No Condoms, No Chi Chi

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Formika

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

Bathroom Interveiw: Ashton Ryan

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

Bathroom: penthouse suite at the Venetian, Las Vegas.


John: So, you have a boyfriend?

Ashton Ryan: I do.

J: Is he in the industry too?

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

J: Why not?

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

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

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

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

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

J: What’s your favorite porno right now?

AR: My new one, Ashton’s Eleven.

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

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

J: The Ashton Ryan dildo?

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

Vegas: Day Four!

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

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

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

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

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

Vegas: Day Three!

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

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

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

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

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

Bathroom Interview: Michael Brandon

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Vegas: Day Two!

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Vegas!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GayVN Here I Come!

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

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

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

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

PRÉF: The Closed Mouth

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

The Closed Mouth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: “L.A. sucks.”

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

Me: “Fuck you!”

Him: “Want to come back to my place?”

Me: “Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tristan's House of Ass

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

Cruising

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Last Night's Party

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Dread and Elation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PRÉF: Five Moments

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

Five Moments In The Life Of A Slut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This Is Halloween

This weekend's incriminating photographs:


Me and Dave


Me and Kili masquerading.


Justin and Olivia


Dave and Jessica and Matty

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

Night of the Ruined Condiment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Messages

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JT LeRoy

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

Who Is The Real JT LeRoy?

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

My Body, This Week

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

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

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

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

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.

Mixtape

Tonight I made a mixtape for a boy. I’ve never done that before. I haven’t made a mixtape in years, and I’ve never made one for a guy I liked. I know it’s supposed to be this very delicate science or art form of selecting just the right songs to express just the right sentiment and arranging them so that they compliment each other. It’s kinda making me crazy. That and the nagging sense of the futility and desperation of sending a mixtape to a boy in Michigan who is at best not interested and at worst totally creeped out by me.

But I do like giving people things. I send odd little presents to boys when I have a crush on them. Like books of cowboy poetry. Once, I sent a guy an enormous length of red ribbon and a strip of black lace for Christmas. He’d told me he wanted to be tied up with red ribbon and blindfolded with black lace. I sent them, but sadly we never got to use them.

I guess I sort of have this persistent belief that you can win people’s affection with charming gifts. Essentially, they can be bribed, or failing that, badgered into falling in love with you. It’s a tactic that has rarely proved useful. And somewhere my red ribbon and cowboy poetry sit, neglected. I wonder if those boys still have them (although, come to think of it, I’m pretty sure the cowboy poetry was lost in a house fire). I wonder if they ever look at them and remember me, a weird, overzealous boy, whose efforts at quirky romance always ended up seeming kinda obsessive and creepy.

Here’s the playlist. What do you think?

Side A: Unnecessary Plastic Objects
Love at the Five and Dime – Nancy Griffith
Mary – Liz Phair
Shame – PJ Harvey
Y Control – the Yeah Yeah Yeahs
The Last Beat of My Heart – Siouxsie and the Banshees
Take on Me – Ah-ha
Wicked Game – H.I.M.
Rattlesnakes – Tori Amos
Napoleon – Ani Difranco
Just What I Needed – The Cars

Side B: Wildflowers
Wildflowers – Tom Petty
Too Far From Texas – Stevie Nicks + 1 Dixie Chick
Angry Johnny – Poe
Passin’ Me By – Pharcyde
Square Pegs – Pain
Season of the Witch – Hole
Signs of the Zodiac – Rasputina
Don't Fear the Reaper – (some random cover)
Superstar – Sonic Youth
Keep on Loving You – the Donnas
One Man Guy – Rufus Wainwright
If There is a Chance – the Cardigans

Internext Pix

Jeepers! There are pictures of me all over the Internet! Two weeks ago I was in Florida with the Big Gay Apple crew for Internext, a sort of networking event for internet pornographers. Tons of pictures were taken:

You can read all about the debauchery in my latest Big Gay Apple column.

And check out all the pics:
Here
Here
Here
Here
and Here!
(You know these ain't work safe!)

Birthday Boy

Next Thursday is my 23rd birthday, and like the good little middle class consumerist white boy that I am, I've created a Froogle Wishlist especially for the occasion. Looking over it I realize that it is equal parts perversity and geekiness. It's sort of taken on this weird psychological meaning for me. The desire for material things is apparently the place in my psyche where the comic book nerd and the porn star meet and fuck like they're in a bathroom stall. Such is my life.

The party is at Duvet, Thursday, August 25th, at 11pm. Tell them you're on Jose's list.

Dirty, Sweaty, Smelly

New York is a seething, steaming, fetid mess right now. It’s so hot and humid. The air is thick and oily, like breathing swamp air. It’s dirty and if it had a color it would be a dull, sickening mucous yellow. You can feel it blooming with bacteria. Everyone is sweaty and smelly and swollen, walking around looking wilted in damp, itchy clothes. The sexiness of that shine on people’s skin evaporates when you see the crazed, feverish look in their eyes. And the smell. Everyone stinks.

I don’t know how anyone can even think about having sex in this heat. Even if I could muster up the energy to swim through the nauseating humidity, the idea of touching someone is just too gross for words. It would be like touching raw chicken meat, filthy and slimy and foul.

Last night I was at a birthday party near Times Square where I met this sort-of cute guy. He and his friend had been in the park all afternoon, drinking cheap whiskey and Coke out of coffee thermoses. After steeping in the air-soup out there for hours he smelled of stale sweat that had had time to soak into their clothes and spoil there in the heat. He smelled like the guys who would come into the grocery store where I worked in high school after fishing all day. Cigarettes, sweat, fish, beer.

It made me sort of nauseous. And then I felt bad about thinking that way about him. I felt like a fussy little princess getting all grossed out by the proletariat. It would have served me right if he had smacked my ass and started ordering me around. If he had known what I was thinking he would have shoved me into the bathroom and pressed me up against the wall. He would have taken off his shirt and shoved it in my face. And then he’d make me lick his armpits and suck the sweat off his cock and balls, and I’d have to breathe in the smell of his thick damp pubic hair. And we would have had dirty, sweaty, smelly sex, and I would have deserved it.

9 Songs

The first time I saw Margo Stilley my best friend was making fun of her. I told her to stop and had a crush on Margo for the rest of the day. That was in the fourth grade. We never had a class together, all through middle school and high school. Her brother played soccer with my brother. We had a lot of the same friends. But I don't think we ever actually had a conversation. I don't even remember if she actually graduated with me or if she moved to another school.

Flash forward about six years. I'm reading the Village Voice and there are, like, three different pieces on this one movie, 9 Songs. It's an extremely sexually explicit indie film. Not porn. It was at Sundance. And I recognize the female lead. It's the same Margo Stilley that I went to grade school with. Getting fucked and tied up and masturbating on film.

And here I thought I was going to be the first person from Swansboro, NC, to become famous for being naked on camera. I'm so jealous!

Supamodel

I did a photo shoot with Joshua Rubin, a friend of a friend, a few months ago for a project he was doing for Nerve.com. The original concept was about people in the sex industry: strippers, prostitutes, dominatrixes, sex writers (moi), porn stars. My photo didn't make it into the final set, which went up on Nerve last week. They chose to focus on showgirls and boys. It's a free feature if you're registered with Nerve, so there's no nudity. The photos are beautiful. Go see them.

Independence Day

Rooftop Shenanigans
We kicked off the 4th of July on a rooftop in Williamsburg. It was Sunday night and the view could break your heart. There were DJs and pretentious avant-garde videos projected on the side of the building. Rumor had circulated that the party was listed in Time Out, which made everyone even more excited to be there. It had been going on since three that afternoon, and had hit a lull between all the afternoon barbecuers and the nighttime party people by the time my friends and I got there.

After a few drinks, Dave and I got ambitious and convinced Charlie and Noah to come to The Park with us for Jonny McGovern's Rambles party. On the way, we had a whole subway car all to ourselves, which is so much more fun and exciting than it may sound.

The Park was huge and so pretty. We vowed to come more often. I ran into my other friend Dave and ran around with him trying to find his bag and the boy he wanted to hit on, until he abruptly disappeared, breezing out of my night just as unexpectedly as he breezed in. Two different people told me how much they like my new haircut, and someone else asked me to ghost write their autobiography, which, of course, was occasion for me to yell at them.

Upstairs, I noticed some guy checking me out as I was dancing. I don’t remember being very drunk, but for some reason this guy was a complete blur. He was bald, but it was hard to tell how old he was in the dark. He was wearing a dark t-shirt and he kept moving, so it was hard to get a good indication of what his body was like. Maybe that was his plan. A Britney Spears song came on, one of the naked sweaty video ones, and he grabbed me and we started dancing. Even close up I couldn’t tell what he looked like.

Suddenly, I felt graceful and sort of coldly sexy, not unlike what I imagine Britney tries to convey in her naked sweaty videos. I ground my hips into his, smirking and letting my hair fall into my face. I had absolutely no interest in this guy beyond making him want me. I wanted him to clutch me, grab hold, cling. I wanted to feel him getting hard as he pressed against me. I wanted him to think that he had me, that he was taking me home tonight. And then I slipped away, disappearing into the crowd like a sadistic Cinderella.

Sudden Romantic Melancholy
The next night, Rae and Erin and Charlie and Kiki came all the way to Bed-Stuy to watch the fireworks from my rooftop. We could see about five different displays from where we were. They were going off in every direction you turned. Rae asked us all what we wanted to be independent from on Independence Day, and I had no idea.

It must have been all the rooftops and the views and fireworks, or maybe it was just the fact that I was stoned, but after everyone left I started to feel really romantic in a melancholy kind of way. Screw Valentines Day, the 4th of July is, for my money, the most romantic day of the year. There’s just something about it being summer and sort of lazy and watching twilight slip into darkness, and then watching the darkness explode in these amazing colors. It’s the fireflies and the glow of citronella candles. It really got to me this year.

I sat in my borrowed apartment and dimmed the lights, and I actually had a vision: I was in an apartment with a lot of quirky antique furniture and a worn Oriental rug and an actual record player that hissed and popped gently. There were candles and glasses of wine, and the smell of jasmine tea. "If There is a Chance" by the Cardigans was playing and I was slow dancing with someone, but I couldn’t quite picture who.

I went to bed feeling a little lonely and uncomfortable.

What It Takes

One of the things I love about New York is that you can go home with a cute pre-law student/massage therapist from L.A. on a Sunday night and end up meeting a gay B-list celebrity currently starring in a very gay Broadway show. Although, he’s so cute (the West Hollywood pre-law boy) the apartment overlooking Columbus Circle and the famous housemate are just icing on the cake.

Of course, then this We-Ho boy kicks you out of bed because he’s had too much to drink and can’t get it up, which at 20 years old is pretty depressing. And then you have to brave the subway at 3 a.m., all the while wondering if one day the same fate might befall you. So on your way home, you try to get it up, as you’re walking, just by thinking. Because even though you’re not particularly interested in a career as a porn star, it’s nice to know you’ve got what it takes.

Sweater

Yesterday I wore my favorite black sweater. The last person to wear it was my ex-boyfriend. It smelled like skin and spices, not exactly the way I remember him smelling, and definitely not the way I smell. For some reason I didn’t spray on cologne before I left for work.

All day I felt strangely disoriented, disconnected, like I was someone else. I’m a particularly olfactory person. I notice scents first and they leave very strong impressions on me, so it was odd having a different one. I felt like people wouldn’t recognize me. They would look at me distrustfully, like I was trying to fool them in some way. Dogs would bark and cats would hiss when I walked by. Friends would look at me and say, “There’s something different about you. Did you change your hair?”

I felt like I had license to do things I wouldn’t normally do, like go to a bar alone and strike up a conversation with a complete stranger.

“I’m Simon,” I’d say. “I’m in town looking for my mom. She ran out on my dad and me when I was really little. She sent me a postcard a few years ago from an address in Brooklyn. I’m trying to track her down.”

People wouldn’t remember anything I did or said. They would see me the next day and say, “I think I dreamt about you last night.” Any interactions we had would be like afterimages, sunspots, things you can’t really grasp.

When I came home, I took off all of my clothes except the sweater and got into bed. I slid my hands down and started touching myself. But my skin felt strange, like it wasn’t mine. It was someone else, someone I wanted to be close to. I wanted to curl up next to myself and feel the warmth it gave off. I wanted to crawl inside where it was safe.

I fell asleep in that sweater.

Between The Lines

He's smaller than the other go-go boy dancing on the bar, and he moves a bit awkwardly, like it's his first time. I can tell that it's not by his lips; the slightly puckered smirk tells me this boy knows he's sexy. He doesn't have to try.

He has long black hair and looks like he might be part Asian or Native American. But then, maybe that's just the dark pointy eyeliner. He's smooth, virtually hairless except for the soft down that I can make out when he moves just so in the dim, reddish light. He's wearing a dark blue bandana tied around his forehead to keep the hair out of his eyes and his entire back is covered with one large tattoo. It's some sort of scene, the sort of thing you see on those Discovery Channel shows about the origins of tattooing. I imagine some stern faced old Samoan tapping ink into this boy's smooth virgin skin for hours at a time. And when it's over, he's no longer a boy, but a man, bearing his scars proudly. "This is what I have seen," they say for him, "This is the pain I can endure. This is who I am."

I move closer to the bar and stand beneath him, looking up. I stay there, drink in hand, sometimes watching him, sometimes leaning against the bar with my back to him. It's like I'm standing guard, and I feel annoyed when other people tip him and whisper into his ear. I wonder what they're saying and if they know him and how.

He has a beautiful pelt, I think, like a big game hunger looking at my next trophy. But I dont' want to skin him. I want to write things in between the lines on his back. Secrets and stories that he'll never see, in languages he can't read. I want to etch my story into his, like cavemen carved their stories into stone so the world would remember them. Except I don't need the world to remember me. Just one man. My story written between the lines of his.