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.