Photo Essay: Mayhem by the Bay

Wetting Myself

Welcome back to all those that have witnessed my long elapse into NYC.

If you've been to visit you'll understand just how easy it is to get lost in the corners of the city.

Normally I would offer up some kind of bullet-pointed synopsis, but honestly too much has happened to even bother. I'll just attempt to begin again from here, and more specifically begin with the story that made me want to return.

Speaking of returning - segue here - Lior the Israeli roommate and I were returning yesterday from a golden weekend in upsate NY traversing the Adirondacks which I thought until last Friday was a social disease. Turns out, it's a bunch of mountains. Quite beautiful really.

Returning to NYC was a feat not only in the excessive and persistent tolls for each damn bridge and toll road, but the unceasing traffic as we entered the area. Having been in the car for several hours and not taking traffic into much consideration I imbibed in much liquid - water, Lipton tea, vitamin water (multivitamin flavor) - and as you might expect, found myself doing the pee-pee dance in the front seat stuck in traffic.

After fifteen minutes, realizing there would be no relief for some time I made the argument there was no need to be shy, so I examined our array of empty bottles. Turns out the opening of vitamin water bottles are rather large. Not that my dick really requires such a large opening, but it made my prospects much simpler.

With little time to spare I whipped out my penis and stuffed it into the bottle. You'd be amazed how quickly one of those things can fill up. You'd also be amazed and the strange positions I had to contort into to try not to spill and yet avoid neighboring cars realizing what I was doing.

As the bottle approached spilling over I luckily began finishing. By inserted my flaccid penis into the bottle, however, I didn't realizing just how much I had been pinching it. When I let go to put my dick back in my pants it took off like a water-willy sprinkler and sprayed much of me and the inside of the car around me. As quickly as I could I grasped for my dick and squeezed it closed until I could get the vitamin water bottle back around it.

When I finally returned home I made quick to change my pants , but not before setting the bottle of vitamin water, still an inviting color (but now warm) on a ledge within arms length of the many kids in the neighborhood.

The Tao of Slut

I had my first official NYC date on Friday night. My first, because I've decided not to count the actual first one, which some might recall from Blood Alohol Levels, since it really turned out rather uneventful (to strongly euphemise).

Then again, this one wasn't cataclysmic either. Standard, couple beers at a couple East Village bars; location of a couch in a dark corner of the second one; extensive discussion of 1980s obscure song classics; leaning in to laugh; leaning a little too far in , and subtly brushing my nose tenderly across his cheek; pulling away slowly and smiling mischeviously; a kiss; a wandering hand; four wandering hands; a quick walk back to his apartment; a chocolate croissant on Avenue A for breakfast with an iced latte.

It was a pleasant night, undeniably, but one worth repeating?

Perhaps its the primacy of everything in NYC. Perhaps its the proliferation of options among men. Perhaps its the endless possibilities of things to do. Somehow though, I've found myself, for once in a long time, not wanting anything from anyone - well, except for, well you know: money (or good seats to Wicked).

In SF I spent so long bordering along ennui, trying to play off discontent, looking for something to replace, trying hard to date; and for the first time in a long time, probably since Europe or lasting through the one month after I returned, do I again feel happier without anyone.

I love the chase again, the look across a sweating room or a crowded subway car, a nervous approach and flirtation, the capture and kill. When it comes to dating, however, when I find the possibility of staying in, cooking food or laying on a couch and watching any movie starring a woman over 50 or men who don't take their shirts off, I'm over it.

Maybe I'm just waiting my moment of lust to love, as those 80s deities, the Go-Gos would say. Maybe I'm in that other place and time, where I'll do it all for thrills.

Love me and I'll leave you...I told you at the start...

In fact, the Go-Gos are what currently keeps me at least somewhat interested in Fire Island Man. In an evening otherwise ephemeral and insignificant there was a moment, I just remembered tonight, as we spoke of 80s songs, and I mentioned a favorite: Beneath the Blue Sky, an obscure track buried on the Talk Show album, a classic.

He concurred, I recalled, my heart fluttering for a moment (but maybe that was my libido stretching). I was aroused again, and thought I must call him (at least to use his TV to watch the Lost premiere tonight).

Maybe I don't give men a chance. Is it a fear of being hurt? Am I really this unattached or is it much easier for me not to care because I don't know very many people here yet?

Another date wouldn't hurt - actually, from experience, it most certainly could.

Like the time I went on a date with the guy that lived at sex club (yes lived, he was in charge of mopping - no joke).

And as always, I can simply say I cut my foot earlier and my shoe was filling with blood.

It's determined. I'll call him.

Tomorrow though. I'm tired right now. I'd be boring on the phone if I called him now.

Tomorrow though. Maybe.