The Search for Love in Manhattan A gay odyssey of neurosis
Saturday, July 27, 2002
I went out with E.Y. last night. It was magical. We picked up as if eleven days instead of eleven years had passed. We laughed, we talked, we gossiped about mutual acquaintances.
Then we went back to his hotel and had utterly mediocre sex.
For form's sake, I stayed the night, but I guess I'm not moving to Australia at the end of the week.
Plus, today's porn shoot was cancelled, so I had no way of getting rid of the, um, taste of the mediocre sex. Luckily I was able to get T.H. to come over at a moment's notice, which took care of that problem very nicely.
At least I hadn't been dreaming of a beautiful reunion that would make us both realize that we were soul mates and meant to be together forever, spending half of each year in Sydney and half in New York, a true international, indeed intercontinental, couple, secure in our glamor and our love for each other.
I am terrified that I'm going to have a heart attack this weekend. Not only will it be the first weekend since I met T.H. that he and E.S. and I will all be in town at the same time, which will require enough juggling as it is, but my ex-boyfriend E.Y., whom I haven't even seen for nine years, much less dated, has e-mailed me out of the blue that he and his partner broke up last month and he's coming to New York on Friday and is dying to see me.
I figure I'll be okay as long as I can keep from screaming out the wrong name during sex.
With any luck, I will fall madly, passionately, and irrevocably in love with E.Y. again, just in time for him to go back to Australia at the end of the week and leave me heartbroken and desolate.
This is just horrible. I realize that, of late, I haven't had much material to work with in my blog. I think this is because I'm actually gainfully employed for the moment rather than just half-heartedly employed, and I am shocked at how much time it takes to be a harlot. Over the weekend I was so exhausted that I did absolutely nothing worth writing about. I didn't have sex once. (Well, that's not true, but it was with E.S., and that's hardly news by now, is it?) On Saturday night, I stayed home and rolled coins.
So every time I think about blogging, I am torn between two paralyzing thoughts: what if I blog about something boring and the people who read this find it boring and grow to hate me? And what if I don't blog and the people who read this feel betrayed and grow to hate me? What if I do everything right and still my soul mate and I never meet each other and I live the rest of my life friendless and alone?
Clearly I should have stuck to the orgies. They didn't leave so much room for self-reflection; plus, they were more fun than my job.
It's just as well, I suppose, because I've gained two pounds (well, 1.6 to be exact) and am obviously on my way to becoming a monstrous blob again. Since my worthiness of love is naturally inversely proportionate to my weight, I predict that soon I will abandon the search for love and just sit around all day eating almond M&Ms.
Over the weekend, E.S. sent me an e-mail that started out, "If you are not sitting down right now I think you should because we need to talk, or at least I do." It went downhill from there. He was confused, he wanted to know what we were to each other, thought we were boyfriends but wasn't sure, knew I was sleeping with other people and was upset about it, etc., etc.
I should have known this was too good to last.
I briefly considered denying sleeping around, but the fact that the tip-off was the bite marks on my ass after the orgy made this an impracticable course of action. The Delaware lesbians offered stopgap therapy, but it was obvious that sooner or later E.S. and I would have to have this out. I spent the rest of the weekend in terror of that moment.
It came last night, and it couldn't have been more beautiful. We agreed to stay as we have been in terms of commitment and exclusivity, seeing each other a little more often, and not trying to put a name to whatever our relationship is.
Then we went back to his place and had great sex.
I'm trying to find a less healthy lesson in all of this than that my actions have consequences but that I will be able to deal with those consequences in a mature way without messing up my life or anybody else's, but I'm not having much luck.
There is no way I could ever be a lesbian. Apparently the lesbian rules forbid having a scale in your house. I have not been able to check my weight--much less my body fat--obsessively since Thursday morning.
What good is an emotionally self-destructive habit if it doesn't travel well?
Something strange happened to my blog. Somehow (I suspect the Illuminati or perhaps the Elders of Zion) the entries for July 11 and July 13 were concatenated into one mega-entry which, while perhaps intriguing from a phenomenological point of view, nevertheless disrupted any semblance of narrative flow.
Plus, it cut off the "add a comment" section for July 13, and since I'm only doing this in an attempt to make everybody love me, I found the lost opportunity for validation completely unacceptable.
I have therefore edited the entry for July 11 so that the photographs of the hat are links rather than inserts. This seems to have fixed the problem. (I hope those of you who liked it better the old way will forgive me.) So if you've been baffled by my blog for the last few days, just go back to July 11 and read to the present. All will be made clear.
I am in Delaware for the weekend, at an artists' retreat, being hosted by these two lesbians named Y. and H. Y. is 60 and large and round; H. is 56 and small and thin. They have three little dogs and they run a photo gallery full of beautiful, beautiful photos of (at the moment) naked gymnasts. They have been together for ten years (the lesbians, not the gymnasts) and when I arrived, they said, "The only two rules are, one, don't let the dogs out, and two, no matter what you do, don't look out the window between 7 and 8 in the morning, because that's when we go skinny dipping in the pool."
Sometimes I think it would be so much better to be a lesbian.
But then I remember that I wouldn't be able to be a whorish slut fag and then I feel okay being just the way I am.
Apparently, by the way, not all of my scruples have disappeared. I've been flirting with this gorgeous actor all day; we've been talking about going swimming together but clearly meaning something else. I just realized, however, that I am simply incapable of having sex with somebody in a home where I am an unfamiliar guest. I just can't do that to my hosts.
You can take the boy out of the south. . . .
And the actor is staying at a motel, and that's just too gross.
I thought I could become a totally unprincipled harlot, but I guess that dream has been crushed.
Last night I went to my first sex club. The differences between a sex club and an orgy are as follows:
1) at a sex club, you don't introduce yourself to someone before you put parts of his body in your mouth; and
2) the snacks available for when you're taking a break are far less high-class--individually wrapped pieces of candy rather than cheese and crackers and cold cuts. Though of course I would be terrified of any cheese, crackers, or cold cuts offered to me at a sex club. So it's probably just as well.
To my delight, I was perceived to be one of the cool people almost as soon as I arrived, and lots of guys wanted to play with me. Unfortunately, I was, um, saddled with somebody who didn't want to share. Now, it's awkward enough as it is to tell an adult, "All right, you've played with the toy enough, now let others have a turn." When you are the toy in question, however, eager for others to have a turn, the situation becomes even more difficult.
And he wanted to spoon and cuddle with me afterwards.
What I thought: "Are you CRAZY? This is a SEX CLUB. Do you think we're on a DATE? What PLANET are you from?"
What I said: "Oh, okay, sure, whatever you want."
Clearly I need to work on this expressing my needs thing.
This morning, a contractor came to my new apartment to give us an estimate on some work we want done ("we" being my brother and I, who are now roommates). E.S. was over, having spent the night. As soon as the contractor, wily woman that she was, figured out that his relationship to me was not entirely Platonic, she started directing her questions to him, especially since I was clearly a design idiot.
CONTRACTOR to FAUSTUS: "What color are you thinking for the bedroom?"
FAUSTUS: "Um, I don't really know."
CONTRACTOR to E.S.: "What do you think? Do you have a favorite color?"
I wanted to seize her by the neck and strangle the life out of her, screaming all the while, "HE IS NOT MY BOYFRIEND HE IS NOT MY BOYFRIEND HE IS NOT MY BOYFRIEND!!!"
Instead, I just smiled broadly at her and decided ice cubes would have a fun vacation in hell before I gave her company the job.
T.H. left for Cleveland this afternoon to visit his family for the Fourth of July. We had breakfast in Times Square and then went to the Marriott Marquis so we could make out in the elevators. The way up was great but on the way down we were thwarted at every turn by children and old people.
I am very scared by how much I like him.
Then I went to Bed, Bath, & Beyond to get a scale that measures not just my weight but also my body fat. Because of course I'm not nearly obsessive enough about my body image.
I have decided to get a tattoo. I have long been considering it, but what tipped the balance is that T.H. has a really sexy tattoo (of an Aquarius sign) on his pelvis just above his crotch.
The trick, so to speak, is to come up with the right tattoo. I suppose I could get a Capricorn sign, but that looks too much like the delete mark in proofreading for comfort. What if somebody who was fooling around down there thought I wanted to delete him? Or thought I had deleted somebody else?
My friend B.N. suggested just "This Way" with an arrow pointing down, or perhaps "Objects in crotch are larger than they appear."
Really, though, I like T.H.'s suggestion, which was "Deliveries in rear."
I have been avoiding telling the story of my entry into porn simply because it's so boring. But since certain people evidently won't be satisfied until I've, um, spilled everything, here goes.
In surfing the web, I came across this web site for a company that makes amateur porn videos. I e-mailed the proprietor with a picture and vital statistics. He e-mailed me back and we set up an audition at which he would film me naked and jerking off.
I went to meet him in Brooklyn. (I know, I know, this is the search for love in Manhattan, but cut me a little slack.) I filled out some paperwork saying I am over eighteen, etc., etc., and listing what I like to do in bed and what I won't do. Then I took my clothes off and he started filming me naked and jerking off. This didn't last very long, as you might imagine, as shortly after I'd started jerking off he took his pants off and we had sex (with the camera off--perhaps he's shy).
Evidently I gave a good audition, because the last part of the afternoon involved selecting a porn name. I had no idea that I would get to do this, and I can't tell you how fabulously exciting it was. It was so exciting, in fact, that I'm going to break the convention I've set up on this blog and tell you the actual name: [redacted].
Good heavens. I feel like I've just been glimpsed in my lingerie or something.
Now, here is a mind-numbingly dull question for the more computer-savvy among you. I have been tracking hits to this blog on geocounter.net. A few days ago, when Time Warner Cable disconnected my service because of the move, geocounter stopped registering any hits. I assume this has something to do with the fact that I am now connecting through a dial-up AOL connection. I have two questions: first, is there a way to get geocounter to register hits that come between now and the time my service is reconnected, on July 10? And second, assuming I'm assigned a different static IP when my service is reconnected, is there a way to tell my geocounter account to keep track of that IP? (If the mere fact that I am asking these questions demonstrates my complete idiocy, I hope you will forgive me.) I of course am freaking out because I had gotten up to 807 unique IPs having visited my blog, and I was very excited at the thought of reaching 1,000--and now that number has presumably passed, and I missed it.
What am I going to do without being able to assure myself every day that people love me, and measure exactly how much, and be miserable and despondent if they fall short of the goals I set for them without telling them?
When I was six, I picketed my house, hoping to be allowed to eat breakfast before getting dressed rather than after.
I marched back and forth in front of our front door, carrying a sign that said "BREKFAST FIRST DRESSED LATER."
My parents, being civil rights workers, didn't cross picket lines, and that was the only way into or out of our house,
so they were trapped there until they acceded to my demand.