My Life as a Toriphile

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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?