PREF: Random Acts

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PREF: Broken Hearted, NYC

PREF issue 18, now available in better magazine shops all over NYC. The Universal News Cafe on 23rd between Fifth and Sixth Ave. has it, I saw it myself! Go purchase it and you'll be able to see all the French hotness. Here's the original English version of this issue's piece.

WHAT TO DO WITH A BROKEN HEART IN NEW YORK

Do Not: Answer the phone.
Andy calls from Portland and says he isn’t thinking about moving to New York anymore. He says there’s someone else, someone who’s breaking his heart. And I think, My god, you’re breaking mine.

I hang up and that’s when I start to panic. But it’s a calm sort of panic, like panicking in slow motion. Suddenly I have all this nervous energy and I don’t know what to do with myself. I start wandering around my apartment aimlessly, opening closets and cabinets not really looking for anything. I turn off the TV. I don’t want to hear anything. But the quiet isn’t peaceful; it’s oppressive, it’s suffocating. I look around and my apartment seems too big and too small, all at the same time. It seems too big for me to manage, to control, to keep in order, but also so small, so claustrophobic I can’t breath.

It’s almost 1 a.m. when I decide to leave my apartment.

Do: Get out of the house.
The subway ride down to West 4th Street feels longer than normal. The dark, fluorescent/aluminum/plastic environment inside the train is just as hopeless and annoying as my apartment. A surly looking dude in baggy jeans and a baseball cap gets on at 42nd Street and starts eating Chinese take-out from a carton, filling the train with the smell of greasy brown lo mein. At 23rd Street, a couple gets on, so drunk it takes them two whole stops to realize they’re on the wrong train. I’m beginning to think going out wasn’t such a good idea.

But once I’m aboveground everything changes. It’s a warm, early fall evening, and the whole city seems to be wandering around the Village. The fratty NYU kids. The bratty underage New Jersey ghetto gays. The girls in pretty dresses on their way to or from fabulous parties. The aging fags smoking outside the piano bars. There’s something amazing about wondering around in New York, especially like this, in the middle of the night, when everyone should be in bed. It’s like the lost boys and girls have been let loose in an amusement park, long after all the children and parents and normal people have gone home.

Wandering around alone amongst all these people, I feel invisible, inconsequential, a secret eye watching everything. I’m anonymous. I don’t have to be broken hearted or brave or anything. It’s incredibly sustaining.

Do: Go to a bar.
It’s a gay bar, of course. I would have preferred a quiet, dimly lit hotel bar, the bartender in a vest and bowtie, someplace old and austere, someplace where people don’t go to hang out, someplace where people don’t go at all.

Instead, I end up at New York’s version of a gay dive bar. It’s not someplace where I usually hang out. It’s a little bit under the radar, a little bit off my beaten path, and, no, I’m not going to mention its name. A boy has to keep some secrets.

I plant myself on a stool at the bar and order a dirty martini.

“You look depressed,” says the bartender (t-shirt, Puerto Rican accent, no vest, no bowtie), “You want a shot?”

I tell him no. Shots are for fun, shots mean it’s a party. I want to get drunk, but I want to get drunk slowly. I kinda need to feel this, sink into it, let it wash over me, and then slip away from it.

In the movie version of my life – or, I don’t know, the hour-long primetime TV drama of my life – the bartender would stick around, ask me about my troubles. He’d listen, and then dole out his surprisingly poignant brand of no-nonsense wisdom. “Listen, kid,” he’d say, “I’ve heard just about everything working behind this bar, and here’s what I think…” But he doesn’t say that. He just pours my drink and moves on to the next customer. It’s a busy Friday night, after all, and I suspect that type of benevolently wise bartender doesn’t really exist.

Do: Think about him when you masturbate.
It’s early morning. The sun is streaming in through my bedroom windows. I woke up with an erection. A warm, comforting, eager morning erection. I kick the sheets back and take hold of my cock, gently at first, moving my hand up and down slowly, just feeling things out, waking up the flesh.

And then I’m thinking of Andy. Thinking of his skin, his smell, the last time I had his cock in my mouth. It was in the shower, in my apartment. He hadn’t been in the mood to get it on, but when he saw me getting into the shower he decided he needed to get in with me. I knelt down, like we were in some lame porno, and he slipped his cock into my mouth. It was smooth and silky, and I could feel him flexing. When he was done, I stood up and he pulled me close to him. “Thank you,” he said, and he kissed me.

Now, that’s all I can think of. Kneeling in my shower. His cock. His smooth, slight muscles. His eyes closed. His pouty lips slightly parted. That’s the image I hold as I stroke myself. And when I come, it’s short and shallow and not particularly comforting.

Do Not: Tell people you were in love with him.
“I wasn’t in love with him.”

“You said you were in love with him.”

“Yeah, I know what I said. I was wrong.”

I’m trying to explain the Andy situation to my friends. For months I’ve been telling them how intensely I felt about him, and how he felt about me. I needed to impress upon them how different this was from every other relationship before it. He was going to move to New York. I was going to wait for him. This felt like it would last forever. This was real. This was something that would change my life forever.

These are words I have lived to regret.

A word to the wise: Never, ever tell people you are in love with someone. It’s a fundamentally insipid sentiment that can neither be proven nor disproved, even to yourself. That’s not cynicism, it’s just common sense.

“Ok, so you weren’t in love. Then what’s with all the drama?”

Actually, nobody asks that question. But I can tell they want to. The thing is, when you tell people you’re in love, and then nothing comes of it, you look like a fool. All that hoping and planning, all those breathless conversations about your man and the life you think you’ll have together; it all seems stupid in retrospect. It all sounds so melodramatic. The only way to avoid being the silly boy, who gets all worked up about minor romantic follies is to never tell anyone that you’re in love. Deny deny deny. That’s my policy.

So, no, I don’t think I was in love with Andy.

Or maybe I was. I don’t know.

PREF: My Pretend Boyfriend

New piece from the November/December issue of PREF. Buy it if you can find it!

SEX WITH MY PRETEND BOYFRIEND

Andy lives in Portland. He does PR for a middling lounge-pop band, which brings him to Manhattan a few times a year. Whenever he’s here, he calls me up. He takes me out, he holds my hand, he takes me home. He’s not my boyfriend, but I like to pretend he is.

The Hotel
Andy’s hotel room is on the 14th floor overlooking Lexington Avenue. It’s 2 a.m. We’ve been to Hiro at the Maritime Hotel all night, where we spotted Björk near the bar. We drank champagne and danced a lot, and kissed a lot, and made people jealous. I particularly enjoyed making people jealous.

The room is one of those odd old New York hotel rooms with a four-poster bed and a clawfoot tub. It’s lovely, but I can’t help thinking about all the Midtown executive types who’ve brought their mistresses here. All those suits and ties and belts thrown on the floor, the blowjobs during lunch hour...Maybe it’s just my booze soaked brain, maybe I’m just horny, but it’s like some kind of wicked sexual ghost lives here.

Andy has his old Polaroid camera in his hands.

“Mind if I take some pictures of you?”

He’s rearranging lamps, taking their shades off. I start taking off my clothes. Andy takes off his shirt. He tells me what to do, where to move, snapping photos as he talks. Watching him moving around the room, half naked, I start to think about all the things I want him to do to me. He tells me to stand in front of the mirror, and he comes up behind me and presses himself against me. He reaches around and puts his hand on my cock. He takes a photo.

I turn around and start kissing him, fiercely. I push him down onto the bed and climb on top of him. The camera’s gone, I’m not sure where. His jeans are off and we’re pressing against each other, hard, desperately. It’s then that I realize how much I love sex with Andy. I love the tumble and the tussle, the way we crash into each other like waves against a rocky coast, the way he looks at me before, during, after.

He props himself up against the head board and tells me to turn around and lean against him. My back to him, he tells me he wants to watch me play with myself. Behind me, I can feel his chest rise and fall as he breathes. I feel his warm smooth skin against my back. He puts one arm around my waist and grabs my cock with the other. I push backwards into him, resting my head on his shoulder, his cheek next to mine. He turns and kisses me, and the world explodes in bright, hot spasms.

The Blindfold
The blindfold is made of thick, pebbly leather. It’s black and shaped like a domino mask without eye holes.

“Do you want to wear it, or should I?” I ask. We’re in Andy’s bed, in his house in Portland. It’s three in the afternoon. We’ve just come home from a late lunch. We started getting naked the minute we walked in the door.

“I don’t know,” he says.

It seems like we’ve been having sex nonstop since I arrived in Portland two days ago. This weird, slow-moving city lets you do things like that on the weekend. I’m used to New York, where the pace and the pressures of living in the most ruthlessly fabulous city in the world keep you from wasting an entire Sunday in bed with someone. I’m used to the meanness and the danger. But Portland is just so...nice. It’s kind of making me homesick. I need to inject a little meanness and danger before I leave. So, the blindfold...

I slip it over Andy’s eyes and he smiles. “I’ve never done anything like this,” he says. I smile, thinking of some of the horribly perverted things I’ve done and how they might compare to this harmless little blindfold.

Andy stretches out on the bed and I start to touch him. I put my hands on him lightly, like he might break if I don’t handle him gently. I move my hands over his entire body, touching every part of him except his penis. His breathing is slow, rhythmic, and he barely makes a sound. Then I put my mouth everywhere that my hands have been. I run my lips over his skin, sometimes kissing, sometimes licking, sometimes just breathing. And I watch as his penis plumps, stiffens, and stands erect. It’s an amazing thing to watch a penis getting hard without touching it.

The Proposal
I’m having a particularly upsetting day at work. I lock myself in the bathroom and call Andy.

“You want to go to Milk and Honey tonight?” he asks.

I laugh, thinking he’s fucking with me. “Sure, I’ll meet you there at eight,” I say, sarcastically.

“Actually, our reservation is for 10:30.”

He’s not kidding. I’m confused and frustrated. I’ve fallen into some Bizzaro version of my life where Andy lives in New York and can just take me out to fabulous, hidden speakeasies like Milk and Honey whenever I’m having a bad day.

“I’m in town,” he says. “I flew in this morning.”

That night, I drink four sweet, strong cocktails that taste of, well, milk and honey. Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong are playing. The bar is dark and quiet, and there’s something really benevolent and calming about our waitress. This is perfect. This is exactly what I needed. I find myself wishing that Andy could be there whenever I have a bad day at work, whenever I have a good day at work, whenever…

That’s when I realize I’m falling in love. Somewhere between the visits and the phone calls, between having sex and holding his hand, between the Pacific North West and the Big Apple, I’ve managed to fall in love.

We go back to my place and fall into bed. The sex is soft and slow, kinda like dancing to Ella Fitzgerald or Louis Armstrong. We stop every now and then, and just lie there, tangled up in each other, breathing. The weight of his body presses against mine, but there’s no urgency, no frenzy. There’s time. Because, maybe we could do this for the rest of our lives.

“You should move to New York,” I whisper. “If you lived in New York, I think I’d try to make you my boyfriend.”

He shifts in bed. “If I lived in New York I’d be too busy finding an apartment, a new job, establishing myself. I wouldn’t have time for a boyfriend.” He looks at me and something inside me falls, collapses inward.

“You shouldn’t count on me as a potential boyfriend,” he says.

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.

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.

PREF: Stealing Boyfriends

Here's the latest PREF piece from the May/June issue. It's available in New York now, so go out a buy a copy and improve your French. Oh, and the website got a facelift. Check it out.

How to Steal a Boyfriend

New Yorkers have a long history of infidelity. Donald Trump cheated on Ivana. Anna Wintour stole someone’s husband. Even Sara Jessica Parker’s saccharine sweet Carrie Bradshaw had that nasty little affair with the married Mr. Big. Trying to steal someone’s boyfriend? That’s so New York.

Ryland
It was summer and my friend Charlie’s apartment felt like a sauna. He was having a party and the heat and the close quarters had whipped everyone into a froth of sexual energy. It was tangible. You could run your fingers through it; you could smell it on people. We were all swimming in a sticky sea of pheromones and getting sort of wild-eyed. You could tell something was going to happen.

I saw Ryland and reacted to him immediately.

“Who’s that?”

“He used to live with Charlie.”

“Is he gay?”

“I think they slept together once.”

“I think I’m in love.”

“He has a boyfriend.”

The boyfriend – Jeff – was a few years younger than Ryland, blond, and by all accounts completely innocent to the ways of the world.

“He just came out. Ryland’s the only guys he’s ever been with. He’s really sweet.”

“I’m going to steal his boyfriend,” I said.

So I cornered Ryland in the kitchen and introduced myself. He told me he was an actor and I told him that I was going to flirt with him shamelessly.

“I know you have a boyfriend and I just don’t care,” I said.

“One point for you,” he said.

“What happens when I get five points?”

“I’ll run naked to my boyfriend.”

I felt sort of lawless and amoral, like a predator or a mercenary. I could do anything and people would pretend to be appalled, but really they’d be jealous, maybe even inspired.

I left that party with a renewed sense of purpose. On the subway, I listened to Stevie Nicks songs from the 80’s on my iPod and thought, “Ryland will be mine!” I had a goal, a quest. It was like waking up and realizing that everything has secret functions and hidden compartments that you never knew about. Life seemed fresh and full of possibilities.

I didn’t see Ryland again for a month. I called him and left messages and sometimes he would call me back. Then, one night he called me up and invited me to a fashion party at Quo. Just me and him. I don’t know why Jeff didn’t come with us. I don’t really care.

Quo was one of those really pretty, really awful West Chelsea clubs where everyone is gorgeous and no one is actually famous. I’m not sure why Ryland even wanted to go to that party. He didn’t seem to know anyone. Of course, that meant that I got his full attention. His full attention, however, meant that I had to listen to him talk endlessly about some play he was in, something about flight attendants in the ‘60s. That’s what you get for trying to fuck an actor.

I tried to lean in close to him as much as possible. It was loud, so we had to shout into each others’ ears to be heard. I would lean in, let my cheek brush his, put my lips close to his ear, breath on his neck. I tried to kiss him when we were settling out bar bill. He pulled away.

Outside, walking up Ninth Avenue, Ryland grabbed me, pulled me close and kissed me as garbage trucks drove by blowing their horns. He pulled me into a doorway and put his hand down my pants.

“Let’s go to your place,” he said. But as we walked to the subway, Ryland must have sobered up a little. “Would you hate me if I said I was having second thoughts?”

I told him no, I wouldn’t hate him. I told him I understood, all the while kissing his neck and pressing myself against him, trying to get him to change his mind again. But when my train came, Ryland didn’t get on with me.

Clark
The first time I met Clark, I didn’t think much of him. He seemed nice, smart. I liked him. But I barely looked at him twice. He was wearing his glasses.

The second time I met Clark, his glasses were off, and it was like he’d turned into Superman. Who’d have thought something as small as a pair of spectacles could mask such astounding cuteness. The second time I met Clark was when I started scheming.

I don’t think Clark gets along very well with his boyfriend, Darrin. They don’t seem to have much chemistry. When they’re out together, they barely talk, and when they do they always seem to be at odds with each other. So when I told Clark that I was going to steal him, I actually meant that I was going to rescue him.

We were at Area 10018, Mistress Formika’s infamous Friday night party. I waited for Darrin to disappear into the crowd, and then crept up behind Clark.

“Want to know a secret?” I said. “I’m going to steal you.” Clark looked at me and smiled, his eyes literally sparkling.

That night we danced, grinding our hips into each other, groping, getting hard right there on the dance floor. We snuck away upstairs to the VIP lounge and made out in a shadowy banquette and then left the club and walked all the way from Bryant Park to Chelsea, stopping in a porno shop along the way.

Since that night I’ve been sending Clark text messages and emails, some of them dirty. He tells me he’s been working really long hours, leaving work at 3 a.m. most nights and coming into work on Sundays.

“You know, God cries when people work on Sunday.” I write. “He would much rather us be getting blowjobs.”

“So would I!” he writes back.

Another night, I’m drunk and leaving a bar. “Are you working late? I could sneak into your office and you could have your way with me on your desk or in the supplies closet.” He never answered that message.

On Valentine’s Day I wrote him a love letter, but never sent it. “There’s a look in your eyes sometimes,” I wrote, “like something is waking up. Inside you, certain things are starting to move again that maybe haven’t moved in a long time. I think they’ve been waiting to move. I think they’re sorry they slept in so late.”

I see Darrin more than I see Clark. I always run into him at clubs and bars and parties. He’s always drunk and flirting with other guys. I’m pretty sure he knows what’s going on, but he always says hello to me, and he’s always really friendly. I think Clark wants to be stolen. And sometimes I think Darrin wants me to steal him.

PREF in NYC

Ok all you Francophiles, it looks like PREF, the French magazine I write for, is coming to the US. It's about damn time too, considering all the lovely press we've been getting lately. PREF is like a French version of Blue Magazine. Lots of gorgeous photography of gorgeous gay boys. Plus, of course, my NYC sex column. Check out what people are saying about us here and here. Hot right? Well if you're in New York you can not get your very own copy and hold it in your own two hands.

Click here to see where PREF is available.

PRÉF: Other People's Sex Lives

My piece from the March/April issue of PRÉF. Names have been changed, 'cause I learned my lesson ages ago.

Other People's Sex Lives

Lately I’ve been irrationally afraid that everyone in the world is having better sex than me. The last few times I’ve done it have been amusing at best; the kind of sex I imagine people twice my age have when they’ve been married for 20 years and have run out of ideas. I’m not having bad sex, but I just cannot help feeling that it could be better, that I must be getting lazy or uninspired. Especially when compared with my friends’ tales of their sexual exploits.

I. James’s Thumb-Fuck
James and I dated in college. We had a terrible breakup, thought we’d never speak to each other again, and then, a few years later, became really good friends. I guess there’s the tiniest bit of sexual tension left between us, but that’s normal.

James, like every other gay guy in New York, likes to talk about sex over cocktails in the middle of the week. It was a Tuesday night, we were at Therapy in Hell’s Kitchen, and James was telling a bunch of friends about the date he’d been on the previous weekend.

The guy – Tom or Jack or Sam or something…we’ll just call him Fernando – was apparently loaded. He had an enormous ground floor apartment that opened onto a garden somewhere in Greenwich Village. He was also gorgeous, according to James. Washboard abs, great arms, tight butt. I don’t remember what they did on their date; that wasn’t the interesting part. Maybe they went to a movie or dinner or just took a romantic walk around the Village. Who cares, really? The part James wanted to tell us about, and the part we all wanted to hear, was what happened once they got back to Fernando’s fabulous apartment.

The way James described it, the sex was like something out of a steamy gay romance novel. He threw Fernando onto the bed and ripped off his shirt. Then they kissed, hard, and James began working his way down to Fernando’s chest, kissing his smooth tan skin as he went. He licked and suckled Fernando’s nipples, teasing them with his tongue and lightly biting them. He unbuckled Fernando’s belt and pulled off his jeans. Then he rolled him over onto his stomach and started fingering his ass.

Fernando was on his knees, his face buried in fluffy down pillows as James slipped his thumb into his ass. He let out a long, deep moan. James slid his thumb in and out slowly, working the muscles between Fernando’s ass and balls with his other fingers. Fernando started to rock back and forth on James’s thumb, moaning and stroking his cock. James pressed in deep and pulled out over and over. He spat in his free hand and grabbed Fernando’s cock and started stroking it. Fernando was gasping and moaning through clenched teeth, moving his ass around on James’s thumb.

“He came right in my hand,” James said. “He was so loud I had to cover his mouth with my hand. I got his own cum all over his face.”

“So, you just fucked him with your thumb?” I asked

“It was like I was holding his whole pelvis in my hand,” he said. “It was so hot.”

As we were finishing our drinks, James got a text message from Fernando. “If you’re that good with just your thumb, I can’t wait to see what your dick feels like.”

II. Neil’s Threesome
I’m not fond of Neil. He’s a sweetheart. He’s boyish and optimistic and completely guileless. Everyone loves him. But I can’t stand him. He annoys me for reasons even I don’t really understand. Maybe it’s the bully in me, but whenever he’s around, I tend to pick on him like you’d pick on a younger brother or the geeky kid in high school.

Neil looks like the geeky kid in a teen movie and he is possibly the world’s worst dancer. But somehow, he always manages to hook up with really hot guys. Maybe it’s because he’s so damned nice; maybe it’s his complete lack of self-consciousness. Whatever it is, it drives me crazy with jealousy. Guys like Neil are not supposed to get the hot guys. They’re not supposed to be having hot sex. They’re supposed to look on longingly as cuter, meaner, wilder guys do things they’re too scared to do.

Recently, I heard, from mutual friends, that Neil had had a threesome. It came as quite a shock to all of us. Neil is 22 and only started having sex a few months ago. He’s afraid of his own butt hole. How can such a person have had a threesome? Here I am trying to be the hard, sexy, cynical guy hanging out with DJs and porn stars, and this sugary sweet little twerp is showing me up. If my life were an 18th century French novel, I’d probably come up with some sort of twisted scheme to bring about Neil’s ruin. Alas, I am not the Vicomte de Valmont. I’m just a selfish, sexually frustrated boy who is far too concerned with other people’s sex lives.

III. My Own Business
I know I should mind my own business. I shouldn’t care so much what other people are doing. I shouldn’t try to compare their sex lives to mine. There are times, however, when the dirty stories my friends tell me about themselves and their lovers keep me up at night. It could be that they are exaggerating; that they really aren’t having better sex than me, or anyone else. That’s beside the point, really. Because once I’ve heard what they’ve done, or what they think they should have done, it takes on a life of its own. There’s a constant porno loop in my head at any given time. Lying in bed at night; at work; on the subway. I have a very dirty mind and quite often my friends and their stories are just fodder for it. When I slip my hands down my pants and grab my cock, I’m just as likely thinking of someone I know as some random porn star.

I think my friends secretly want me – and anyone else they talk to about sex – to fantasize about them. Maybe they get off on the idea that people are thinking about them, embellishing the scenarios they’ve discussed and creating new ones. It’s kind of like a perverted form of celebrity or even immortality. That amazing sex they had last month lives on in the dirty minds of others. Or maybe just my dirty mind.

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.

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.

PRÉF Mag

I have a piece in the September/October issue of Préférences, a gay magazine in France. It's not available in the US, and even if it was it would be in French anyway. So here it is in English.

Three New York Dates

I think that every gay boy who has moved to New York since 1999 falls victim to the whole Sex and the City thing. They have seen the show, they own the DVDs, they’ve read the book, they wait breathlessly to see what Sara Jessica Parker will wear next. Whether they admit it or not – and most of them don’t – somewhere in the back of their minds they expect life in the Big Apple to be one big night on the town, full of designer shoes, chi-chi cocktails, and VIP treatment. I should know. I was one of those guys.

The reality of living in New York, I have come to realize, is completely different, especially the dating. I’ve been taken to more half-priced sushi joints and dive bars than five star restaurants and über-trendy hotspots. And the sex…well, the sex isn’t bad. Actually, it has been really good. In fact, I would go so far as to say that I’m having better, more interesting sex than any of the Sex and the City girls ever had. If I can’t have a closet full of designer clothes and the star table at Marquee, at least my libido is satisfied.

Date Number 1: The Lawyer with the Golden Dick
I met the Lawyer at a bar in Chelsea. He was older, maybe in his mid 30’s. He didn’t have that gay daddy bear thing going on, but something about him made me feel like a kid. I felt small and mischievous, like a naughty schoolboy. Being around him, I kind of saw myself the way he saw me: young and reckless and insatiably sexy.

He took me to lunch one Saturday at a diner a few blocks from his apartment. From the moment we sat down I knew we were going have sex that day. The sexual tension was like a thick fog hanging over our table. It made getting through our meal a little precarious. If one of us said the wrong thing or looked at the other a little too suggestively, we might have ended up attacking each other and fucking right there on the table.

We paid the check and went straight to his place. He threw me onto his bed and started taking my clothes off. He did most of the work, moving me into different positions and telling me what he wanted me to do. I had never had sex where I had relinquished that much control. It felt amazing. When I came it felt like my entire body had turned into liquid, flowing over the Lawyer, his bed, his apartment, the whole world. It was probably the most intense orgasm I have ever had in my life.

It was so good that I became sort of addicted to the Lawyer’s dick. Anything that can perform that kind of magic should be cast in gold and worshipped on a mountaintop. I guess he got a little freaked out when I called at 3 a.m. one night to tell him that. Afterwards, all of my attempts to set up a second date were met with vague replies like, “I’ll call you next week,” and “We’ll do something when I get back from Australia.”

Alas, I don’t think I’ll ever see the golden dick again.

Date Number 2: The Go-Go Boy
“He’s not a real go-go boy,” I said, trying to justify taking home a guy I had just met to my friend Dave.

Jeff was a 19 year-old intern who had entered an amateur go-go contest at Boysroom in the East Village. When I first saw him he was completely naked and dancing on the bar. He didn’t win, but I thought he was the hottest guy there. I told him so, and he got this dazed, awestruck look on his face, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He started kissing me almost immediately and we didn’t come up for air for at least an hour and a half.

“You’re so beautiful,” he kept saying. I didn’t believe him, so I kept kissing him to shut him up.

There’s something so amazingly naughty and carnal about making out with someone in a bar. It’s dirty and reckless despite the fact that you can’t get naked. We were tucked away in a dark corner of the bar, tangled up on a red velvet sofa. I liked the idea of people getting annoyed or grossed-out by our public display of lust. I could almost feel all these bitchy queens rolling their eyes, some getting jealous, some enjoying the show. Maybe they would go home alone tonight and lie in bed thinking about Jeff and I kissing and groping like horny teenagers. It brought out a bit of the exhibitionist in me.

I gripped Jeff’s jeans, loving the way the rough denim felt pulled tight like canvas across his ass. I could feel him getting hard. I straddled him and ground my crotch into his.I ran my fingers through his hair and gripped it, pulling his head back and kissing him deep. His hands were on my ass and he actually gave it a little smack.

That’s when Dave came over and told me that people were starring.

“Come on,” I said to Jeff, “We can finish up at my place.”

Date Number 3: Welcome Wagon
My friend Josh’s ex-boyfriend, Chase, was visiting New York for a few weeks and we ended up sleeping together for most of his stay. Josh brought him out for happy hour the night he got into town, secretly hoping Chase would go home with someone so that they wouldn’t have to share Josh’s tiny studio apartment. After a few 2-for-1 cocktails, Chase and I were really hitting it off. He was cute, smart, funny, but in a non-intimidating, watered-down kind of way.

We had dinner that night at Republic. We talked and talked, slurring our way through discussions of gender politics, queer theory, and other lofty topics that only make sense when you’re drunk. I felt brilliant and stimulated and more than a little horny. But I kept looking at Chase and thinking that I didn’t really want to get involved with him. I couldn’t quite figure out why, but something told me that it just wasn’t something I wanted to do.

A week later, we met for drinks again. “I kind of want to kiss you,” I said, “but I also kind of don’t want to.”

Chase just chuckled and smiled at me drunkenly. He put his hand on my knee and slid it up my thigh. It was like he lit a match and my ambivalence went up it flames. “Ok, let’s go to my place,” I said.

We stopped to get sushi on the way home and that’s when the conversation sort of dried up. We sat there eyeing each other over spicy tuna and California rolls, smiling suggestively every now and then in an attempt to sustain horniness. It didn’t work.

When we got to my apartment, there was none of the desperate, torrid urgency that usually happens the first time I have sex with someone. I was drunk and full and sort of sleepy. I fumbled out of my clothes and flopped down on the bed, thinking how soft and perfect my down comforter felt. As I lay there, Chase started to kiss and lick me all over. It was like he was waking up every inch of my body. My skin felt energized and super sensitive, but at the same time I felt relaxed and weightless. It was like drifting away on a cloud that was coursing with lighting bolts.

Chase was stroking my cock and then he was sucking it. I could almost feel sparks coming off of me, like languid, sleepy fireflies. He slipped his fingers inside me, pressing gently and the whole world went up in flames.

After I came, I sank back into the softness of my bed. “Welcome to New York,” I said, and drifted off to sleep.