Thursday, June 30, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Who cares which
of my many costume changes gave him boners (also, that is the worst word, but it’s accurate in this limited case)? It’s the power issue. Dudes, we are not here to be your perfect incorruptible vision of anything, in birds or in boots. Buck up, men and people. Adore our power.
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Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
There’s this line
in J.M. Coetzee’s Disgrace, where the protagonist (dirty old scholar that he is) imagines the escort he frequents making fun of him. He believes himself wise, saying “He has a shrewd idea of how prostitutes speak among themselves about the men who frequent them, the older men in particular. They tell stories, they laugh, but they shudder, too, as one shudders at a cockroach in a washbasin in the middle of the night. Soon, daintily, maliciously, he will be shuddered over. It is a fate he cannot escape.”
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Sunday, June 5, 2011
There’s no right
way to buy a hotel room. I have so few times. Standing at the glass, waiting for the girl to give me a key, I pulled all the cards out of my wallet. Crossed and uncrossed my ankles, wondered if that had gone noticed.
When I finally got inside, found the wall next to the door, put my back on it and presented myself as I could, as someone, a person who was there, and the room — not that I had ever seen it, but the idea of it, we’d created that — I was no less possessed than I had been at the station, on the steps, in the hall: the right way to be here, some best way to give over what I understand to be myself. I don’t know what that is, only what it isn’t — and so everything that it isn’t felt all spread out around me, this knowable absence that brought a little relief to the unknown of perfection.
The only time I got out of bed I wandered into the bathroom, like I knew him enough for that. Why not start. The window had been left open to the alley between corridors, and I stuck my arm out there into the heat. The shock against my skin, the instant sweat and haze, should have reminded me: that we’d exchanged more letters than sex, that my body is newer than anything I could have said.
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There are roughly
three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter — the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. Of these three trembling cities the greatest is the last — the city of final destination, the city that is a goal. It is the third city that accounts for New York’s high-strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion.
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Saturday, June 4, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
The overall moral
of the story is this. Even with him, even with this guy, who totally blindsided me with his ability to read me despite the fact that he barely knew me: even with him, I had to be able to talk directly about what I wanted. Our connection was established because I was able to say, “Okay, that bite was a tad gentle, here’s how I really like it, and here’s what not to do with your teeth on me.” All my most extraordinary sexual connections have benefited from everyone involved taking ownership of their desire, and talking about it directly at least a little bit.
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Wednesday, June 1, 2011
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