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 BoyfriendNew 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.
RylandIt 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.
ClarkThe 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.
When I got to B Bar, Justin was being harassed by some drunken moron named Steve.
My favorite go-go boy is back in town. I’d heard he’d moved away, but I’ve been seeing him everywhere lately. 
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. 
