos?
No, because I grew up in the music scene. The people I grew up with in the music scene, they really care about me, they really support me, and they’re really into other people who are being creative. I don’t think they’d give music to most other porn that’s being made, but they’ll give music to me.

Last question: What is Joanna Angel drinkin’ tonight?
A Kamikaze. It’s always Kamikazes. If you see Joanna Angel out on the town, you buy her a Kamikaze. She will be your best friend.

PREF: Not Doin' It

2006-09-20T10:37:00.000-04:00

The September/October issue of PREF is out. My friend Ryan has a bunch of photos in this issue as well. You can get PREF in New York at Dina Magazines, 270 Park Ave. South, between 21st and 22nd.

Not Doin' It

For some reason, people think New York is all about sex. They think Manhattanites are running around doing it all the time, hopping into bed with someone new whenever they go out. And maybe they’re right. But honestly, I can think of so many reasons not to have sex in New York: the stifling, stinking summer heat; a stupefying array of potential sexually transmitted diseases; the bedbug epidemic.

I’ve been celibate for a few months now. I like telling people I’m celibate. It sounds so serious, so drastic, like a very important, grown-up life decision that should be respected.

“So, what? You just can’t get laid?”

I get that reaction a lot. People just can’t seem to understand why someone would choose not to have sex. So I give them a withering look and explain that, yes, I could get laid if I wanted to. It’s just that casual sex has gotten so stupid and clumsy and boring that I’d just rather not deal with it. I’m tired of not knowing what my partner wants and him not knowing what I want and of wanting him out of my house five minutes after I come. I’m tired of not really connecting with someone during sex. I know it sounds obscenely sentimental, but I’m waiting for my one true love. Or at least someone I like a whole lot.

But, yeah, I could definitely get laid if I wanted to...

My Coke-mouthed Hero
Mr. DJ was the last guy I had sex with. But don’t think that his caresses were what drove me into the cool, tight embrace of celibacy. Mr. DJ is a more than competent lover. That final roll in the hay was merely coincidental.

He DJs some of my favorite parties, so we see each other almost every weekend. And, of course, I run into him at other events. I’m never quite sure what to expect from him. One night he’ll be all over me, another he’ll barely acknowledge my presence. The last time I saw him was at ‘Stache, the now defunct Thursday night queer rock ‘n’ roll party.

“Hey, are you mad at me?” I’d written something about one of his parties that I thought might have pissed him off.

“No. Baby, I’m never mad at you,” he said, and he kissed me.

He’s much taller than I am and a bit older. Standing next to him, I felt small and vulnerable, and I wanted him to put his arms around me and protect me from the world. He’s kind of my hero, and sometimes I think I should just let him protect me.

“We’re going to the Cock,” he said. “Come on.”

We took separate cabs. He went with his friends, I went with mine. When we got to the Cock, I headed for the bar, but Mr. DJ pulled me into the private bathroom. The one with the door you could lock.

“You know I adore you,” he said.

“Fuck you. You probably say that to at least five boys every weekend.”

“No. Really? Is that what you think?” He looked a little perplexed, like he was trying to figure something out, so I just started kissing him. He tasted bitter and hard and numb. Like aspirin or gun metal.

“Dude, you totally have coke-mouth.”

“Lets got to my place.” He put his hand down my pants.

“I can’t.” I pulled away.

“You’re such a tease.”

The Hand Model
Tuesday night at Happy Valley, Susanne Bartsche’s glammer-than-thou comeback party. My friend Justin and I are waiting for drinks at the bar. To my right I notice a cute boy. Slight, but muscular, dark hair, bright eyes. And full, red lips framing the widest smile I’ve ever seen. And he’s smiling at me.

“I’m Tyler,” he says. He asks me something about the tranny dancing in a cage above the bar. I tell him I don’t know her.

“What do you do, Tyler?”

“I’m a model,” he says.

“Really?” I laugh. “Are you a hand model?”

“No! I’m in GQ this month. I’m in an ad for Bally shoes. But only from the chest down.”

“Ok, so you’re not a hand model. You’re a foot model.”

He laughs and then his friends drag him off to the balcony where I imagine they’ll try to get someone more important than them to pay for bottle service. Justin and I stick around the stage and drink and watch some straight girl with a strap-on pretend to fuck her boyfriend while he pretends to play the guitar.

“Was that guy flirting with me? I can never tell.”

Justin shrugs. “Maybe,” he says.

Tyler spends the better part of the evening upstairs, and I’m busy with Justin and some of his model/designer/photographer friends. But around 2:30 a.m. I look around and Justin is nowhere in sight. And there’s Tyler, drunk and dancing. I saunter up to him and grab his hand.

“Your hands look so familiar. Are you a hand model?”

He laughs and puts his arms around my neck and kisses me with those beautiful lips. I take his hand and lead him to the bathroom – I do find myself making out in bathrooms an awful lot, don’t I? – where we manage to sneak past the bathroom attendant and into a stall. We’re kissing and he’s groping, putting his hands up my shirt, into my back pockets. I keep having to swat his hands away from my belt buckle. Then someone’s pounding on the door.

“One person per stall! Have some class!” the bathroom attendant shouts.

Outside Tyler and I exchange numbers and kisses. He looks at me, expecting something.

I hesitate. I linger. I look at him. I’d like to take him home. I’m definitely tempted. Maybe in another life I do take him home. But not in this life, not tonight.

Dirty Pen Pal
I’m totally, completely, desperately in love. Like, for real in love. He lives in Portland. Oregon, not Maine. I send him text messages and emails and love letters. I send him packages filled with chocolate kisses and mix CDs and stickers. I call him at 3 a.m., when I’m drunk and leaving the party alone. We visit each other, sometimes. And I write about him.

It’s like what Anaïs Nin said about Henry Miller: “I can find no other way of loving my Henry than filling pages with him when he is not here to be caressed and bitten.”

I send him letters, telling him how much I miss him, what I would do to him if he were here. I tell him I want him to fuck me standing up, in a doorway between rooms. I tell him about my body, how it feels like it’s stretched thin, pulling towards him, frustrated by the distance. I send him dirty emails about sucking his cock and the way I can feel myself loosening, opening up, just thinking about him. He prints my emails and carries them with him wherever he goes.

He’s the real reason I’m not having sex. I don’t want anyone else.

Spring '07! Project Runway

2006-09-18T22:12:00.000-04:00

I haven't commented on the Project Runway show yet, and that's because I didn't see the photos until tonight. See, I wanted to wait until I'd had a chance catch up on the TV show, which I haven't seen in a few weeks. So, tonight I downloaded the past three episodes on iTunes, clicked through the pics on NewYorkMag.com, and here's what I think.

We'll start with Jeffrey, because let's face it, I kinda have a crush on him. He's so cute and moody! Anyway, his collection was nice. Quite toned down. I'm wondering if they'll pull the same shit they did with Santino and bully him for doing exactly what they told him to do, i.e. bring it down a notch. We'll see.

Laura. So fucking chic it hurts. So recognizable, so sophistocated, so stunning.

Now, I feel like Michael has been a favorite to win almost from the casting special. His stuff on the show was really good. But this collection was a little too gaudy, a little too Versace, a little too J.Lo. It's fun, but I don't know. Not my fave.

There is nothing about Uli's collection that I didn't like. She's another one with very recognizable style. How does she make those patterns work? It's truely amazing. I'm going to just say it, I think this one's the winner.

I'm not surprised at all to see that these are the four who made it. I think the judges made some huge mistakes this season. Vincent should have been auf'd long before he actually was, and I think Milan and Alison should have been kept on longer than they were. Plus, I'd really like to have seen what else Keith could have done. So many of the challenges are more about making costumes than fashion. I think that's where some of the designers slip up and that's really a shame. With that in mind, I do think the final four deserve their spot at Fashion Week. It's tough to tell which is the decoy and which are the actual final three.

And while we're talking about Project Runway, check out Jay McCarroll's collection. I like that he did some menswear, though I think his personality gets lost a little. I like that his clothes have a sense of humour - clunky overalls, big buttons, huge accessories. Then you've got something like this ice blue and silver look, or the yellow and olive dress. They're totally cute, totally wearable, and still very Jay. Nice.

Spring '07! Part Three

2006-09-16T21:56:00.000-04:00

Ok, let's start with L.A.M.B. This collection seemed a little - how do I put this - bipolar. It's like Gwen's teetering between that whole ghetto-fab thing she was workin' for a minute and a newer, more mature sensibility. These three are my favorite pieces. They're a nice blend of those two images. Fun, but not obnoxious. Stylish, but not boring.

Ah, Diesel. I have a special place in my heart for Diesel, because, well, I can afford Diesel. They are all about the white and gold lamé for spring, which I really like. But these looks were my favorites. Love that red dress with the deep purple print under it. And if I could rock a jumpsuit, this would be the one.

So, sifting through photos from all the shows, I came across a lot of designers I'd never heard of, and a couple of them stole my heart. Like Duckie Brown. I'm love love loveing these super low-cut t-shirts in these deep, moody colors.

Thom Browne is another one I'd never heard of. At first glance I was kind of put off. But the more I look at this stuff, the more I love it. It's so weird, so English - and these are some of the tamer pieces. It's the kind of collection you'd have to dismantle to make it work in real life. Like, I'd totally wear that dotted voile-covered jacket in the first photo with jeans.

It seems like everyone and his brother was doing some sort of dressed up shorts and jacket combo. It's a difficult look for guys to pull off, but I like it. Not for the office (duh!), but for running around the city, sure. You just gotta get the shoes right. Above: Rag and Bone, Thom Browne, John Bartlett.

Next: The Project Runway Shows!

Spring '07! Part Two

2006-09-13T22:50:00.000-04:00

Tuesday was big. Lots and lots of menswear! Above: Cloak, Narciso Rodriguez, Heatherette, and Marc by Marc Jacobs.

So Marc by Marc Jacobs is adorable. It's got a sort of English, sort of schoolboy-ish look goin' on. Sort of. None of the models look like they're over 17. I want that sweater on the right.

Now, I wasn't really aware of Narciso Rodriguez until today, but I clicked on the photos from his show and...wow. I really think these are some of my favorites. I love these two jackets, and I love the way they're paired with the shorts. Not that I'd ever be caught dead in shorts that short.

And, of course, the day ended with Heatherette. These boys always put on a show: Amanda Lepore, Paris and Nicky Hilton, every club kid in New York. I'm sort of shocked at how wearable their collection looked. They're known for being really outlandish; playful almost to the point of being retarded. But these clothes are really cute, really Heatherette, and yet they look like they can be worn by people who don't get paid to host a night at Happy Valley.

Spring '07!

2006-09-12T12:02:00.000-04:00

It’s Fashion Week! Ooooh, Fashion Week! My little heart’s all a-flutter. The tents, the shows, the parties! Not that I’m going to any of them. I mean, I could lurk around Bryant Park, celeb-spotting, trying to scam my way into the tents to get my hands on the free booze and some swag. I think the humiliation would be more than I could take. No, I’ll have to be content watching video of the shows on NewYorkMag.com.

So, I wasn’t really all that psyched on any of the shows this weekend, except DKNY. I really liked the blues and plaids in their Fall line and I’m loving all the bright solids against blacks and grays for Spring.

Monday was pretty big: Marc Jacobs and Proenza Schouler. I absolutely adore Proenza. I don't think there was anything not to like about these clothes. That striped skirt? Pure sex. The colors? Love 'em. The designers? Cutest boys on earth. Does anyone know if they're still a couple? And if not, can I have their numbers?

Marc Jacobs, on the other hand, left me a little cold. The clothes were cute. Super cute. Cute to a fault. They seemed a bit clown-ish to me, and shapeless. Apparently, we're trying to make this big, square balloon-dress thing happen this year, but is it really wearable if you're not Sophia Lamar? I like the two looks above, though. And I can't wait to see what's in the Marc by Marc Jacobs show.

Tomorrow: Betsey Johnson, Cloak, Marc by Marc, and Heatherette. Be still my heart!

Fag of the Week

2006-09-08T02:40:00.000-04:00

“My name’s Kevin. I’m a submissive male. I don’t charge anything. I’ll come to your house and clean, do laundry, dishes. I just like being ordered around.”

I kind of want to tell him to go buy me a pack of gum, but that would probably encourage him. I want him to know I totally get and respect his lifestyle choice. I don’t want to shame him, but god, I want him to go away.

Ryan’s the Fag of the Week at Fag Machine this week. I’m blowing off a bathroom interview to be part of his entourage. Ryan doesn’t even like the gays. He gets complimentary bottle service. He’s not even drinking.

I tell Kevin thanks, and that if I think of anything for him to do I’ll let him know.

“I think you’re really cute. Can I at least get your number?”

There’s something really wrong and obscene about someone Kevin’s age – like, 48? – calling you cute.

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t give anyone my number. I don’t even have a phone.” I realize I’m actually holding my phone in my hand as I’m saying this and try to hide it.

This is my punishment, I think. This is what you get for liking too many boys – the doorman, the bartender – who don’t ever remember you, and for ignoring the boys who do like you.

“When am I going to be fag of the week?” I ask.

“When you do something to deserve it,” says the DJ.

This is what you get for being cruel. This is what you get for trying to play both sides against the middle. Eventually, both sides end up playing against you. And you end up with guys like Kevin.

R.I.P. Willi

2006-09-06T10:52:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I overheard some woman on her cell phone say that Willi Ninja had died. My jaw dropped. Willi Ninja. Mother of the House of Ninja. The legend. The man who taught Madonna how to vogue.

“You know, I like to think he’s in Heaven,” my friend Jimmy said when I told him what I’d heard. “Whatever hustlin’ he had to do, I think he’s forgiven. He probably saved a lot of 17-year-old T-girls from the street.”

I remember watching Paris is Burning in college and being in awe. You cannot be a queer in NYC and go out and expect to be taken seriously if you’ve never seen this film. Rent the DVD, learn your history, learn something about the world, and remember Willi, one of the last legends.

All Very New Friends

2006-09-05T02:20:00.000-04:00

Sunday night was a night for new friends and for old ones to slip away or get mad. None of us wanted to deal with Motherfucker, so I missed one of the only chances I may ever have to see the Cramps play. Instead, we went to The Park. Upstairs, there were boys in the hot tub. Tommy Hottpants was running around mostly naked and dripping wet. I stopped him to say hi, but he just said, “I have to find my clothes!” and ran off.

Dave and I got into a little fight over a boy named Nathan. We’d both been talking to him and I think Dave wanted to call dibs, but you can’t do that with me. You can’t tell me not to flirt with someone. The minute you tell me no, I want it more. And it gets me in the mood to be mean. So I followed Nathan to the bathroom, lost him, and found him again on the stairs. Dave called me twice in the 10 minutes we were gone, and then he kept asking me if Nathan and I had made out. I wouldn’t answer him. I just smiled and drank and he kept on asking. Finally, I told him, no, I hadn’t made out with Nathan. He looked skeptical, so I leaned in close and whispered, “But that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna.” Dave left shortly after that.

There were four of us now: Me, Nathan, Nathan’s friend Ben, and Ben’s friend Glen. Ben and Glen were both short-ish and looked like they should be boyfriends or brothers. For some reason I kept talking about all of us having a potluck dinner. I felt really tall amongst these three not-quite-short guys, sort of awkward and out of place, like a beanpole teenager who hit his growth spurt too soon.

We were all flirting with each other and I don’t think anyone was quite sure who would pair up or in what combinations. I thought it would fun if we all hopped in bed together and it seemed like they might all be thinking the same thing. We walked to a diner, the four of us, all very new friends, but feeling like it was really important that we all stay together. We laughed a lot.

At the diner, I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the counter. It looked like a sloppy caricature; something hacked into white stone, immobile: tiny mouth, too high cheekbones, beady eyes. It didn’t look anything like what I see when I look at myself in the mirror.

I got home at 6 a.m. and crawled into bed feeling worn out, bruised, stretched thin. But I couldn’t sleep. I kicked back the knotted sheets and grabbed my parts and it just left me – the whole night, the day before, the twisted, gnarled feeling in my muscles, the whirl inside my head – it shot out of me in a few quick, merciful spasms.

I woke up the next day, at 1:45 p.m., thinking that everyone I knew was mad at me.

Boyfriend Panic

2006-08-28T12:54:00.000-04:00

My new roommate has a boyfriend. They’re a couple. They act all coupley. They do coupley things like help each other move into apartments and pick out paint for their bedroom walls and order take-out together. And pretty soon they’re going to spend the night here together. And the walls are kinda thin.

Suddenly, I’m in a panic. I need a boyfriend! I can’t be the single guy in the house. I don’t want to be the one in bed alone trying not to listen to someone else’s sex noises. That used to be my old roommate! Actually, that’s been every roommate I’ve ever had, and they were always my sex noises.

So now I’m thinking I need to find a boyfriend, and quick! Which is weird, because I don’t really want a boyfriend. They’re like pets or children. You have to make time for them and worry about whether or not you’re mistreating them. I don’t want to have to think about someone else that much. I don’t want to have those weird little tiffs in bars and subway stations where it’s not really a fight, but you’re just annoyed with each other and not communicating properly. I’d much rather have a really intense flirtation or unrequited infatuation, something that burns really brightly, but only lasts a few seconds, like fireworks. It’s not love, it’s adrenalin, and there’s nothing domestic about it. It exists at night in a pristine world of cocktails and dazzlingly vicious repartee and you never take it home, because, baby, who cares what you’re like when no one else is around?

Maybe I could do a prolonged transcontinental affair where we only see each other once or twice a year. The phone calls and the love letters get us through and somehow we both know that it’s real, that this is it, we’ve found each other. We know it like we know that too much chocolate brings on a head ache or how to ride a bike even though we haven’t been on one in years. We know because we’ve been there, we’ve felt it, and we will never, ever forget. We know because of, not despite, the fact that neither is willing to relocate. That’s the kind of relationship that lasts. It should be open-ended, no climax, no resolution. It should leave questions. It should leave me still in love.

Hemming and Hawing

2006-08-21T17:39:00.000-04:00

There were six guys doing it in my boss’s bedroom. I was not one of them.

It all started up on the roof where two parties were going on. One was mostly gay web porn people; the other looked like it was mostly straight NYU students. For the most part, both seemed pretty uneventful; just a bunch of friends getting drunk on a perfect summer night, on a close to perfect New York rooftop. My friend Josh and I hashed out some ideas for the super-secret web project we’ve been planning. I met a nice lad who works at Urban Outfitters and can allegedly put a bowling pin up his butt.

Then I turned around and people were performing fellatio! Right in front of the door leading to the stairwell, a minor porn star and two other guys were being mighty naughty, in full view of the mostly straight, and now totally freaked out, NYU kids. Someone told them to take it downstairs, and somewhere between rooftop and bedroom they recruited a few more guys.

There was a lot of hemming and hawing outside the bedroom, a lot of lingering, a lot of peeking in even though it was so dark you couldn’t really see anything except the flash of eyes reflecting the light coming in from the hall. You couldn’t see what was going on, but you could smell it. A thick, fleshy, familiar smell was coming from that room and anyone who came out of there.

My friend Charlie had this warm, drunk look on his face. “You want to go in there, don’t you?” I said. “Just go. Nothing’s stopping you.” He was all hesitation, looking for permission from I’m not sure who. It’s then that I realized there were two types of people at that party: those who wanted in on the orgy and those who weren’t sure what they wanted. Charlie knew he wanted in. We all knew he wanted in. He just needed a push.

I opened the bedroom door and walked in. “Hi guys, my friend Charlie wants to know if it’s ok to join.” I know that sounds obnoxious and I’m sure Charlie was mortified, but there was a sort of general welcoming and when I left the room he didn’t follow me out.

I was headed back up to the roof when I got this sinking feeling inside, like I’d forgotten something in a cab, something important, something I would need later. I sat down in that florescent lit stairwell and sent a text message to a friend from college: “Remember the me who used to jump into orgies? Now he pushes other people in and walks away.”

Ambiguously Gay Runway

2006-07-28T20:06:00.000-04:00

I’m having the damnedest time identifying the fags on this season of Project Runway. Well, not all of them, obviously. But there are a few boys I just can’t place, and with last season’s Zulema post-auf revelation...well, you just never know! Let's look at the evidence:

Robert
Gay. Duh.

Kayne
GAY! So gay. I mean, you may as well wrap this one up with a big pink suede bow and send him to Kathy Griffin’s house so she’ll have an actual gay on the next season of her reality show.

Vincent
Uh, who cares? He’s old. And crazy! He’s like, I’m so wacky! I’m so kooky! I’m gonna put a basket on your head! Gwaaaaaaah!

Malan
Gay? Or just very odd? Perhaps both. I actually thought he was going to be the crazy egomaniac this time around. Turns out, he seems surprisingly sweet and shy. He’s our little lamb; a wounded bird that needs to be protected and cuddled. Twenty bucks says that accent is fake.

Bradley
Not gay. Right? He’s got a beard. And he always seems stoned. I’m saying not gay.

Michael
Hmmm. He hasn’t gotten much screen-time yet, so I don’t have much to go on. He doesn’t really seem gay. I guess he could be all DL gay. Here’s the thing: 28-year-old semi-thugged out black dudes who are straight are not fashion designers, unless they’re already hip-hop moguls like P. Diddy. Gay.

Keith
My friend Kiki and I are fighting over this one. We both think he’s a hottie and want him on our team. Initially, I thought he was hetero. But then, in the first episode, describing his dress, he said two things came to mind: Scarlet O’Hara and the Carol Burnet Show. Gay and gay. Kiki disagrees, but come on! He’s a fashion designer. He’s got attitude oozing from his pores. Scarlet O’Hara! The Carol Burnet Show! Straight dudes don’t have the sort of finely developed sense of camp required to make that kind of reference. Kiki says she’ll buy it when he mentions Joan Crawford.

Jeffrey
Oh, hot Jeffrey. The tattoos. The rock’n’roll bad-boy attitude. I was all ready to declare him straight (I hear he has a kid and a live-in girlfriend), but then I found what I think is his MySpace page. Under “Orientation” it says “not sure.” What does it mean? Is it just a fan’s page, a fan who is just as baffled as I? Or maybe he’s just a lovely L.A. breed of hetero-flexible former street kid. Maybe turned a few tricks in his youth. Maybe just has an unhealthy fixation on pseudo-queer rock stars a la Bowie, Manson, Navaro.

PREF: The Ex-Boyfriend Interviews

2006-07-26T00:38:00.000-04:00

From PREF #15, July/August

The Ex-Boyfriend Interviews

One of the beautiful things about dating in New York is the fact that when you break up with someone, you never have to see them again. In a city of eight million people it’s easy to just disappear into the crowded streets. You can drop a boy like so much dead weight and never worry about an awkward confrontation; there are just too many bars for you to possibly be in the same one on the same night.

Most people probably view this as a godsend. You never have to see the asshole who broke your heart. You never have to deal with the moron you wasted three months of you life with. You’re spared the pain of running into the Adonis whose beautiful lips you’ll never kiss again.

The thing is, I’m a little bit of a masochist. And while I’ve been able to effectively edit my ex-boyfriends out of my life, post-breakup, lately I’ve been wondering what might happen if we reconnected. Given a little time and distance from the relationship, isn’t there something I could learn from my exes? Maybe their perspectives on our time together could inform and enrich my understanding of myself and my future relationships. Or maybe I’m just a troublemaker who wants to stir up some drama...

Josh
Josh and I dated when I was a freshman in college. It’s been four years since we broke up and for three of those years we didn’t speak. Not once. We were officially dead to each other. Then we both moved to New York within months of each other and somehow became close friends.

Describe your first impressions of me.
Cute and naughty.

How was the sex?
It was ok. I remember some great getting-it-on in public places.

Now, this is where I think Josh is lying. As I recall, one of the major reasons he gave for breaking up with me was our lack of sexual chemistry. He said he didn’t feel a “spark” between us.

Overall how would you describe our time together?
Bizarre. Because looking back, we were such different people with completely different views of the world. Ironically, now we are more alike than before.

What went wrong?
We were completely wrong for each other, but we didn't want to admit it.

When you look back what is your impression of our relationship now?
Well, we've talked about our relationship being a spontaneous type of relationship. We were young, cute, and horny in the same small town.

I’m disappointed that Josh didn’t have more to say. He was my very first boyfriend, and on some unconscious level our relationship has probably shaped the way I’ve interacted with every boyfriend since. It’s symptomatic of our relationship though; I always felt that I was genuinely emotionally involved, while Josh was just sort of phoning it in.

JAKE
If Josh was phoning it in with me, I was definitely phoning it in with Jake. I was with him for three months and I have no idea how we lasted that long. Truthfully, I don’t remember our relationship particularly fondly.

Describe your first impressions of me.
I remember the first time we met. I’d just done the Go-Go Idol thing at Boysroom, and there you were cheering for me. It was pretty awesome. And I thought you were really hot. I knew that I'd be doing something with you, and I had hoped it would be more than sex.

How was the sex?
The sex was pretty fun. I remember being on the couch upside-down and being fucked. Oh boy, that was hot!

Again, Jake paints a rosier picture than I remember. We had sex maybe nine times during our whole relationship and each time it felt sort of obligatory. I remember not wanting to have sex with Jake.

Overall how would you describe our time together?
Our time together was pretty good. I did enjoy spending time with you.

What went wrong?
After a while I got a little stressed in my own life. And I thought you were a little volatile and perhaps we were just at two different places in our lives. I felt as if you just took things a little too seriously.

When you look back what is your impression of our relationship now?
I'd say our relationship was just so short and chaotic. I really liked you a lot, but due to location and life changes and everything, it was just kinda everywhere emotionally. I blame New York for it. It's really difficult to date here in general.

Are there any questions you would like to ask me about us?
I never really understood how you viewed me necessarily. I always thought that you thought of me as a child. And I never really felt that attractive around you for some reason, but I think that's my own fault.

I find it so funny that Jake blames our break up on everything – life, stress, New York, himself – except me. I treated him pretty badly. I was unhappy and I took it out on him. I was mean to him constantly, hoping that he would break up with me so that I wouldn’t have to do it. If anyone has a right to be bitter, it’s Jake.

CHAD
Chad only lived in New York for a few months last year, and for most of that time we were sort of dating. We were never really officially boyfriends, but we sure acted like we were. We haven’t talked much since he moved to Illinois last summer.

Describe your first impressions of me.
Last summer, I had just moved to New York after graduate school. You struck me as well-adjusted to the city and the fact that you were a sex writer caught my attention. You were adventurous and open-minded. You seemed to be friendly and thoughtful, yet had a bit of an edge as well.

How was the sex?
The sex was great. You know what you’re doing. You have a great body and a beautiful cock. I remember us trying several positions, but your favorite was to have me on my stomach while you fucked me. You would tell me to squeeze my ass muscles tighter around you cock just before you came. That was especially hot.

I’m not going to argue with Chad on this one. He’s right, the sex was hot. I’m getting horny thinking about it.

Overall how would you describe our time together?
Truthfully, the short time we spent together was rife with events. You got upset with me when I made eye contact with someone on the subway and accused me of “letting the crazies in.” We hung out with your roommate on a rainy Sunday afternoon and watched movies. I helped you move. We attended a sex industry party. I remember being excited to have a peek at a world I had always wanted to know more about. I remember you talking me into participating in a go-go boy competition so you would have fodder for your blog. As far as feelings are concerned, I remember enjoying my time with you. You always let me be myself and I never felt any judgment.

What went wrong, if anything?
Had I been in a different place in life, things may have worked out differently. I don't know if we would have been life-long lovers, but at least great friends. It would have been great to continue hanging out with you.

As with Jake, I’m surprised at how fondly Chad remembers me. The way I remember it, our parting was really awkward. We’d had a fight, and in the weeks leading up to his departure from New York he seemed pretty withdrawn, pensive, angry. The last time I saw him, I remember thinking that he didn’t seem to care whether we ever spoke again or not.

ME
So what did I learn from the ex-boyfriend interviews? Not much. They all seem to be so over it. And while it’s nice to know they aren’t out there hating me, I was sort of hoping for a little more drama. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten over anyone I’ve dated. On some level, I think I’ll always resent them, always pine after them. I’ll always wonder what went wrong or what the hell I was thinking. It would be nice to know I’ve had the same affect on them.

Oh well, maybe they were just being nice.

Nothing to Wear

2006-07-18T23:01:00.000-04:00

It's Tuesday night, I'm running 15 minutes late, and I have nothing to wear. If my life were a chalkboard and I, Bart Simpson, that is the phrase I would write over and over and over into eternity:

I have nothing to wear.
I have nothing to wear.
I have nothing to wear…

At times such as this there are only two courses of action: Give up and go to bed or flip through fashion magazines and browse nightlife photoblogs until I find a look I can rip off.

L’Uomo Vogue is surprisingly unhelpful. The photo spreads tend to be black and white, and while this may make for lovely photographs, it’s really frustrating if you’re trying to figure out what the clothes actually look like in the real life Technicolor world. Nylon Guys? A little to Williamsburg, a little too t-shirt-and-blazer, a little to Urban Outfitters. Great for daywear ideas, though. V Man and all those other big quarterly Euro men’s fashion rags tend to be more helpful. But more often than not – and I feel like such a tool for this – I turn to Paper and LastNightsParty.com. The hipper-than-thou, the up-and-coming, the hot-before-anyone-really-knows-it. These are the kids I’m out there amongst. I figure, they’re copying each other, why not copy them. I think I have a sense of style, but it’s totally hijacked. And isn’t that the trick, really? Knowing what to rip off and what not to, and when it’s time to rip off something else?

Tonight, though, nothing’s really helping. Solution? Hack up an ex-boyfriend’s t-shirt until there’s barely anything left, and fuck me, it’s a look. It’s too hot to wear clothes anyway.

Pfloto Session

2006-07-14T03:08:00.000-04:00

I hate Ryan Pfluger because he's 22, gets paid to write a blog for Nerve, photographs for Paper and Rolling Stone, and knows just about anyone you'd ever need to know in New York nightlife. He hates me, he says, because I'm beautiful. We’re either going to be best friends or arch enemies.

I laugh and roll my eyes and then he tells me to look at the camera. I'm trying to take this seriously; I want Ryan to get some great images. More than that, I don’t want to look like a moron. But I’m starting to realize I’m way too self-conscious to be a model.

“What’s my hair doing? Are my eyes too squinty? Do I look like a total tool?”

Ryan has to move the mirror because I keep looking at it instead of at the camera.

“Did I mention I’m a little narcissistic?”

The shoot moves to my bedroom – I’m thrilled not to have to lean against the weird, textured wall in my office anymore – and Ryan asks me to take off my pants.

“Thank you for not wearing American Apparel underwear,” he says, sounding genuinely relieved. Ryan photographs cute skinny hipster boys, and they all wear the same American Apparel undies in a dazzling array of colors. I show him the two pairs – baby blue and electric pink – in my drawer.

Ryan tells me he’s read most of my blog and I’ve been reading his, so as we talk we keep telling each other things we already know. It’s kinda creepy. It’s not until later that it occurs to me how much he must know about my sexual history.

The photos are up on Ryan’s Nerve blog, the Prowl, the week of July 1-7.

Two Wrongs Trying to Make a Right

2006-07-10T01:52:00.000-04:00

Saturday night was another Big Gay Apple party at Pieces. Frankly, I never know what to expect from these parties. The first two were fun, if uneventful. The last one was a little lackluster. At one of them I ended up making out with the special guest porn star, who insisted on pulling my dick out in the back room. This time I took someone home with me.

His name was Matt and he sort of looked and spoke a lot like Christian Slater circa Heathers, except blonde. He was wearing a polo and patchwork plaid shorts and Docksiders. He looked like he’d stepped out of a catalogue shoot for Belk. Not my type at all. I don’t know how I came to be flirting with him. At first I was only talking to him to get his email address for the site. He kept touching me and trying to put his arm around me, but somehow I managed to evade him while remaining mere inches from him. I kept thinking, Walk away, walk away! But I didn’t. And when I finally had to go do some work – setting up interviews with porn stars – he waited around for me.

We ordered drinks and sat at the bar and started kissing. I kept having to run away to give people t-shirts and collect email addresses. And then I’d come back and put my hand on Matt’s fuzzy blonde knee and slide it up his WASPy golfer shorts and squeeze his thing.

I probably would have left it at that, if not for something my friend Rich said to me.

“Why aren’t you home fucking that boy? You’re only thin once!”

After three Jack and Cokes, this seemed like sage advice, and I told Rich so.

At my place, I made Matt strip as soon as he walked in the door. I wanted to just look at him for a minute, take him in, figure him out. I needed a minute to decide what I thought of him. I wanted to look at his dick and his ass and his eyes and his mouth. I wanted information. I would have like to spy on him in his natural habitat. I wanted to watch him masturbate. I think I needed him to make me want him. Or maybe I just didn’t like the fact that I didn’t know anything about him.

I took a step back, but he followed, reaching for me, trying to undo my belt. Clearly, he was more eager than I was, and there was no evading him now. I got naked and I stopped moving away from him. We traveled from my livingroom to my bedroom to the kitchen floor and back to the bedroom. It didn't really feel like we were having sex. It felt like when I was 12 and so horny and frustrated and I had no idea what to do about it except press myself against a naked man and hope that would take care of it. It felt like square pegs, like two wrongs trying to make a right.

The next morning I felt sticky and moist and my throat was dry.

No Pho MoFo

2006-07-04T14:22:00.001-04:00

I don't have any photos from Motherfucker and it's because of these pants:

I couldn't fit my camera in the pockets. Many many photos were take of me, but I have no idea where they'll end up. I think two photogs from Next took my picture, and so did this guy. And, like, three or four others I didn't recognize.

Josh and I got there so late. I swear, I looked at the clock and it was 10:20, I looked at it five minutes later and it was 11:45. We skipped the enormous line though, because Andy Shaw is a super swell guy.

We got in just as Amanda Lepore arrived - I always smell her before I see her, what is that perfume she wears? - and The Futureheads were finishing up their set. If they played "Hounds of Love," I missed it. Bummer.

Quick kiss-kiss hello to Andy, wave to Greg of the Misshapes (friend of a friend), drinks, and dancefloor. Eugene is pretty, but it was so unmanagably crowded you really couldn't tell. Josh was a little freaked out about wearing nothing but cami hotpants and combat boots amoungst all the straight kids. Before long he disappeared, only to realize that he'd left his keys at my place and would have to crash at his ex-boyfriend's apartment on the Upper West Side.

Straight kids are nothing to be a-scared of. I mean, isn't the whole point of going to Motherfucker so they can dress up and mingle with the club freaks? Although, the guys were a little fratty-gross, photographing the go-go girls to death.

"I totally sold her that liquid latex," I said, pointing out a dancer with Canadian maple leaves painted over her nipples.

What scared me were the looks I was getting from Mistress Formika - I'll admit, I kinda copied the stars on the face thing from her - and Miranda Moondust. They were definitely appraising, and I'm not sure if they were approoving. But I'm probably just paranoid.

There I am in the middle, looking not entirely retarded. Love those party pics.

As I was leaving, Michael T grabbed me, looked me up and down, and shouted, "Love it!" I blew him a kiss and hopped in a cab.

Ms. Sandra's Ex

2006-07-02T00:00:00.000-04:00

Saw Madonna tonight...That's right, baby's first Madonna concert!

Now, I’m not one of those fags who worships at the alter of the material mama. But I do like Madonna. One of the first music videos I ever saw actually was "Material Girl" and I did this whole feminist analysis of her "What It Feels Like For a Girl" video in college. And "Nothing Fails" kinda breaks my heart. So, yes, I enjoy Madonna’s music. I think she’s pretty daring – though she used to be far more daring. She’s generally a pretty smart lady. But like I said, I’m not some brainwashed acolyte hanging upon every word she utters.

My friends Charlie and Dave, however, are. Seriously, they take fandom to ridiculous levels. They buy every piece of crap limited edition memorabilia. They freak out whenever her music comes on, no matter where they are. I don’t think I’ve ever hung out with them when they didn’t converse, at length, about Madonna. They’re both seeing her multiple times on her current tour at something like $200-$300 per ticket. Frankly, I think I’d love Madonna a whole lot more if my friends didn’t like her so much. If she hadn’t devoured an entire generation of faggots, I could probably truly appreciate her.

This is the sort of cynicism I was dwelling on leading up to the concert. I’d even joked earlier that I planned on ruining the whole evening for Charlie and Dave. But as soon as the lights went down and the music started, all of it melted away. Yes, I gave myself over completely to Madonnarama. And I loved it.

The opening set, with all the equestrian imagery and the dancers all done up in pony-play gear? Hottest thing ever. Seriously, hot men in jodhpurs and bridles and harnesses? Swoon. Hot guys should be required to wear bits at all times. I’m sure hardcore pervs will complain that now everyone’s going to think that Madonna discovered pony-play and delivered it to the masses, and they’re probably right. But it was still hot. It’s nice to see that Madge is still kinda kinky. The vintage footage of riding accidents that played on the big screen was so disturbing and oddly beautiful as well.

The mirrorball-crucifix that everyone’s been talking about was way more gimmicky than controversial, and exactly what point she was trying to get across is beyond me. Gratuitous? Def. Blasphemous? Whatever. The rest was so much disco smegma, but super fun nonetheless. I had kinda hoped for a few more classics, but the set was pretty heavy on the new material. But why am I complaining? I’m the first to admit I had a blast.

Just one question: Who was that old lady dancin’ around onstage in the leotard?

Bad and Beautiful

2006-06-25T14:08:00.000-04:00

Finally saw Everything Bad and Beautiful, Sandra Bernhard's new one-woman show, last night. Actually, it's not so new anymore. It was new back in April, when it premiered in New York (no, I didn't go to the premiere party at Splash) and before that it ran for a few weeks in L.A. Whatever, it was new to me.

It was the late show, 10 p.m., her second performance of the night. The theater was only half full, the crowd seemed a little stiff and touristy (Gay Pride Weekend, baby, the out-of-towners are amoung us), and I think my date was bored to tears. Maybe it's the kind of show only a fan could love. Highlights included: Sandra ranting that the Bush twins don't deserve contraceptives and that should they contract an STD, "Too fuckin' bad!"; her cover of Prince's "I Would Die 4 U"; and her devastatingly cute albino-lookin' guitarist.

I love Miss Sandra so much right now. I mean, Christ, did you see her on The View? I'm totally writing my own one-person show. Seriously, one day I want to rip off Sandra the way Rufus just ripped off that dead drug addict. Call it an homage. Call it a mistake. Call it stand-up tragedy. With any luck you'll never, ever have to hear about it again.

Bathroom Interview: Houston Bernard

2006-06-19T02:00:00.000-04:00

The first time I ever saw Houston Bernard he was completely naked onstage at the old Boysroom, attempting to shove a beer bottle up his butt. My friend Dave was revolted; I was mesmerized. He’s a sort of bisexual rap/rock/pop star, an electrosexual, a porny, horny entertainer who lives by the maxim “Whores have more fun.” See him for yourself when he performs with the Daisy Spurs Tuesday night at Happy Valley. This interview (at Area 10018) is probably the most innocuous thing Houston’s ever done in a bathroom.

John: What’s the dirtiest thing you’ve ever done in a bathroom?
Houston Bernard: In a bathroom? Dirty? I don’t know, um, I’ve had multiple guys sucking on my cock and balls. And I’ve blown my load on them. It was like three or four guys, I don’t remember. But I’ve never done scat. I’ve done, uh, like a lot of watersports. I’ve done a lot of that cause I escorted. I actually pissed in a dentist’s mouth, who was a dentist for the Rolling Stones.

J: What's your message to the masses?
HB: Well, I tour promoting gay rights and free speech, but there’s a lot of whores out there with a lot of sexual energy and they like to release that energy and I think my show is a really good avenue for them. I mean, I can’t even remember when there wasn’t an orgy after my show.

J: Is there an orgy after your show tonight?
HB: Tonight? Probably not, because I’m catching a 7 a.m. bus to Boston.

J: If you were homeless, what would you do in the subway for spare change?
HB: Well, I kind of am homeless. I haven’t had a home in 3 years. I’ve been on the road. But, if I was in the subway looking for spare change I would probably grab my acoustic guitar and play, like, Beatles songs.

J: If you were a venereal disease, what would you be?
HB: Maybe crabs, ‘cause I like to travel.

J: Lohan or Richie?
HB: Lindsey Lohan. I’d fuck her.

J: Sophia Lemar or Amanda Lepore?
HB: Ooooh…um…I’ve had sex with…I can’t remember her name. She’s black.

J: That’s neither of them.
HB: I know. Sophia Lemar’s been really sweet. When I first came out on the scene, like five years ago, she introduced me to everybody. Amanda Lepore, I’ve done tours with her in Germany. It’s hard, they’re both sexy. Could there be a threesome?

J: Sure. Britney or X-tina?
HB: Christina Aguilera. She was at the Cock one night. She’s a complete fucking whore, and I like whores. I see Britney Spears as more of a white trash tranny girl. So if I had to fuck on of those two, I’d fuck Christina Aguilera. But I’d fuck Bill Pullman first.

J: If you were doing the interview what would you ask me?
HB: How many fucking whores have you pounded in the ass?

J: Umm…I don’t know about whores, but in general? I don’t know, 10? I’m only 23. I do keep a list though.
HB: I lost track long ago. But I do remember faces and experiences that were good.

WhArea?

2006-06-10T10:55:00.000-04:00

Area 10018. Of course, the queens looked pretty.

I think I looked pretty.

And, um...

Goddamnit, put your shirts on!

"I'm sorry Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that."

Eulogy for a Condom

2006-06-06T22:41:00.000-04:00

I found this expired condom in the pocket of a jacket I haven't worn in, like, two years. It made me kind of sad, and I decided it needed a little memorial. So I laid it on some clean white tissues, opened a bottle of Sam Adams Cherry Wheat, and drank to all the condoms that never get used and all the missed opportunities they represent.

Here's to the nights spent alone in bed; to the lube not spilled on clean sheets; to the one night stands and first encounters that never happened. Here's to the nights when you go home early, lips still throbbing from a stranger's over-eager kisses. Here's to waking up alone and not regretting it.

Here's to the condoms, our little protectors. To the Trojans, the Lifestyles, the Kimonos, the Crowns. Here's to latex and lambskin. Here's to the ones that came between us and disease, the ones that saved us. And here's to the ones that never had a chance.

Wednesday Morning is the New Tuesday Night

2006-05-31T20:55:00.000-04:00

When I got to B Bar, Justin was being harassed by some drunken moron named Steve.

"My good friend is friends with Sandra Bernhard. They do Kabbaaaaaaalah together. She was like, 'You have to hire Saaaaaaandra.'"

Steve was rattling on and on about his column in some sort of automotive magazine, his book deal, the book party he wanted to throw at Bungalow 8, his small airline.

"So Saaaaaaandra and I reeeeeeally hit it off. If you want tickets to her show just caaaaaaall me."

I had no intention of ever calling Steve, and I was more than a little worried, after he bought me and Justin a round of drinks, that he might follow us to Happy Valley. Thankfully, he went home before I finished my first lychee martini.

It was almost empty when we got to Happy Valley a little after midnight. Apparently, Tuesday night doesn’t start until Wednesday morning.

"Give it an hour," Justin said. Sure enough, everyone arrived at once, and by 1:30 it was packed. It makes you wonder what the hell these people do before going out.

My favorite go-go boy is back in town. I’d heard he’d moved away, but I’ve been seeing him everywhere lately.

Formika was there, in boy drag, looking fab in a pair of pink suede cowboy boots. I think I need me a pair of those. Sophia Lamar brushed past me, caught my eye, and muttered something bitchy about the gay boys. I love her so. And I know Musto said something brilliant and eminently quotable to me, but I forgot it almost immediately.

Kenny Kenny was working this wig that looked like a big blonde penis. Kenny, baby, is that hair new or have I just not been out in a month? Susanne Bartsch, on the other hand, seems to only have one look. And she's still walking around with that mountain man cane. Isn't that foot healed yet?

"She's in heels," Justin pointed out, "so it must be on the mend."

Oh, and by the way, Linda Simpson is the new Linda Perry. She did this acoustic cover of Blondie’s "Maria" that made me want someone to play it at my wedding. My mother had "Ave Maria" at her wedding, I’m having this.

A word about attire: I know there isn't a dress code at Happy Valley, but I thought it was the kinda place where you were supposed to, I don’t know, make an effort. Justin and I counted somewhere between five and seven boys wearing shorts. Unacceptable. And while being scantily clad and gloriously accessorized is sort of the point of going out, simply dancing around shirtless in a pair of Deisel jeans is so tacky/boring.

"I guess they must think this is Heaven," Justin said.

A good rule of thumb: If the bartender is wearing a shirt, keep yours on.

MoFo

2006-05-29T05:24:00.000-04:00

I got pictures from Motherfucker...

It was my first. The sixth anniversary. The theme was Truman Capote's Black and White ball. It was kinda like a great big scenester prom.

My Wes Borland look and the always demure Acid Betty. She said I looked scary.

Peppermint Gummybear and Mistress Formika

Holy, holy, holy!

For much better photos than mine check out Ambrel and LastNightsParty.

X-Men 3

2006-05-26T02:53:00.000-04:00

Just got back from a midnight show of X-Men: The Last Stand. Yes, I geeked out and saw it early...

It wasn’t as bad as I had feared, but it was nowhere near as good as it could have been, which in the end amounted to a tremendous cocktease. Compared to other superhero movies, the X-Men films are, for my money, the best there are. But compared to the X-Men and X2, The Last Stand is amazingly lame.

The thing is, there’s good stuff here. The story could have been really powerful, with socio-political themes that resonate deeply today. And the treatment of the comic book storylines is surprisingly good – anyone who thought they couldn’t incorporate Phoenix realistically enough to makes sense in these movies should eat their words.

Yes, this could have been a really great movie…if only Bryan Singer had directed it. The style, wit, and substance Singer brought to the first two X-Men films is gone, replaced by Brett Ratner’s ham-handed, money-shot ethos. Worse still, all the drama surrounding the film’s pre-production is apparent throughout. Certain characters’ speedy disposal or absence from significant portions of the film screams of scheduling conflicts and contract difficulties. The Last Stand is the shortest of the X movies, and as such crams scene on top of scene with virtually no subtlety or character development. Angel barely interacts with any of the other mutants; it’s impossible to figure out exactly what connection Beast had to the X-Men; and Colossus is just a glorified extra. The first half of the movie plunges you right into the action, like watching part two of a TV miniseries when you haven’t seen part one. It rushes toward the spectacular climax of Act I, Xavier and Magneto’s confrontation with Phoenix. But nothing in Act II manages to top that single thrilling, heartbreaking moment.

And that’s where The Last Stand really disappoints. The ending is so astoundingly anti-climactic. I could have forgiven – and probably would have forgotten – all of those flaws if only the ending had been worth it.

Night of a Thousand Stevies

2006-05-20T11:10:00.000-04:00

Last night every damn drag queen in New York – and more than a few out of towners – got all gussied up in chiffon and lace and ribbons for the 16th annual Night of a Thousand Stevies at the Knitting Factory. Once a year all the queens and fags and a bunch of straight girls dress up like Stevie Nicks and lip sync and do covers and performances.

I know, it’s weird, right? Not Cher, not Bette Midler, not Barbara Streisand, not Madge. Stevie Nicks. "Dreams" singin', coke snortin', slept with every rock star of the 70s and 80s, gained a ton of weight in the 90s Stevie Nicks. Uh-huh, you see your gypsy.

Just a random sampling of Stevies...
...And other beautiful freaks.
My friend Blue was dressed as Mick Fleetwood from the cover of Rumours, complete with dangling balls. I managed to pull together a Mirage era Lindey Buckingham look at literally the last minute.

It was so corny, so campy, it was brilliant. I saw Cyndi Lauper, fresh from a performance of The Threepenny Opera, watching the show from the balcony. She tripped and stumbled into an unsuspecting gay boy who got all smiley and glowy when he realized he'd broken the fall of an 80s pop star. Musto was there, looking kinda awkward. Miss Guy and Sherry Vine performed. The legendary Chi Chi Valenti emceed. Downstairs the DJ spun Stevie songs all night long. Everytime a new song came on everyone cheered like they were surprised to hear Stevie. I must have heard "Stand Back" seven times. And everyone sang along.

PREF: Stealing Boyfriends

2006-05-16T12:41:00.000-04:00

Here's the latest PREF piece from the May/June issue. It's available in New York now, so go out a buy a copy and improve your French. Oh, and the website got a facelift. Check it out.

How to Steal a Boyfriend

New Yorkers have a long history of infidelity. Donald Trump cheated on Ivana. Anna Wintour stole someone’s husband. Even Sara Jessica Parker’s saccharine sweet Carrie Bradshaw had that nasty little affair with the married Mr. Big. Trying to steal someone’s boyfriend? That’s so New York.

Ryland
It was summer and my friend Charlie’s apartment felt like a sauna. He was having a party and the heat and the close quarters had whipped everyone into a froth of sexual energy. It was tangible. You could run your fingers through it; you could smell it on people. We were all swimming in a sticky sea of pheromones and getting sort of wild-eyed. You could tell something was going to happen.

I saw Ryland and reacted to him immediately.

“Who’s that?”

“He used to live with Charlie.”

“Is he gay?”

“I think they slept together once.”

“I think I’m in love.”

“He has a boyfriend.”

The boyfriend – Jeff – was a few years younger than Ryland, blond, and by all accounts completely innocent to the ways of the world.

“He just came out. Ryland’s the only guys he’s ever been with. He’s really sweet.”

“I’m going to steal his boyfriend,” I said.

So I cornered Ryland in the kitchen and introduced myself. He told me he was an actor and I told him that I was going to flirt with him shamelessly.

“I know you have a boyfriend and I just don’t care,” I said.

“One point for you,” he said.

“What happens when I get five points?”

“I’ll run naked to my boyfriend.”

I felt sort of lawless and amoral, like a predator or a mercenary. I could do anything and people would pretend to be appalled, but really they’d be jealous, maybe even inspired.

I left that party with a renewed sense of purpose. On the subway, I listened to Stevie Nicks songs from the 80’s on my iPod and thought, “Ryland will be mine!” I had a goal, a quest. It was like waking up and realizing that everything has secret functions and hidden compartments that you never knew about. Life seemed fresh and full of possibilities.

I didn’t see Ryland again for a month. I called him and left messages and sometimes he would call me back. Then, one night he called me up and invited me to a fashion party at Quo. Just me and him. I don’t know why Jeff didn’t come with us. I don’t really care.

Quo was one of those really pretty, really awful West Chelsea clubs where everyone is gorgeous and no one is actually famous. I’m not sure why Ryland even wanted to go to that party. He didn’t seem to know anyone. Of course, that meant that I got his full attention. His full attention, however, meant that I had to listen to him talk endlessly about some play he was in, something about flight attendants in the ‘60s. That’s what you get for trying to fuck an actor.

I tried to lean in close to him as much as possible. It was loud, so we had to shout into each others’ ears to be heard. I would lean in, let my cheek brush his, put my lips close to his ear, breath on his neck. I tried to kiss him when we were settling out bar bill. He pulled away.

Outside, walking up Ninth Avenue, Ryland grabbed me, pulled me close and kissed me as garbage trucks drove by blowing their horns. He pulled me into a doorway and put his hand down my pants.

“Let’s go to your place,” he said. But as we walked to the subway, Ryland must have sobered up a little. “Would you hate me if I said I was having second thoughts?”

I told him no, I wouldn’t hate him. I told him I understood, all the while kissing his neck and pressing myself against him, trying to get him to change his mind again. But when my train came, Ryland didn’t get on with me.

Clark
The first time I met Clark, I didn’t think much of him. He seemed nice, smart. I liked him. But I barely looked at him twice. He was wearing his glasses.

The second time I met Clark, his glasses were off, and it was like he’d turned into Superman. Who’d have thought something as small as a pair of spectacles could mask such astounding cuteness. The second time I met Clark was when I started scheming.

I don’t think Clark gets along very well with his boyfriend, Darrin. They don’t seem to have much chemistry. When they’re out together, they barely talk, and when they do they always seem to be at odds with each other. So when I told Clark that I was going to steal him, I actually meant that I was going to rescue him.

We were at Area 10018, Mistress Formika’s infamous Friday night party. I waited for Darrin to disappear into the crowd, and then crept up behind Clark.

“Want to know a secret?” I said. “I’m going to steal you.” Clark looked at me and smiled, his eyes literally sparkling.

That night we danced, grinding our hips into each other, groping, getting hard right there on the dance floor. We snuck away upstairs to the VIP lounge and made out in a shadowy banquette and then left the club and walked all the way from Bryant Park to Chelsea, stopping in a porno shop along the way.

Since that night I’ve been sending Clark text messages and emails, some of them dirty. He tells me he’s been working really long hours, leaving work at 3 a.m. most nights and coming into work on Sundays.

“You know, God cries when people work on Sunday.” I write. “He would much rather us be getting blowjobs.”

“So would I!” he writes back.

Another night, I’m drunk and leaving a bar. “Are you working late? I could sneak into your office and you could have your way with me on your desk or in the supplies closet.” He never answered that message.

On Valentine’s Day I wrote him a love letter, but never sent it. “There’s a look in your eyes sometimes,” I wrote, “like something is waking up. Inside you, certain things are starting to move again that maybe haven’t moved in a long time. I think they’ve been waiting to move. I think they’re sorry they slept in so late.”

I see Darrin more than I see Clark. I always run into him at clubs and bars and parties. He’s always drunk and flirting with other guys. I’m pretty sure he knows what’s going on, but he always says hello to me, and he’s always really friendly. I think Clark wants to be stolen. And sometimes I think Darrin wants me to steal him.

The Bold and the Bony

2006-05-10T01:27:00.000-04:00

I’m a scrawny guy, and for most of my life, I’ve kinda had issues with being scrawny. Most clothing doesn’t fit me right, most people could probably beat me up, most gay guys don’t think I’m muscular enough – and let me tell ya, the guys who like skinny guys are usually kinda creepy. But lately, I’m starting to think, well, fuck it. I’m thin. I like being thin. I’d rather be thin than fat. And, anyway, I think guys with muscles smell. So here’s a little waifish pride. These are some of my favorite skinny people, and the reasons why I love them. Remember: bony is beautiful – unless you’re anorexic; that’s just scary.

Cillian Murphy
Cillian Murphy exudes this weird, other worldly charm. It’s like he’s from a different planet or he’s some strange genetic hybrid of human and something else. He’s all androgyny and secrets. Those crystal clear blue eyes always wide open, making him look deceptively innocent; those sweet pillow lips that probably hide jagged fangs. Let’s just say it, he’s kinda creepy. But I like creepy. I bet sex with Cillian would be surprising, like a sneak attack. He’d stalk you down dark, lonely streets, dressed all gentlemanly in a slim fitting suit, shirt open a few buttons, silk scarf. He’d let you know he’s there, let you get a little scared, then he’d push you into an alleyway and do terrible, wonderful things to you, all with his fingers, and with one thumb in your mouth.

Greg Evans
I am so thrilled every time I see a scrawny go-go boy at a bar in New York, and at the same time so totally jealous. I wanted to be a go-go boy. I’d been talking about it for months, and everyone said I was too skinny. Then Greg appears, dancing at Bank, and pretty soon he’s the new go-go It-boy. He’s all over the place. Photos on LastNightsParty.com. Getting rhetorically fellated by La Dolce Musto. Stealing my thunder.

Adrian Brody
I vacillate on this one. Sometimes I just don’t give a shit about Mr. Brody. Like, usually when he’s in movies. Other times, I want to rub up against his lanky bod and let him put his hand in my back pocket. Moments like that Coke commercial, where he’s all supa fly. He may look a little geeky, but that’s one smooth motha fucka. He’s got that Saturday Night Fever, ladies’ man thing goin’ on, and I bet he gets so much pussy. But step off, bitches! He’s mine. His eyes say, “C’mon baby, you know I got what you need.” He just oozes sex appeal and I want to feel it lubricating between us. He’s even hot in that Tori Amos video where he plays an arm. But I’m not loving all the new muscles he got filming King Kong. I miss sexy scarecrow Brody.

Kate Moss
Oh, my Katie. I have loved Kate Moss since I first saw her in a CK One ad circa 1994. I loved her because she was weird lookin’, but kinda beautiful at the same time. I know that as a self-identified feminist I’m supposed to hate my Kate, and super models in general, but I can’t help it. I love Kate. And I don’t think she’s anorexic, or that she stays skinny by doing drugs – c’mon, the drugs are just for fun! I think she’s like me: she’s just skinny. And that’s part of why I love her. I love her because she’s like me. I love her because she’s a model and she doesn’t try to be anything else. No lame talk shows or embarrassing attempts at a career in music. I love her because she’s 32 and she’s still working. I love her because she's English and she still smokes, like, four packs a day. I love her because she’s a bit of a bad girl and doesn’t seem to care what the public thinks. I love her for heroin chic. I love her for that rumor that she had a threesome with Jude Law and Sadie Frost, even if it isn’t true. I love her for finally dumping Pete Doherty. I love Kate, and I think she’s gonna be just fine.

Ryan Pfluger
Ryan Pfluger is Nerve.com’s newest photoblogger. He’s adorable, gay, and so painfully hip it makes me blush. Seriously. I think his dirty, spiky, asymmetrical hair could cut you and you might get an infection. I know all those hipster boys live only on a diet of Pabst, Jack, and veggie burgers, but this is the damn skinniest boy ever. I love that his arms are smaller than mine and he still wears tank tops, the better to show off his tattoos. His Nerve blog, The Prowl, features photos of other skinny, tattooed, hipster kids in various states of undress. It’s like my wet dream. Or the dream where I’m way cooler than I actually am. I posted a comment to one of his entries: “I think I love you. Can I be in your pictures too? I’m skinny and gay and weird lookin’.” Ryan, baby, I’m waiting for your call.

Drawing Restraint 9

2006-05-07T01:39:00.000-04:00

Just saw Drawing Restraint 9 and here's what I think:

Matthew Barney naked: hot. Björk naked: not so hot.

Actually, I really enjoyed DR9, despite the fact that it's a two and a half hour art film without much of a plot or dialogue. Björk and Barney are guests on a Japanese whaling ship, and...well, that's about it. The rest is just visual. I'm sure there are significant themes here that I'm totally missing. Some of the reviews I've read say the film is an exploration of Japanese culture; the official site says something about "self-imposed resistance and creativity." Whatever. There are definitely some stunning images in the second half - the guests calmly hacking each other up with knives under water is pretty intensely erotic - if you can make it through the first hour without nodding off.

Björk's soundtrack blows Barney's art installation smegma out of the water, though. Her sonic landscapes are just so much more vivid and evocative and emotional than any of his pretty little seashell bowls and giant gelatin sculptures. It's funny to me that these two are actually lovers in real life. His stuff is so cold and restrained, while hers is a vital vibrant cacophony.

Dita

2006-05-04T14:14:00.000-04:00

Tuesday night: the Dita Von Teese party at Happy Valley. It was just as crowded as the last time she performed. My friend Olivia was psyched to see her and staked out a spot on the balcony just above Dita’s giant glittery My Little Pony. I missed the performance, though. Some asshole dumped his drink down my back and stole my spot when I went to dry off.

At the bar, Liv kept sticking straws in my vanilla Grey Goose and Coke.

“Why do I need those?”

“Your teeth,” she said.

“What’ll happen to them?”

“They’ll decay.”

So I sipped from my straw like a good boy and we headed downstairs to the basement where Amanda, Miranda, et. al. hold court over shiny ice buckets, bottles of champagne and tiny leopard print tables. It reminded me of something Musto said to me a few weeks ago: “It’s really starting to look like the bar from Star Wars down here.”

I over heard Sophia Lamar discussing a rival tranny with some gay boy whose eye makeup was terrifying:

“You know, I don’t have to be number one. I don’t have to walk around waving like a beauty queen or be naked all the time.” She’s a bit dark and a little bit spiky and I think she’s my new favorite.

Upstairs again, Liv was trying to avoid a certain hipster photoblogger who was trying to take pictures of her.

“He came all over my neck once.”

“What?”

“He was on top of me, taking my photo, and I felt this warm fluid on me.”

“I thought he was gay.”

She was pretty drunk, so I took her to the bathroom. When I came out of the mensroom, she was gone. Later, I found pictures of her on LastNightsParty.com and I can only imagine what happened.

On the balcony, I spotted Dita and Marilyn Manson and Perry Farrell in the VIP area. Manson looked surprisingly sexy and didn’t seem a bit crazy. He was just an off-duty goth-rock antichrist chillin’ at his wife’s party, toasting her success along with every club freak in Manhattan. I was looking at him and thinking about this sex dream I had about him when I was in the high school. Wouldn’t it be hot if he looked at me and had his security guy usher me over to his banquet? Wouldn’t it be hot to be the one random gay boy groupie Manson takes home, like, once in a blue moon?

As I was leaving, he brushed past me and said, “Pardon me.”

PREF in NYC

2006-05-02T22:49:00.000-04:00

Ok all you Francophiles, it looks like PREF, the French magazine I write for, is coming to the US. It's about damn time too, considering all the lovely press we've been getting lately. PREF is like a French version of Blue Magazine. Lots of gorgeous photography of gorgeous gay boys. Plus, of course, my NYC sex column. Check out what people are saying about us here and here. Hot right? Well if you're in New York you can not get your very own copy and hold it in your own two hands.

Click here to see where PREF is available.

The Legend Lives On

2006-04-24T01:29:00.000-04:00

My friend Gretchen was having dinner at a restaurant in Greensboro, NC, where I went to college. Her waiter said he recognized her.

“I think we met at a party.”

“Um. I don’t really go to parties.”

“Yeah, it was one of John Russell’s parties.”

“Oooooooh. Oh yeah.”

A week later I found this on her boyfriend’s blog:

Funny story. I had a friend who worked at a local Adam & Eve for about a year before moving to NYC, where he now works in a sex shop and is a sex writer.

He said that whenever married men came into the store alone the conversation went something like this:

"Hey...I need a giant dildo/vibrator."

"Um...okay."

"It's not for me! It's for my wife. She's...well, I think she's frigid."

"Really? Well...um...maybe I could interest you in a book..."

"No, no ...just show me your biggest toy."

At which point my friend's head would nearly explode. As he wrapped up the 14'' sex toy and handed it to the guy with a smile he'd think: "She's not frigid, pal. She just doesn't want to do it with you..."

It's nice to know the legend lives on.

North Carolina

2006-04-15T20:35:00.000-04:00

Tonight I am sober, sunburnt, and half crazed. I don’t think I’ve been this horny since I was 14 years old, and the only words I can find are hacked-up, tired clichés. Desire frustrated is a mean, nasty thing; a shaking, violent, cage-rattling ape, rabid and beautiful and angry.

But I don’t really feel angry or violent. Actually, I feel pretty elated. It’s like there’s a live bird in my chest, not an ape, light and fluttering, flapping it’s wings, making gusts of air that catch in my throat.

Being in North Carolina always does this to me. It’s Pavlovian; I was 14 here, this is where sex exploded into my mind – taut, wiry muscled marines; guys with sunburns, shaved heads, driving around shirtless in outdated cars that smell like roses and cigarettes; smell of sand, salt, sea, heat; bushy, unkempt pubic hair – so whenever I’m here, it’s like I am 14. My cock stirs and it’s like the first time, like it’s never been touched. Every inch of my body is awake, my skin crawling, grasping. It’s heavy and light at the same time, alive all around me, surrounding me, swallowing me, gliding over my skin, licking me like flames (see what I mean about clichés?), heavy between my legs. A soft, thick ache, a pulling in the center of me. And I’m out of breath and anxious, itching, squirming. After hours in the sun, I’m warmed, ignited, ready. I loosen, eyes roll, heart jumps...

Bathroom Interview: Tommy Hottpants

2006-04-10T12:54:00.000-04:00

Tommy Hottpants is one of my favorite NYC DJs, partly because of his penchant for playing Siouxsie and the Banshees and the Cure and Romeo Void, and partly because I really really really want to make out with him. Seriously. I think I had a boner during this whole interview.

John: So Tommy Hottpants, where are your hot pants?
Tommy Hottpants: My hot pants…well, I’m not wearing anything under my jeans, so they’re not there, but they may be in my suitcase which is packed up and ready to go to San Francisco in like 2 hours.

J: So these aren’t you’re hot pants?
TH: No. No these are not my hot pants.

J: If you had to DJ a porno, what would your porno soundtrack be?
TH: Probably something along the lines of a remix of this Faint song, a little bit of Manson, a little bit of Mötley Crüe. And perhaps…Def Leopard? It’s all about the metal stripper thing, you know? For me at least. You’ve gotta be wild and sexy in bed or else it’s not gonna happen, you know? Nothing pussy like Björk.

J: You think Björk is a pussy?
TH: She’s great. I want to meet her. I totally would like to hang out with Björk. But, for sex music…No. You know, none of that lovey dovey, like tweeky, creeky coo coo coo…none of that.

J: So if you’re going to be having sex tonight, what song will you be having sex too?
TH: Well, I will be having sex in an airplane. High above the skies.

J: Where are you going?
TH: San Francisco. My flight’s at six o’clock in the morning. And there will most definitely be sex in the Mile High Club. Already a member. Yeah, it’s gonna be hot. And in San Francisco it’s just gonna continue.

J: Umm…I think I’m out of questions. What would you ask me if you were doing this interview?
TH: Top or bottom?

J: Oooh. Both, definitely.
TH: Versitile! Oh that’s nice. Um, if you were locked in a bathroom and you could be with anyone, name four people.

J: I don’t know.
TH: I’ll answer my own question. It’s gonna be Pierre Fitch. Look him up online. He’s the hottest porn star ever. You’re gonna fall in love with him. It’s gonna be Pierre Fitch, Nikki Six, Henry Rollins, maybe, because you need one muscle guy. And probably Heath Ledger, but a la Ten Things I Hate About You, but without the hair. So that’s the bathroom party.

10:45

2006-04-03T13:02:00.000-04:00

10:45 Sunday night, I call Dave.

Me: Should I go out?

Dave: I’m in. At home I mean.

Me: Why?

Dave: Do you want to go to Hiro?

Me: I don’t know. Maybe.

Dave: I can be ready in 20 minutes.

Me: Twenty minutes?

Dave: Oh, come on! Like we don’t go out this late on Tuesday nights!

Me: No. I should stay in.

Dave: Why?

Me: I’m behind on, like, two writing assignments.

Dave: Do you really think you’ll get any work done tonight?

Me: I’m feeling restless.

[silence]

Dave: You still there?

Me: I’m looking at myself in the mirror to see if I feel sexy.

Dave: Yeah?

Me: I feel sexy.

Dave: Ok?

Me: Ok. Lets go.

Dave: Really?

Me: I’m committed.

Meeting of the Minds

2006-03-31T12:48:00.000-05:00

I was almost an hour late to meet Chuck and Musto at B Bar Tuesday night.

“You just missed Debbie Harry,” Chuck said. I guess that’s what I get.

In the cab on the way to Happy Valley Chuck was talking about how he wants to find a new place for him and Musto to go on Wednesday nights.

“You and Musto?”

“Yeah, he’s my new partner in crime.”

I kinda thought I was Chuck’s partner in crime.

“Fine, you can take Musto back to your hotel tonight.”

We got to Happy Valley just in time to grab a drink and squirm our way through the crowd, up to the balcony to watch Dita Von Teese do her boom-boom champagne glass burlesque strip tease thing. I don’t know what’s up with Happy Valley and all the burlesque acts they hire – Dita, Dirty Martini, Amanda – but I think I kinda like it.

I finally got to meet Rob Roth, the video artist who’s been emailing me ever since he read something I wrote on my MySpace page about Matthew Barney and gay porn.

“I love this song,” he said. “It’s perfect for seducing someone.” Then he tried to demonstrate his seduction method – sort of dancing close and putting his thigh between my legs like he was going to knee me in the groin – and was not entirely unsuccessful.

Upstairs, we were joined by an effusive drunken older gentleman who turned out to be Patrick McMullan. He kept asking if Chuck and the boy Chuck was flirting with and I were boyfriends. Then he grabbed me and shoved my face into Rob’s and took pictures while we made out.

“I kinda thought this would be a meeting of the minds,” I said.

“Well, there’s mind and body and spirit…” Rob said. I gave him my number.

Of course, I went home with Chuck and had blurry, four o’clock in the morning sex, which is a pattern neither of us seems capable of breaking.

Career Porn Stars

2006-03-21T17:33:00.000-05:00

GayVN Performer of the Year Gus Mattox announced last night that he is quitting the porn biz.

“I realized I have pretty much reached my peak, in terms of being a performer in porn movies. I thought, Why not exit gracefully while the decision is still my own?” said Mattox in an email to GayVN.com. (Full story here.)

I always find these announcements funny, simply because porn is characterized by the constant retirings and subsequent comebacks of its stars. A porn star will make a ton of movies one year, walk away from it all, and make a big deal of returning to porn a year later. Forgive me if, when I hear about Mattox’s retirement, in the back of my mind I’m thinking, He’ll be back.

The big reason porn stars’ careers are so erratic is that, realistically speaking, porn is not a career. You cannot make a living performing in porn. The Jenna Myth, that porn stars are just like celebrities and can make tons of money just performing in blue movies, is just that: a myth. Jenna is the exception to the rule. The most successful stars are the ones who manage to get behind the camera, launching their own production companies, websites, and product lines. That’s how people like Jenna, Nina Hartley, Ron Jeremy, and Peter North have managed to stick around so long.

However, many of the porn stars you’ve seen fucking on film have to maintain a day job to make a living. Many make money from live appearances at strip clubs and gay bars. Quite a few, particularly gay porn stars, turn to escorting to supplement their income. But there are plenty of porn stars who have to work regular old jobs to get by. One guy I know works for a courier service when he’s not sucking cock on film. Pete Ross allegedly worked as a flight attendant before the airline found out about his work in porn. Johnny Hazzard, one of the biggest names in gay porn, still waits tables.

So it’s not surprising that there are very few “career porn stars.” Most are just passing through, making a quick buck, and getting a little taste of fame – of maybe notoriety is a better word. It’s not surprising that they “retire” so quickly as soon as they find something better: an office job, a new boyfriend, NA, Jesus. And it’s not surprising when, a year later, maybe two, they get bored with the office job, the boyfriend, Jesus, and start missing their pseudo celebrity status.

Yeah, they’ll be back.

The Heart is Deceitful

2006-03-17T00:42:00.003-05:00

Asia Argento’s film adaptation of JT LeRoy’s The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things opened in New York last weekend. I saw it last night. It wasn’t bad. Actually, it was better than I expected. The only glaringly awful aspect of the film were all the celebrity cameos. It’s not that the actors themselves (all friends of LeRoy, all of whom now look like fools) did a bad job. It’s just that their presence in the film is incredibly distracting. People actually laughed at Marilyn Manson, Wynona Ryder, and Michael Pitt. Laughed at a film based on one of the most gut-wrenchingly depressing books of the past decade. Still, I’m actually pretty eager to see Argento’s other film, the semi-autobiographical Scarlet Diva. But that’s not what I was thinking about as I left the theater.

It’s only been a few months since articles in New York Magazine and The New York Times exposed LeRoy as a fraud. People have reacted in various ways, but the general consensus, as far as I can tell, is that the books should stand for themselves. I found this quote from the London Guardian on LeRoy’s own blog:

“But nothing has been taken from us. The books remain: as startling and disturbingly beautiful as they ever were. There is nothing that has sullied the New York Times's assertion that 'his language is always fresh, his soul never corrupt'. And what strikes me more than anything is that in this age of overblown celebrity, where people such as Paris Hilton can be famous purely for being Paris Hilton, mightn't JT LeRoy represent the precise inversion of this? The work is all. The identity is irrelevant.”

I disagree. The fact that JT LeRoy doesn’t exist actually does affect the work.

As a memoir, The Heart is Deceitful made sense. It was about catharsis, bloodletting. As a work of fiction, it’s just grotesque and more than a little absurd.

“JT LeRoy” was never a survivor’s story in the Oprah sense. It wasn’t about raising awareness or preventing the sort of abuses depicted in the stories. LeRoy never founded an organization or crisis hotline. He was more concerned with telling his story – over and over again – as a way to come to terms with the events of his past. It was about getting the poison out, examining it, dealing with it, and creating something beautiful and raw and honest out of it.

But now that we know it was all made up, that none of it ever happened, that JT LeRoy is a fiction, a mere character in these stories rather than someone who actually experienced the horrors they describe, it all just feels dirty. You have to wonder what kind of person imagines these sort of things. It’s not that I don’t realize that horrible things happen to children in this world. I’m not so naïve that I think there aren’t supremely fucked up people out there who torture their own kids. It happens. It’s awful, but it happens. What bothers me is that whoever has been writing as JT LeRoy – it’s now generally accepted that the real author is a 40-something woman named Laura Albert – has been exploiting these sort of tragedies in the name of fame, wealth, and the most obscene star-fucking in recent memory.

What’s worse is that we, the reading public, just lapped it up. It’s like Albert tapped into a sick voyeurism in all of us. Something in us wants to hear these kinds of stories. It’s the same thing that makes us salivate over the sensationalist evening news, the same thing that makes us lick our chops watching Judge Judy and Jerry Springer...only much, much worse.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to read JT LeRoy the same way I used to. The stories are still beautifully, disturbingly written. But what used to be so emotionally searing now seems callous and perverse.

PRÉF: Other People's Sex Lives

2006-03-14T17:44:00.000-05:00

My piece from the March/April issue of PRÉF. Names have been changed, 'cause I learned my lesson ages ago.

Other People's Sex Lives

Lately I’ve been irrationally afraid that everyone in the world is having better sex than me. The last few times I’ve done it have been amusing at best; the kind of sex I imagine people twice my age have when they’ve been married for 20 years and have run out of ideas. I’m not having bad sex, but I just cannot help feeling that it could be better, that I must be getting lazy or uninspired. Especially when compared with my friends’ tales of their sexual exploits.

I. James’s Thumb-Fuck
James and I dated in college. We had a terrible breakup, thought we’d never speak to each other again, and then, a few years later, became really good friends. I guess there’s the tiniest bit of sexual tension left between us, but that’s normal.

James, like every other gay guy in New York, likes to talk about sex over cocktails in the middle of the week. It was a Tuesday night, we were at Therapy in Hell’s Kitchen, and James was telling a bunch of friends about the date he’d been on the previous weekend.

The guy – Tom or Jack or Sam or something…we’ll just call him Fernando – was apparently loaded. He had an enormous ground floor apartment that opened onto a garden somewhere in Greenwich Village. He was also gorgeous, according to James. Washboard abs, great arms, tight butt. I don’t remember what they did on their date; that wasn’t the interesting part. Maybe they went to a movie or dinner or just took a romantic walk around the Village. Who cares, really? The part James wanted to tell us about, and the part we all wanted to hear, was what happened once they got back to Fernando’s fabulous apartment.

The way James described it, the sex was like something out of a steamy gay romance novel. He threw Fernando onto the bed and ripped off his shirt. Then they kissed, hard, and James began working his way down to Fernando’s chest, kissing his smooth tan skin as he went. He licked and suckled Fernando’s nipples, teasing them with his tongue and lightly biting them. He unbuckled Fernando’s belt and pulled off his jeans. Then he rolled him over onto his stomach and started fingering his ass.

Fernando was on his knees, his face buried in fluffy down pillows as James slipped his thumb into his ass. He let out a long, deep moan. James slid his thumb in and out slowly, working the muscles between Fernando’s ass and balls with his other fingers. Fernando started to rock back and forth on James’s thumb, moaning and stroking his cock. James pressed in deep and pulled out over and over. He spat in his free hand and grabbed Fernando’s cock and started stroking it. Fernando was gasping and moaning through clenched teeth, moving his ass around on James’s thumb.

“He came right in my hand,” James said. “He was so loud I had to cover his mouth with my hand. I got his own cum all over his face.”

“So, you just fucked him with your thumb?” I asked

“It was like I was holding his whole pelvis in my hand,” he said. “It was so hot.”

As we were finishing our drinks, James got a text message from Fernando. “If you’re that good with just your thumb, I can’t wait to see what your dick feels like.”

II. Neil’s Threesome
I’m not fond of Neil. He’s a sweetheart. He’s boyish and optimistic and completely guileless. Everyone loves him. But I can’t stand him. He annoys me for reasons even I don’t really understand. Maybe it’s the bully in me, but whenever he’s around, I tend to pick on him like you’d pick on a younger brother or the geeky kid in high school.

Neil looks like the geeky kid in a teen movie and he is possibly the world’s worst dancer. But somehow, he always manages to hook up with really hot guys. Maybe it’s because he’s so damned nice; maybe it’s his complete lack of self-consciousness. Whatever it is, it drives me crazy with jealousy. Guys like Neil are not supposed to get the hot guys. They’re not supposed to be having hot sex. They’re supposed to look on longingly as cuter, meaner, wilder guys do things they’re too scared to do.

Recently, I heard, from mutual friends, that Neil had had a threesome. It came as quite a shock to all of us. Neil is 22 and only started having sex a few months ago. He’s afraid of his own butt hole. How can such a person have had a threesome? Here I am trying to be the hard, sexy, cynical guy hanging out with DJs and porn stars, and this sugary sweet little twerp is showing me up. If my life were an 18th century French novel, I’d probably come up with some sort of twisted scheme to bring about Neil’s ruin. Alas, I am not the Vicomte de Valmont. I’m just a selfish, sexually frustrated boy who is far too concerned with other people’s sex lives.

III. My Own Business
I know I should mind my own business. I shouldn’t care so much what other people are doing. I shouldn’t try to compare their sex lives to mine. There are times, however, when the dirty stories my friends tell me about themselves and their lovers keep me up at night. It could be that they are exaggerating; that they really aren’t having better sex than me, or anyone else. That’s beside the point, really. Because once I’ve heard what they’ve done, or what they think they should have done, it takes on a life of its own. There’s a constant porno loop in my head at any given time. Lying in bed at night; at work; on the subway. I have a very dirty mind and quite often my friends and their stories are just fodder for it. When I slip my hands down my pants and grab my cock, I’m just as likely thinking of someone I know as some random porn star.

I think my friends secretly want me – and anyone else they talk to about sex – to fantasize about them. Maybe they get off on the idea that people are thinking about them, embellishing the scenarios they’ve discussed and creating new ones. It’s kind of like a perverted form of celebrity or even immortality. That amazing sex they had last month lives on in the dirty minds of others. Or maybe just my dirty mind.

Bathroom Interview: Tristan Taormino

2006-03-09T18:01:00.000-05:00

Tristan Taormino should be the patron saint of anal sex. Seriously, someone call the pope. She’s built her own little empire – including her Village Voice sex column, several books, and two pornos – on the premise that more people should be taking it up the ass. She just released the newly revised second edition of her first book, The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Women, and has returned to the world of porn with her new DVD, Tristan Taormino’s House of Ass. I found Taormino in the bathroom of Crash Mansion where we were celebrating the release of both the book and DVD.

John: It's been five years since The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Women 2. Why so long between DVDs?
Tristan Taormino: The thing is, truthfully, there’s so much that I do. Things just come into focus. There are some years where the focus is on teaching and some years where the focus is on writing. And I just felt this year, in 2005, newly inspired to make cool porn. I’m not a fulltime pornographer and I don’t want to just do it to do it, or do it to cash the check. I only want to do it when I feel really jazzed about it.

J: How is House of Ass different from every other porno out there?
TT: Well, my whole thing is that I want to see a different kind of gonzo. Gonzo is porn without a plot, where the camera is acknowledged. Like cinema verite, sort of. I want to see gonzo where there isn’t stupid degradation, of both women and men. And I want to see porn where there’s no circus stunts. Cause that’s the thing. There are great things about gonzo, but then a lot of the stuff in gonzo is crappy. So, can you capture the spirit of gonzo, which is spontaneity and just raw hot sex? But can you take out some of these things that sort of dominate the genre?

J: Did you get to sample any of the talent before filming?
TT: (laughs) No.

J: During filming?
TT: Yes. In the video, you’ll see, Justine [Jolie] played with my boobs a little bit and pinched my nipples. There may be some lost footage, not on the DVD, of me with Mr. Marcus’s cock in my mouth. Enough said!

J: What is the best soundtrack for anal sex?
TT: The best soundtrack for anal sex…See that’s the thing. There is no one soundtrack. People make these assumptions, like it has to be rough and down and dirty. You can have anal sex to “fuck me like and animal” or you can have anal sex to, like, Everything But the Girl. It can be sweet and tender and intimate and really nice, or it can be rough and dirty and nasty and raunchy, and everything in between.

J: So what’s your favorite song to have anal sex to?
TT: I’m gonna go with anything on “Disintegration” by the Cure.

J: Who do you think is having anal sex tonight?
TT: I think that Rachel Kramer Bussel is gonna have anal sex tonight. I think that Bridget Everett is gonna have anal sex tonight. There were just so many couples who I don’t even really know, but who came up to me and were like, “You changed our sex life.” Which, you know, is my favorite thing in the whole world. So all those people, whose names I probably can’t even remember now, all those people are gonna have anal sex.

Aaron's Dream

2006-03-06T02:49:00.000-05:00

Last night Aaron called to tell me that he’d had a sex dream about me the night before. We were in a house, but it wasn’t his house and it wasn’t my apartment. I was lying on my stomach and he was on top of me, with his hand wrapped around me, gripping my cock, which, according to him, was “really, really wide.”

That made me smile and I felt all warm and glowy, like there were Christmas lights all curled up in my stomach.

I like being dreamed about in the same way that I like it when I find out people have been talking about me behind my back. It makes me feel important, like the fact that someone has taken the time to actually discuss me means that I matter, that my legend is beginning to spread. It feels a little like immortality. The fact that Aaron had a dream about me means that I have entered his subconscious, and once you’re there you’re permanent. You’re with them forever, even if you have a falling out and you never speak to or see each other again. Someone can’t kick you out of their subconscious.

Years from now, Aaron might dream about something, a bank robbery, and someone will be telling him that he can’t set his watch at a time like this. And he’ll know that there’s someone out in the getaway car with video tapes that need to be returned, and that he loves this person very much, but he has no idea who it is, and that will be me. He’ll wake up feeling sort of embarassed and hopeful, like he has a crush on someone, and wondering who it was waiting out in the car.

I feel like a virus. I’m inside, which is something I don’t think I’ve ever been before. I’m in there, in Aaron, and I’m gestating.

Love Letters

2006-02-13T10:04:00.000-05:00

Last year the Village Voice printed love letters for their annual “Sex in the First Person” Valentine’s Day issue. I found myself absolutely in love with Valentine’s Day, for the first time in my life. It seemed like something more than just a greeting card capitalist holiday. It seemed like a celebration of love, a day when just about everyone in New York stopped to appreciate how simple and precious and rare love really is. It seemed like a day of solemn respect. I didn’t feel cynical at all. When the waitress at an Italian coffee shop gave me a long stemmed red rose with my spiked hot chocolate, the words “Viva l’amore,” sprang to mind, and that became my mantra for the rest of the day.

This year, I find that I have several love letters to write, and I’m unsure of all of them. Each one sort of blends into the next and I’m not even sure who I’m writing to. These sentiments are like deep water colors that bleed into fuzzy shapes with indistinct borders. I’m not sure where they begin and where they end, but they are undeniably, frustratingly present.
_______________

Dear J.,

What I feel for you is a mystery to me. Initially, indifference, but muddled with something like kinship or the recognition of something in you that harmonized quietly with something in me. Then later, attraction. Unexpected, but undeniable attraction. Every physical part of you is perfect: your sweet guileless face; your surprisingly beautiful body. Your sexiness snuck up behind me and pounced when I wasn't even looking.

Now, what I feel for you is a sort of playful, mischievous interest. I’m curious. I want to run around with you and explore. I want to creep inside and push buttons and pull strings. I want to take you away from everyone you know and wander the streets with you at 4 a.m. I want to stop in a porn shop and see how you react. I want to hold your hand when we leave.

There’s a look in your eyes sometimes like something is waking up. Inside you, certain things are starting to move again that maybe haven’t moved in a long time. I think they’ve been waiting to move. I think they’re sorry they slept in so late.

John
_______________

Dear A.,

That mix CD I sent you for Christmas was somewhat restrained, I know. At the time, what I felt was so big, so intense, I thought it might freak you out. It sort of freaked me out. Our time together – those two weekends bashing around New York, that amazing night in your hotel – was still so fresh in my mind. It filled me, bolstered me, inflated my heart so much. For the first time in a long time I had a sense of the future, not as a dark empty corridor you stumble through blindly, but as an open terrain filled with possibility. And the thought came, unbidden, into my head: “I’d have kids with him.”

It was strange and shocking and unsettling.

I have been so imprudent with such feelings in the past, stupidly declaring my adoration for the most fleeting of suitors and calling it love. I don’t offer my heart; I throw it, wet and beating, at men, and when it hits them and falls to the dusty ground, or misses them altogether, I am devastated. These are the actions of a child, a silly boy who doesn’t really know what he wants and so hurls himself, full speed, towards what doesn’t want him.

And so when I see in you the possibility of reciprocation, of something real, it chills me to my core. I’m afraid that the nasty, rotten bits of me will eat you alive. I’m afraid that my misanthropy, my dissatisfaction, my temper tantrums, my willingness to indulge in my worst possible impulses, will drive you away. And it’s not even that I’m afraid of losing you. I’m afraid of doing to you what I’ve done to others. I can’t stand the thought of exposing you to the muck and mire in my soul, of shoving you face first into it, and then seeing it reflected back every time you look at me.

So I didn’t put the sweet, sad songs on your CD. I left off the songs about love and longing, the ones so bitterly beautiful they make heartbreak seem sweet. And I kept my heart to myself.

John
_______________

Image: Cupid by Chuck Jones.

Bathroom Interview: Buck Angel

2006-02-10T10:56:00.000-05:00

Buck Angel is the future. While "shemale" porn, featuring male-to-female (MTF) transsexuals, has been a smut genre for years, Buck is the world’s first and only female-to-male (FTM) transsexual porn star. Since his official website, Transexual-man.com, launched in 2002, Buck has been blazing a new trail right through the world of porn. He’s starred in several mainstream releases, including Buck’s Beaver and More Bang for Your Buck. His latest release, Cirque Noir from gay production company Titan Media, is nominated for several GayVN awards this year. Buck and I got a chance to chat at AVN’s Adult Entertainment Expo last month:

John: How do you think the gay boys are reacting to Cirque Noir?
Buck Angel: Wow. Overwhelmingly, incredibly supportive. Unbelievable isn’t it? I was shocked, Titan was shocked, we were all shocked. But they must be ready for me.

J: What do you think of the state of trans porn right now?
BA: There is none. I am trans porn right now.

J: What about shemale porn?
BA: It’s there. It’s big. It’s good, but we need something new, like me. Even though that’s not really my category, I guess that’s the category I’m under right now.

J: But that’s not where you fit?
BA: No, because I can fit into straight [porn] because I have sex with women. I can fit into gay porn because I have sex with men. Or I can fit into bisexual because I have sex with both. I don’t think there really is a category for me.

J: What is the next big thing in queer porn?
BA: Me! You watch. We think gay men are so focused on cock, but the majority of my fan base is gay men. I think they want to try something new. Maybe they’re interested in not just sucking cock. Maybe they want to try fucking a pussey, but they’re not attracted to a woman. They’re attracted to a big macho dude like me. I just happen to have another hole.

J: How many dicks are in your collection?
BA: I actually have five that I use all the time. One’s black, one’s purple, and the other three are flesh colored.

J: Which one’s your favorite?
BA: The big mother fuckin’ black cock. I love that cock.

Heatherette

2006-02-08T11:09:00.000-05:00

Last night was the Heatherette fashion show afterparty at Happy Valley. It was sick. Jenna Jameson, Buck Angel, Amanda Lepore, Kenny Kenny, Susanne Bartsch, Michael Musto, some Scissor Sisters, possibly that guy from NSYNC, and just about every queer club kid in New York. Just sick. Les photographies:

More pics at LastNightsParty.com. You so wish you'd been there.

GayVN Awards

2006-02-07T02:26:00.000-05:00

It’s awards show season, even in gay porn land. Last week the nominations were announced for the 8th Annual GayVN Awards. For those of you who don’t know, the GayVN Awards are like the Oscars of gay porn. Let someone else speculate about Brokeback Mountain’s Academy Award nods, I’m more concerned with the fuck flicks.

It looks like the two front runners this year are Michael Lucas’s Dangerous Liaisons (yup, a gay porn version of Choderlos de Laclos’s 18th century novel) and Chi Chi LaRue’s Wrong Side of the Tracks. No big surprise there. These are two crazy ambitious DVDs from two damn fine pornographers. One of these two is going to take home the award for Best Picture, but I can’t even begin to speculate which. I’m thinking Chi Chi will get Best Director over Lucas.

As for best actor, it’s another tough call. I’d narrow it down to Rascal Video’s golden boy Johnny Hazzard and critical darling Brad Benton. Hazzard is up for a ton of awards – all for Wrong Side of the Tracks – and he’s bound to get a lot of them. A hot guy in a hot film is a tough combo to beat. Benton’s big staring vehicle this year, Spunk’d (Strand Releasing), is nominated for Best Alternative Release, and I’m thinking that’s where he’ll get the recognition.

Two of my favorite releases this year, Cirque Noir (Titan Media) and Owen Hawk’s Unleashed (Dark Alley Media), are up for Best All-Sex Video. Both are up against Raging Stallion Studios’ Arabesque (Raging Stallion Studios), which poses some stiff competition. I want Cirque Noir to get this one, though. It features a ground breaking performance by transsexual male performer Buck Angel, who was totally snubbed by not receiving a single GayVN nomination. Unleashed is my pick for Best Leather Video.

I’m sort of shocked that Remy Delaine wasn’t nominated for Best Newcomer. The strapping Aussie stud would have been my pick. Of the actual nominees, I’d like to see the award go to either Tober Brandt or Andy Kirra, though Huessein stands a good chance of winning. Ken Mack and Damon DeMarco have my vote for Best Oral Scene. Mack has this whole hot-gay-uncle thing going on, and NYC boy DeMaro is just one of nicest boys in porn right now. Best Duo Sex Scene is anyone’s guess. Some of my personal favs (Benton, Hazzard) are nominated for this one, but I’m not sure about their partners. It could go to Hazzard and Tyler Riggz in Wrong Side of the Tracks, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it went to either Huessein and François Sagat in Arabesque or Wilfried Knight and Arpad Miklos in Manhattan Heat (Lucas Entertainment). I’d like Brad Benton to walk away with Best Supporting Actor, but I have a feeling that one’s going to Kent Larson for Dangerous Liaisons.

Which brings us to Performer of the Year. While I’d love to be the filling in a Brad Benton-Owen Hawk sandwich, I don’t think either of them is getting this award. The same goes for Pete Ross, Jacob Slader, and Gus Mattox. No, I’d put my money on Johnny Hazzard. He’s in one of the most nominated pornos of the year (Wrong Side of the Tracks), directed by an industry favorite (Chi Chi LaRue), and he’s actually not a bad actor. If he gets no other award this year, he’ll get this one.

The complete list of nominees is here. The GAYVN Awards show is on March 9 at Rage Nightclub in West Hollywood, CA. Let me know who you’re betting on.

No Condoms, No Chi Chi

2006-02-03T03:12:00.000-05:00

Chi Chi LaRue has announced that she will no longer be directing straight porn for Vivid Entertainment because of the company's decision to change their policy of mandatory condom use to a condom-optional one.

"As a person who has been very vocal about condom usage in every aspect of the gay business as well as the straight and as a person who went to work for Vivid because of their mandatory condom policy, I had to stop directing for them once it became condom-optional."

I have mixed feelings about this. I absolutely agree with LaRue's views on condom use, and it's really encouraging to see such a visible porn personality sticking to her guns on this issue. On the other hand, I'm really discouraged by Vivid's new policy. I really cannot imagine what makes them think this is a good idea, particularly in the wake of 2004's industry HIV scare - which, not surprisingly, occurred within the straight porn sphere.

Full story at GayVN.com.