Formika

I'm having a bit of a Last Night's Party moment. Here's some pictures from Mistress Formika's birthday at Opaline:

Bathroom Interveiw: Ashton Ryan

Ashton Ryan has been in gay porn for most of his adult life. After an extremely successful stint with Junior Studios, he took a hiatus from the adult biz. Now he's back, at the helm of Eon Films - a.k.a. Twinks R Us - producing, directing, starring, and breakin' hearts.

Bathroom: penthouse suite at the Venetian, Las Vegas.


John: So, you have a boyfriend?

Ashton Ryan: I do.

J: Is he in the industry too?

AR: Hell no! No more of that. Tried that and it doesn’t work.

J: Why not?

AR: It just doesn’t. There are press issues.

J: Your last few films have been movie parodies. What’s that all about?

AR: That was my idea. You know, you grow up watching them…I did anyway. I come up with these twisted porn ideas all the time. They’ve all been my idea. I come up with the name, but I don’t write the stories.

J: And you actually have a lot of pull at your production company, Eon Films.

AR: Yes. Technically, right now I am one third owner [of Eon Films].

J: What’s your favorite porno right now?

AR: My new one, Ashton’s Eleven.

J: If you had your own line of sex toys, would you fuck yourself with a dildo molded from your own penis?

AR: Oooh. Well, I’ve been told it’s really nice, so yes. Just to see if it actually was really nice. And actually, that’s coming.

J: The Ashton Ryan dildo?

AR: Under a different name. It’s a long story involving another movie parody.

Vegas: Day Four!

Our last day at the GayVN Expo (Sunday was a travel day) was another day of filming. Feeling shockingly non-hungover from the previous night’s HustlaBall, I snapped still photos of the cute boys from Factory Video, Flavamen, and Eon Films as Mikey interviewed them.

We scurried upstairs to catch the last hour of the Internext Expo, which ended at 3:00. Apparently, it is tradition to close the show by tossing thousands of small foam breasts (some Internet company’s promotional item) around the show floor. The scene was bizarrely apocalyptic. Boobs rained down from the heavens; they shot from one side of the floor to the other with shocking speed; they bounced and rolled and even caused the MaleFlixxx.com booth to fall apart.

After we wrapped up filming, I had some time to kill before meeting up with Buck Angel for an interview, so I decided to wander around the AVN section of the expo. There I encountered a car full of creepy Real Dolls, Big Gay Apple’s ol’ pal Ron Jeremy (he signed our “I Heart Gay Porn” t-shirts back in August), and a hot trio of Burlesque performers. I also discovered Rob Rotten and almost came in my pants when I saw him. What can I say? Dirty, mean lookin’ tattooed boys who would probably beat me up are just my thing. I even heard that Verne Troyer was making an appearance somewhere.

That night’s cocktail party in one of the Venetian’s penthouse suites was only slightly more subdued than on previous nights. Once again, I found myself in a bathroom with Ashton Ryan for a significant portion of the evening. Only this time his boyfriend and Tyler Mason joined us. All three of them were flirting with me, and I would have liked nothing more than for all of us to get naked. Instead, Tyler and I just watched Ashton’s boyfriend suck his cock and then tried to make the bidet work with disastrous results.

As I was leaving, I snapped a photo of the sexiest damn thing I had seen all weekend: Rod Barry in a furry hat with wolf ears. The only way it could be sexier is if that was all he was wearing.

Vegas: Day Three!

The first day of the expo was industry only, so the floor was relatively calm. The mobs of fans clambering for a porn star’s (or anyone they perceive to be a porn star’s) autograph showed up on day two.

The madness started at noon, when the expo opened its doors to fans. Big Gay Apple was up and filming at 10 a.m., however, which gave us time to interview guys from Titan Media, Hot House Entertainment, Adonis Pictures, and of course Chi Chi Larue’s Rascal Video. I was there to see Mikey chat with Andy Kirra and Trevor Knight (a.k.a. my new secret crush), but I missed superstar Johnny Hazzard as I was busy with another superstar, the lovely Tristan Taormino.

I bumped into Miss Triss at the Adam and Eve booth, where she was taking a break from covering the AVN Expo for the Village Voice and promoting her new DVD, Tristan’s House of Ass. We chatted about the expo, how exhausted we both were, and the silicone tackiness at a neighboring booth. Eon Films super tiny super twink Tyler Mason (pictured) passed by and I introduced him to Tristan.

Tristan: “Oh my god, are you like 12?”
Tyler: “No.”
Tristan: “Are you a porn star?”
Tyler: “Yes.”
Tristan: “Are you a top?”
Tyler: “No.”
Tristan: “It would be so cool if you were a top and fucked really big guys.”

That is why I love this woman and cannot wait until she produces some gay porn.

Bathroom Interview: Michael Brandon

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Vegas: Day Two!

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Vegas!

Yesterday was the longest travel day in recent memory. I’m not even sure how long it took, with all the time zone changes. Flying into Vegas, my first impression was that it looked like a giant miniature golf course.

After a quick stop at the Sands Expo Center to pick up our badges, the Big Gay Apple boys and I checked into our hotel. The Flamingo, one of the oldest hotel/casinos in Vegas, was founded by Bugsy Siegel and it looks like the Golden Girls exploded all over it. The woman who checked us in had enormous hair and teal horn-rimmed glasses with rhinestones.

Unpacking, I found that the bottle of lube I felt so clever in packing had leaked all over my shaving kit. I took this as some sort of omen. Not sure what kind, but definitely an omen.

We dove right into the Vegasness – buffet dinner, walking tour of the strip, a peek inside the Paris and the New York, New York. I had to wonder how someplace so gaudy and glittery wasn’t more gay. The casinos were filled with guido and fratboy types, running around playing shiny, loud games. It was like Chuck E. Cheese for grownups.

Later that night, we headed over to the Venetian for the Pride Bucks opening night party. Of course there were a bazillion minor porn stars, live sex shows, and free drinks that were way way way too strong. There were a couple conspicuous NYC porn absentees. Neither Michael Lucas nor Owen Hawk will be making an appearance at GayVN. However we saw the lovely boys from Eon Films, the guys behind the scense at Dirty Boy Video, and my boy Andy Kirra. The guys at this expo are definitely cuter than in Florida and there are more of them. Right then and there I set a few goals for myself on this trip:

1) Make out with Ashton Ryan
2) Make out with the moody looking dark haired boy smoking in the corner
3) No Smoking! (You can smoke everywhere in Vegas, and I have no willpower)
4) Make out with either Johnny Hazzard, Remy DeLaine, or Dick Wolf – assuming any of them are here
5) Try to marry a porn star at an Elvis chapel

It took three Jack and Cokes for me to get brave enough to talk to moody dark haired boy, and even then there wasn’t much talking. It was more like, “Hi, what’s up?” “Want to make out?” “Sure!” He’s here promoting either a new DVD or a new sex toy, I’m not sure which. Regardless, he was a really good kisser.

On our way out of the Venetian, we stopped by Tao, where we continued to drink and make out and draw stares from all the straight people. Apparently you just don’t see gay boys making out in Vegas. We parted ways after we left. He was way too drunk, I was way too tired, and neither of us really wanted to disturb our roommates. So, at 5 a.m. I crawled into my hotel bed alone. But, I thought, it’s only the first night.

GayVN Here I Come!

I wish I could say I spent tonight, the eve of my departure to Las Vegas for the GayVN Expo, packing, but I didn't. I was at Happy Valley. And now I'm drunk and faced with the nightmare of packing. I hate packing under normal circumstance. But drunk? At 3 a.m.? Crikey!

Cute undies: Check.
Obscene undies: Check.
Jane Austen novel: Check.
12 different outfits for 4 days: Check.
3 pairs of shoes: Check.
A bazillion accessories: Check.
Condoms: Check.
Lube: Check.
Aneros: Check.

I'm wondering if the very fact that I'm bringing my own lube and condoms will, you know, jinx me. I'm willing to risk it. At Internext the lack of quality lubricant proved...problematic. Bringing the Aneros may be a little overly ambitious, though.

Check back all weekend. I plan on blogging the whole event.

PRÉF: The Closed Mouth

The January/February issue of PRÉF has three different covers. Fancy, huh? Queerty.com thinks so. As usual, here's my piece, unedited and in English.

The Closed Mouth

I would venture to say that the mouth is as vital a sexual organ as the genitals. First of all, there’s kissing. It’s like the gateway to sexual activity. It’s how you get things started. Once I start kissing someone, my cock instantly stiffens. And there’s everything else you do with your mouth. Sucking cock, licking ass, nibbling nipples. Having sex is like trying to shove someone into your mouth, one body part at a time. It’s as visceral and primal an urge as eating, so it’s no wonder we use our mouths so much.

Actually, I never realized how important my mouth was in having sex until I couldn’t use it…

I. Seth
I hate Gay Pride. I hate the parade. I hate the street festivals. I hate the way we’re supposed to believe that partying all weekend is at all politically relevant. Most of all I hate the crowds.

It seems like every fag in the US descends upon New York at the end of June to celebrate the anniversary of the Stonewall Riot. Our Pride parade is one of the biggest and loudest in the country, and in the days leading up to it the city becomes one big gay party. Queers come from all over the country to get drunk in broad daylight, in the sweltering heat, and wave little rainbow flags. And the masses only increase at night. Normally quiet gay bars are filled to capacity with obnoxious tourists from New Jersey, Florida, D.C., and, worst of all, L.A.

This year my friends convinced me to join in the festivities by going to Avalon, a club that would have been packed on any normal weekend. On the night of the Pride Parade, however, it was wall to wall flesh. Sweaty, shirtless boys squeezed onto the dance floor like sardines in a can. Toned bodies glistened and pressed against each other as the music thumped. It would have been kind of sexy, except that I couldn’t speak, couldn’t breath, could barely move. It was exactly how I’d imagined gay Hell.

I managed to find the one room in the place that that didn’t feel like a sauna. It was a sort of hidden lounge area where everyone seemed a little more fabulous than those writhing in the sweltering darkness downstairs. I was thinking about going home when a hand grabbed me and pulled me down into the banquette behind me. The hand belonged to Seth, a massage therapist from West Hollywood. The first thing I noticed when I saw him was that he looked sort of shy and guileless, and that that was almost certainly a pose. The second thing I noticed was how cute he was.

I don’t exactly remember what we talked about. I think it went something like this:

Me: “L.A. sucks.”

Him: “No one would talk to you in L.A.”

Me: “Fuck you!”

Him: “Want to come back to my place?”

Me: “Sure.”

We hopped in a cab and, on the way to the fabulous Columbus Circle apartment he was sharing with a B-list gay celebrity, I sent my friends a text message: “Getting Laid!”

It didn’t occur to me until after we were on his bed and he had taken his clothes off that Seth had not tried to make out with me yet.

“I have a boyfriend in L.A.” he said. “We have a couple rules about sleeping with other guys: No kissing and no fucking.”

I didn’t mind the no fucking rule, but no kissing? I had no idea what to do. A sexy, mostly naked guy was lying in bed with me and my first impulse was to put my tongue in his mouth. It was like sitting behind the wheel of a brand new BMW with miles and miles of open road ahead of you, but no keys. I needed something to ignite the two of us. I needed the warm wetness of his mouth on mine. I needed to feel like we were connected, however tenuously. Without that we were just two random, fumbling people clumsily trying to get off.

I started half-heartedly stroking his cock, but didn’t get much of a response. I think he could sense that I wasn’t into it at all.

“Guess I had too much to drink tonight,” he said. “I don’t think I can get hard.”

I left hating Pride and L.A. and boys from L.A. just a little bit more.

Tristan's House of Ass

This summer I house sat for the Divine Miss T while she was in LA filming her latest porno. Now the trailer for Tristan's House of Ass is available on her website. The DVD drops sometime in early 2006.

Cruising

Tonight on the subway I saw this boy. “Boy” is the best word for him, though he was probably legal – barely. He was cute and blond and slight. When fags use the word “twink,” he’s what they mean. And he had perfect hair.

He noticed me noticing him on the platform and noticed me back. We got into the same subway car. He stood by the door and I moved further toward the middle of the car, partly because it was crowded and partly because I wanted to watch him from a safe distance. A lot of passengers got off at the next stop, so it was easier to see him. I stared at him, long and hard. And I’m pretty sure I made him uncomfortable. Or at least aware of the fact that he was being stared at.

I stare at people a lot. On the subway; in bars; pretty much any public place. Some might call it "people watching." The truth is, though, that I’ve always believed that if I concentrate hard enough I can make things happen. I guess that’s what more successful writers are calling “magical thinking” these days: believing you have some control over the circumstances in your life. I actually just think that if I try really really hard, I’ll eventually unlock secret telepathic abilities.

It’s sort of widely believed – and I think there is actual scientific evidence to back it up – that we only use a shockingly small portion of our brain. The rest is just kind of dormant, and some people think that if we actually figured out how to use those dormant parts we’d all be psychics or telepaths or something. I know it’s kind of weird, but I think there might be something to that.

So I stare and I think and I try. When it happens, I imagine it will feel like an alkeseltzer fizzling in water, except moving out and away from me and expanding my perception.

I looked at this boy on the subway and thought toward him, probably making him more and more uncomfortable. I couldn’t tell if it was uncomfortable in a good way or in a bad way. He might have known I was watching him and appreciated the attention. Maybe he felt prettier, more powerful because of it. Maybe he was hoping I’d talk to him.

He looked me right in the eye and held my gaze, which surprised me. I didn’t think someone as young as he looked would do that. His eyes were challenging and inviting at the same time. I looked away first and felt as if I’d been bested.

I got off the train at Union Square and thought about grabbing his hand and pulling him out with me. Instead I walked away and imagined him looking after, watching me disappear into the crowd.

Last Night's Party

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Dread and Elation

Aaron’s hotel room was on the 14th floor, overlooking Lexington and 48th. It did occur to me that climbing out the window and taking photos on the ledge wasn’t the smartest thing to do at 3 a.m., after several cocktails. But we’d seen Bjork at Hiro earlier, I was beginning to feel like I might be falling in love, and both of these facts made me somewhat bolder than usual.

Looking down at the street below, I had this vivid impression, almost like a premonition, of dropping Aaron’s digital camera and then of losing my balance and falling. It seemed like just by thinking it I would fall; I had to fall. I could feel myself tipping a little too far and not being able to take it back. The sensation of unalterable momentum, of powerlessness against the inevitability of gravity and my own careless miscalculation filled me with both dread and elation. I was suddenly conscious of the fate of the John Russell in some alternate reality. It made me queasy and I had to step back inside and lock myself in the bathroom for several minutes.

When I came out, Aaron was busy repositioning lamps and removing their shades. He took out a big old Polaroid camera and started taking pictures of me. In between shots he would toss the camera aside and kiss me, gradually removing my clothes and his. He photographed me on the bed in my underwear, standing next to the mirror, from a distance, close up, from behind.

He slipped his hand inside my underwear and started to pull them off. I let him. I let him take pictures of my cock, of me playing with my cock, and he promised me they wouldn't end up on the internet. He took one of the two of us looking into the mirror. He’s behind me, holding the camera and looking sort of menacing. You can’t see it, but I’m naked, standing with my cock in my hand, looking at him.

The next day I had to get up really early and catch a flight to North Carolina for Thanksgiving. While I was at my parents’ house having a nauseatingly wholesome holiday and loving every Hallmark moment of it, Aaron sent me a text message:

“Last night in this fabulous hotel room, surrounded by all these hot photos. What’s a boy to do?”

Suddenly, I was aware of a different kind of unalterable momentum. It felt like my heart swelled to near bursting and then sank, settling, like the knowledge of something I can’t change, in the very bottom of me. It filled me with both dread and elation, and I couldn't wait to see him again.

PRÉF: Five Moments

My piece from the November/December issue of Préférences. I think it's out in France by now, though I haven't recieved my copy yet.

Five Moments In The Life Of A Slut

I. Mr. Slut
When my friend Jack saw the photos from my trip to Florida for a porn industry event this summer he flipped out and called me a slut. I tried to explain to him that the naked guys in the pictures were porn stars and that they were being paid to be slutty.

“It’s their job,” I said. “You wouldn’t deprive them of their living, would you?”

I told him I wasn’t the one running around the pool naked or sucking cock on stage at the clothing optional parties. Of course, even if I didn’t do those things, Jack’s right, I am kind of slutty. And I’ve always been comfortable with that fact. I think of myself as enlightened and sexually unconventional, and of course I always use condoms. I embrace sluttiness as a sort of liberating post-modern identity. But here was my friend calling me a slut with such disdain. I didn’t like it. And I started to think of all the slutty things I’d done lately.

II. Marathon Sluttiness
I actually was pretty slutty in Florida. Sluttier than usual. Since I was only there for the weekend, I had to cram all my dirty deeds into two days. It was marathon sluttiness; the kind behavior average, well-adjusted Americans can only achieve on vacation. In a single night I played with a Brazilian bartender’s uncircumcised penis, made out with a sweet boy from Michigan, and then fooled around with a cute porn star/escort in the hotel pool.

The Brazilian had been waving his dick around at a party earlier that night, so I couldn’t help giving it a few yanks when it came my way, and the boy from Michigan disappeared shortly after kissing me. But I had been flirting with Andy, the porn star/escort, all day. I found him in the pool at 4 a.m., skinny-dipping with some other porno guys. He was wet and drunk and not tired at all.

The next hour and a half was like a waiting game between myself and the rest of Andy’s porn friends. Someone was going to fuck him that night; we just had to see who could stay up the longest. Slowly, the group began to dwindle. Some guys got hungry and went off in search of breakfast; others lost interest in Andy and headed up to their rooms to fuck each other; most just went to bed. I don’t like to go to sleep, so I waited until it was just the two of us in the pool.

I swam up to Andy and whispered in his ear, “Guess I win.”

He laughed and wrapped his legs around me. There was a cool breeze coming off the ocean, so we dipped down under the water to keep warm and to hide what we were doing in case a nosy hotel security guard passed by. I kissed him, biting his lip gently, and then worked my way down his neck, kissing and nibbling. Underwater, I slid my hand up his thigh toward his ass and squeezed it. He had a perfect little porn star ass, compact and round and bouncy. I slipped my fingers between his cheeks and felt the little button of puckered muscle there. I rubbed it, teasing it with my finger. He let out a soft, deep moan and gripped the back of my neck.

I wanted to bend him over and put my face in his ass. I wanted to lick his perfect, pink hole and find out what kind of noises he makes when he comes. But the sun was rising, and it’s hard to do that sort of thing in five foot deep water. So we went to my hotel room, and did it there.

III. Dirty Stay-Out
I woke up, after only three hours of sleep, in someone else’s bed, with dried cum on the sheets and a naked boy next to me. I had to be at work in 15 minutes. Luckily, Josh (then naked boy) lived only a few blocks from where I work on weekends. I jumped out of bed, threw on my clothes, and kissed him goodbye.

Outside it was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, it was warm, and every fag in New York was having brunch outside. As I walked down Eighth Avenue, the blisteringly bitchy heart of Chelsea, I felt like I had a huge scarlet letter tattooed on my forehead. As I passed by cute gay couples and groups of stylish friends on Sunday shopping trips, I knew they could tell I had been out all night. They could tell I’d gone home with a guy and had casual sex and that I was still wearing the clothes I’d gone out in last night. At any moment, I would turn around and there would be a huge mob of angry Chelsea Boys with torches and rabid little Chihuahuas. They would charge after me, hissing and yelling “Slut!” and “Whore!” and “Dirty stay-out!”

I arrived at work feeling like I had barely escaped alive.

IV. The Long Way Home
It was 3 a.m. when I left my friends at the Eagle, telling them I was too tired and too drunk to stay out. I was lying. I was wide awake and just drunk enough to do something reckless, like go to an after-hours gay sex party all by myself.

I’d found the flyer on the bar earlier. The party was at a club I had to walk past to get to the subway, so I figured I might as well check it out on my way home. The club was really dark and almost empty when I got there. I could see a few shadows moving against each other in the darkness. I kept my clothes on.

As it began to fill up, someone turned on the black lights and in the weird blue glow the whole thing began to look a little different. It was like someone had lifted up a rock and exposed a bunch of silent, crawling insects and worms. It was kind of gross, but you couldn’t look away. Guys walked up too each other and, without saying a word, started to touch each other. The only sounds were soft sighs and moans, and the smacking of lips on skin. The quiet was unnerving and incredibly sexy.

I watched a younger guy in a leather harness and combat boots giving a slightly older leather daddy a blowjob. I walked up to them and the leather daddy put his thick, rough hand on my arm, and then down my pants, unbuttoning my fly. He pulled out my cock and rubbed it. A cute skinny guy with a Mohawk reached over from my right and took over. He spit in his hand and slid it up and down my cock, slow at first, and then faster. I leaned into him, resting my head against his. He smelled like clean skin and saliva. I could feel his breath on my face, warm and moist. I bit my lip and I came, right there, standing up, with my face buried in a stranger’s neck.

V. Slut Interrupted
Ryan is too drunk to find his way home. I imagine him passing out on the subway, getting robbed, and waking up all the way out in Brighton Beach with no wallet and no idea how he got there. So I take him to my place and put him in my bed, where he immediately falls asleep. This is not how I pictured our first night together – and believe me, I’ve pictured it many times!

In my mind it goes something like this: Ryan looks deep into my eyes and in sweet, but not sickeningly flowery terms, expresses his undying love for me. There’s an unforgivably sappy song playing. Something slow, but not sad, like “Moon River” or “When I Fall In Love,” and there are lots of candles lit. He kisses me, and then we have amazing, completely conventional, non-kinky sex. We fall asleep together, as he whispers sweet promises in my ear.

Of course, that isn’t what happens. I fall asleep on the couch and wake up after the sun is already up. I crawl into bed with Ryan at 8 a.m., wondering if he thinks I’m a slut too. He stirs and I brace myself for an awkward “Good morning,” and his hasty departure.

Instead, he rolls over and throws his arm around me, and I suddenly I feel like all my sluttiness has been washed away. I’m kind of in love and I want to do everything right. I want to go out on dates and meet his friends and coworkers. I want to impress his parents. It feels weird and very unlike me, but I’m glad we haven’t had sex yet.

This Is Halloween

This weekend's incriminating photographs:


Me and Dave


Me and Kili masquerading.


Justin and Olivia


Dave and Jessica and Matty

At Opaline: Astro and Charlie (actin' a fool).

Night of the Ruined Condiment

Tuesday night Lisa Carver and Dame Darcey ruined ketchup for me forever. Let me explain:

By 6:45 I was on my third Stella. I should have been trying to think of a way to explain to Lisa why I wouldn’t be interviewing her for the Voice, but instead I was getting drunk and being distracted by cute boys with bad posture.

Jack (my date) and I were at KGB Bar for Lisa’s reading, which turned out to be a sort of variety show/performance art extravaganza. Instead of reading from her book like normal authors, Lisa has people act out certain scenes in each city she visits. One skit involved a potato peeler and Darcey (who later sang murder ballads and sea shanties) squirting an entire economy-sized bottle of ketchup onto the girl playing Lisa. I haven’t read the book yet, so I’m not exactly sure how that scene figures into the plot. The whole thing culminated with some girl peeing on a pizza.

We got to see the whole thing again later at Galapagos, plus some other musicians, magicians, and weirdos. There were girls hula hooping continuously throughout the whole party, and it gave me an idea: I’m going to teach myself how to strip while hula hooping. Jack said that if I can learn to do it by November 16th, I can be the entertainment at his birthday party.

Lisa kept coming up to us and asking why we weren’t making out yet, and I felt like a little kid who’s in trouble at school. My response would have been the same if asked why I’d squirted glue some girl’s desk. “I don’t know,” I said sheepishly, avoiding eye contact.

Then she turned on Jack: “What’s it feel like to have a 23 year old?” she asked. Jack’s 28. He’s also very quiet, which might mean he’s shy, but also might not.

Then Grant Stoddard came up and started talking to Lisa. I wanted to grab him and pick his brain and make him tell me how he had managed, when he was 23, to get not only a regular column, but also a job as an editor at Nerve. Of course, I also wanted to jump on him and stick my tongue in his mouth and my hand down his trousers. I ended up not doing either.

“There’s so much sexual tension!” Lisa said. “So many people are going to do it tonight. They haven’t done it yet. And they haven’t done it yet.” She pointed at her agent and one of the boys with bad posture, and then pointed at me and Jack. This woman is my hero. I’ve read about her manipulating her own and other people’s sex lives and now here she was, brazenly attempting to manipulate mine, and all I could do was giggle and gulp down Jack and Cokes.

Everyone was still covered in drying ketchup. It was sticky and smelly, like a barbecue that no one had cleaned up after. I was both in love with and disgusted by everyone around me. It wasn’t until I saw the agent and the bad posture boy drunkenly groping and two scruffy Williamsburg alt-fags kissing sweetly that I finally planted one on Jack. I told Lisa what I did on my way out, and she seemed very pleased.

When I got home, I threw away all the ketchup in my apartment.

Messages

Last night, after leaving Duvet, I left two messages for two different people.

The first was for Blue: “So, I just wanted to clarify: when I asked if you would like to do dinner sometime, I meant just you and me. Like, a date. If you’re interested, call me. If not, call me anyway, but pretend I never left this message.”

The second was for Ryland: “This is an official booty call. I would like to make out with you sometime this weekend. Call me.”

I wasn’t drunk, so I can’t even blame it on that. I was feeling reckless and bored and I needed to put a message in a bottle and throw it at someone’s window. I needed attention, I needed stimulation. Action, I feel, is always better than inaction. So rather than waiting around for them to make a move and trying to interpret signals that probably aren’t even there, I lit those little Molotov cocktails and pitched them right at the boys who, by all rights, should be vying for my attention. If I had known where either of them lived I might have been tempted to go banging on their doors.

This is the sort of bold, desperate behavior that I find incredibly romantic. The type of guy who goes out of his way and oversteps the bounds of rational, polite courtship is the type of guy for me. I want to live my life like in a romantic comedy, where intense emotions illicit extreme actions. Such benignly obsessive attempts at seduction should constitute pivotal moments in a person’s love life. Instead they’re just blips on the radar, and cringe worthy moments we try to forget or excuse with inebriation.

Of course, I haven’t heard from either Ryland or Blue. I’m sure they’re both freaked out or embarrassed for me or something and have chosen, predictably, to ignore the fact I ever called them. I’m erasing their numbers from my phone immediately.

Blue

In case you didn’t know, the way to my heart is through my weird, geeky obsessions. Case in point: I sort of fell for a guy at 5 a.m. in a diner when he started singing an old Stevie Nicks song to me.

Blue is from South Carolina. I find it kind of remarkable that his name isn’t short for something awful like Bluford. He has an accent and he thinks that maybe God made some people gay so that they could adopt all the orphans in the world. On the phone, he calls people “Brotha.”

Dave says he thinks Blue likes me and I can see how people might get that impression. Whenever I see Blue I feel like he’s flirting with me. But he flirts with everyone, or at least makes them think he’s flirting with them. Everyone he meets, he gets their phone number. He’s troublingly charming, and everyone I know who knows him seems to have a crush on him.

It’s also troubling when he says things like this regarding his sexuality: “I don’t know what I am. I’m bi.”

I don’t mind bisexual guys. Actually, I prefer them. But Blue does not strike me as the wild, sexually ambiguous type. He has all the markings of a fresh out of the closet, guilt-ridden Christian boy, and who wants to deal with that?

Then, on Friday night, we were at a diner, debating whether or not to split a chocolate egg cream (neither of us had ever had one) and “Leather and Lace” came on the radio. I sighed like a little girl. Loving a song is like having your heart broken a lot. Every time you hear it its like little layers of your heart get peeled away and it hurts a little, but also feels amazing.

“Is this your song?” Blue asked. “I love this song. You sing the Stevie part and I’ll sing the Don Henley part.”

I didn’t get home until 6:30 in the morning, but I smiled the whole way there.

JT LeRoy

If you haven't read New York Magazine's story on JT LeRoy, go do it now!

Who Is The Real JT LeRoy?

I'm not sure what to think. I'm fascinated. I've read everything ever published under the name "JT LeRoy" and I've loved most of it. I've read about the various conspiracy theories. I've heard that people think he might be Dennis Cooper or Lou Reed or even a group of the celebrities and literati he surrounds himself with. Whoever JT LeRoy really is, they are a PR genius. The mystery is almost definitely more interesting than the truth could possibly be. It adds a disturbing twist to an already twisted and disturbing story. His next novel is gonna sell bazillions!

My Body, This Week

Tongue
Between the hours of 1 and 2 a.m. Friday night, my tongue spent a lot of time in someone else’s mouth. It was sort of frenzied, drunken kissing; quick and passionate, but without all the subtle sensual details. I don’t remember the way his mouth felt or tasted, I don’t remember what his tongue did, just that it did it very fast. It was the kind of kissing that implied certainty. There were no tentative moments, no questions. Just the thrilling, stupefying plunge.

Penis
I’m on the subway reading Anaïs Nin and getting aroused at very inappropriate passages. Criminally inappropriate. I feel pervy – well, pervier than usual. I love the way she uses the word “penis” instead of “cock,” etc. There’s something so crass and forced about using those other words. They sound like you’re trying too hard to be dirty and just end up seeming overzealous and cheap. “Penis” is just what it is, without any bells and whistles, and it’s still hot. It’s sort of coquettish. I don’t think I’ll ever use any word other than “penis” ever again.

I’m getting hard – on the subway – and it’s that slow, gentle kind of stiffening, like when you wake up next to someone you’re in love with and slowly your penis wakes up too. It happens on its own; organic arousal, not forced to get a job done. It’s like this warm, glowing benevolence surrounding your crotch like a ball of light.

Nipples
It is always freezing where I work. I have this theory that it’s like this in every office where people sit in cubicles all day, staring at computer screens. It’s a trick they remember from High School: if they don’t keep it really cold people will fall asleep from the tedium and monotony of their jobs. My nipples are erect and sensitive all day, everyday, and there is nothing sexy about it.