Ambiguously Gay Runway

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

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

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Pfloto Session

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

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

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

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

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.

WhArea?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Drawing Restraint 9

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

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PREF in NYC

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.