Becoming a Pain in the Glass

Thursday night, I attended an "A-List" event hosted by the Prada store in SOHO. Red carpets, limos, papparazzi, and an unavoidable open bar. But the problem for me is that I can be painfully shy at times. Especially in situations like this. I just don't feel as if I belong at a Prada party. Hell, I wouldn't know the difference between Prada and Sears designs. But my friend is a buyer, so I agreed to go. We walked in to what can only be described as "see and be seen". Donatella Versace was walking through the store with a group of 10 people following her every move. These "cling-on's" all were dressed alike in mostly black, wearing sunglasses even though it was night outside (Do I hear Cory Heart singing?). The one thing that threw me off...models everywhere. Seriously, this crowd could share one cup of fat between them all. Buff gods graced the stairways and hallways. Hell, models were hired to be the service staff, and the "Mr. Fabio Wannabe" handed my friend and I each a glass of champagne.

Funny thing about champagne and me...we don't usually mix...especially if I haven't eaten, as was the case this evening. Only one thing could make drinking that much worse, and it would be my wanting to hit on the bartender. The fine, 6'1", dark haired, brown eyed god, with the chiseled jaw and based on the fit of his shirt, washboard abs bartender. I gulped my champagne, and walked up to this bartender and asked for another, flashing a smile the whole time. I make a quick conversation of asking what brand of champagne I'm drinking, then make my way away with a full glass.

My friend, who is about 1/2 way through his first glass, already could see what I was up to. At least he could after I traded glasses with him and gulped the rest of his down so I could go back to the bar. The bartender cracked a joke at how fast I must have finished that last glass, and I laughed hysterically, while touching his arm. (hello bicep!) ***giggle***

Flirting mode had been turned on. My friend sparked up a conversation with a few other people who were fashion designers. Each had glasses of champagne and most of their glasses were empty. I grabbed the first empty glass I saw, and took it back to the bar to get refilled. I continued to do this, one glass at a time until the group of designers figured out what I was doing. And this is why things got hazy that night. The designers decided to have a little fun. Each would finish about 1/2 the glass of champagne and hand it to me, informing me to empty the glass and take it up to the bar.

With lust in my eyes, I gulped 1/2 glasses of champagne just to have a reason to talk to Scott, or as I preferred to call him in my bubbly haze..."Star Trek Scotty". (oh my god...I'm such a geek). I asked the man if he had been to the Star Trek Experience in Las Vegas (my pants just got shorter) and if he watched Deep Space Nine (pocket protector appeared in my shirt pocket). He laughed...which is not the thing to do around a comedian. Laugh around a comedian and you only encourage him. What I said next...well I'm almost too ashamed to admit it.

It's a bit fuzzy...but I said something about how how I'd like to "breech his warp core".

***looks down in shame***

Champagne makes me say stupid things while trying to flirt. My friend actually turned red for me (mainly because my face was already red), and pulled me away from the bar. Not before I grabbed another glass of champagne.

Oddly enough...I got his number...or a fake one. I'm a little embarrassed to call it.

Going to Hell in Hell's Kitchen

It's time to tell the truth here. You may not want to know this, but size matters. Especially when it comes to the 27 ounce margarita. Mainly because once you consume a quart of cocktail, the tongue does become quite liberal.

On Saturday, I went to dinner with friends at a restaurant where the food is hot but the waiters are even hotter. I swear this place only hires models, but this particular restaurant is also a prime spot for cruising the hot men of Hell's Kitchen. And we three gay men were doing our share. To the point where the mother of a teenager was laughing at us (but I caught her looking as well). The thing is, in NYC, it's nearly impossible to have a private conversation in a restaurant. The tables are too close together. Of course, after one drink, our conversation was loud enough that customers in the next restaurant could overhear our conversation, but that isn't the point.

Over our usual catching up, I told them about the party I had attended on the Spamalot stage last week. In addition, I'm attending a party hosted by Prada this week, and as I was saying all of this, I felt the strangest thing..."Did I just become an A-Lister?" Hardly! I'm not living the glamorous life, and in reality, most of my time is spent very ordinary. I don't even own any designer clothing. Yet.

Before I could continue to contemplate this newest revelation, our conversation turned and we began discussing Sex in the City, and specifically which characters we were most like. Twice before I've been labeled the Samantha of the group. However I don't normally see myself as a overly confident person, with an incredible sense of style, who gets what he wants. So what is it that people see in me that makes them think I'm a bit of a Samantha, and what exactly about my image would I need to change so that people would think differently about me?

Oh yeah...

You can call me Sam.

Why?

I've said it before, but dating is like casting for the leading man. Somehow, I've been holding open auditions, and the casting pool is looking a little shallow.

My friends are the first to agree that getting a date with me is fairly easy. It's getting the coveted second date that is difficult. Mostly because I'm just picky. It usually only takes a conversation over dinner to let me decide.

Last night was a second date. The first date with this guy went pretty well with only one snafu, albeit a big one. My gut instinct said let him go, but I took the chance and tried a second date. A party, being held at the theater he works at. The party was nice, but the conversation brought up the warning signs.

"When we met on the dance floor...I just thought we connected. The way the lights kept focusing on us."

***Me thinking: The lights were focusing on us?***

"What's your profile name on Manhunt?"

***What kind of slut does he think I am? Who am I kidding? Of course I have a profile! But still...***

"Before I could move in here with you, I'd have to insist we paint the walls, maybe one wall being red?"

*** Red would look nice...wait...Did he just say move in?***

"Remember when I said I had a roommate? Well..."

***A live in sugar daddy? Sigh***

So I find myself asking the question this morning. He's not a good choice. He's got issues...Seriously big ones...but Why does he have to be so good in bed?

I'll Confirm It

When I'm working on standup routines or even when writing this blog, I find that I do my best work when I'm writing what my mind is focusing on.

Lately though, I've not been able to write what is on my mind, because doing so would divulge information that needs to be kept private, or arguments that don't need to happen, or things that are seriously plaguing my once again sleepless nights. We all have those things that we don't talk about, things that we lock away into a dark corner of our minds, behind steel doors, with a key we can only open when we are alone. But at times (like now for me), that dark space is full, and the steel doors are starting to bulge, so it makes it difficult to think of anything else.

Realizing I needed to get my mind focused on something else, I agreed to a dinner last night with friends. The three of us were talking about numerous topics, when the topic of our first gay crushes came up (ok...I brought it up).

I never realized just how much I would do for a man, until I thought about one of my first crushes. I was 12 years old, and my neighbor had cable television, and a whole new world of potential nudity was opened up to me. At that point in my life, an image of Christopher Atkins in his small cover-up from the Blue Lagoon would have sent me into the bathroom for at least 20 minutes.

But I became a worshipper of a character from a British 70's science fiction show that aired on Nickelodeon. The character of "Steven" had me short of breath, and I fantasized about moving off of my mother's commune and attending the all boy's school with him in near Manchester. We were going to take fencing lessons together (because he looked hot in all white) and would live happily ever after on my paper boy's salary.

Of course at this age, young Catholics are preparing for the next rite of passage, the Confirmation. Now I'm not going to even explain what confirmation is (mainly because I don't even know anymore), but since I was required to go to a Catholic school that crammed religion down your throat, I was about to be "Confirmed".

The only thing I remember about the whole bru-ha-ha was that each Catholic about to be confirmed had to pick the name of a saint that he or she would take as their own. Not a big deal as the Catholic faith has about as many saints as the population of China. I choose Saint Steven, as I was in "love". Now I knew that the spelling was incorrect, but I still wanted the name.

Throughout the year, I was required to write reports on Saint Steven, but in my spare time, I would write the same reports on my Stephen. During the Spring, the entire class was called before the Bishop, where we would be given our new name. Before the ceremony, I erased the card that had the spelling of "Steven" and changed it to "Stephen". Under the assumption of a clerical error, I would be confirmed with the name of my personal saint.

I choose a cousin of mine to be my sponsor. He walked me down the aisle, and in front of my family I swore to take the name of Stephen as my new name. Proudly walking out of the church, I thought of how honored my love would be...if he only knew.

Now as an adult, thinking about this for the first time, I just realized something.

Walked down the aisle.
Took someone else's name.
In front of my family.

Holy fuck...Did I actually marry a television show character?

My Bumps, My Bumps

I try to be a law abiding citizen. Granted, in my teen years I was a bit rebellious, drinking underage, consuming mass quantities of marijuana and LSD, but as an adult...I've become a "goodie-goodie". I never drive more than 4 miles over the speed limit, and don't get me started on underage drinkers now. I may be a bit hypocritical, but I prefer to say I changed my ways.

Last night, I was at the restaurant bartending for what seemed like an eternal hell. Two of my three total customers came in at 5pm and began drinking a vineyard of wine. After the second bottle each, both women became my "instant best friends". I hate when customers get like this, but it comes with the job. The problem serving wine is that you can't water it down, only pour smaller amounts.

The women started the typical bartender banter "slur...slur...bwa haa haa..." when then one lady asked if I knew where she could "geffahump". I asked her to clarify and made out that she was asking me where she could get humped. Unfortunately, besides prison, I have no clue where else straight women can go to get laid. I told her that I didn't really know.

As the clock ticked to nearly 11:00, the women finally paid their $130 bill, and determined that they needed to tip me by handing me the money. The woman handed me 40 in cash, and I thanked her. The second woman called me over and handed me another bill, folded tightly up and said "here's something special for you". I looked into my handed and saw the tightly folded $1 dollar bill, smiled and said politely thank you as she headed out the door. I tossed the bill into my nearly empty tip jar.

At the end of the night, two police officers from our local precinct stopped by to say hello and have a glass of water. This happens often in the hot weather, and I was talking to them as I was taking the tips out of the jar. Unfolding the money as we were talking, the one cop suddenly looked at me very angry.

"Are you kidding me? Do you really think you should be doing that in front of me?" he barked.
I looked down to see what he was looking at, and saw that in the tightly folded $1 dollar bill, the woman had left me a present of quite a bit of cocaine. Apparently the woman was not "looking for a hump" but rather offering me a "bump".

It took a long lecture from the cop, a lot of explaining and stammering on my part, my offering to give the cops the drugs or flush them (their choice) and my innocent looking face to convince the cop to not arrest me on the spot.



Why does this crap happen to me?

Don't You do It?

There are two things that all gay men do.

First, all gay men trick. If you know of a gay man who says he hasn't ever had a one night stand, he's either lying, newly out, or under the age of 12. All gay men trick. However, we only have one rule. Never fully admit it.

Last week I went out with the boss, his boyfriend, and a few other friends for a few post work drinks. We went to a bar called the Townhouse.

Now the Townhouse is a very different bar. In this bar, the majority of the patrons are at least 20 years my senior (minimum). Someone, and I can't remember who it was called it "the morgue", but what I found interesting is that the place is decorated like a funeral parlor. With carpeted floors, tasteful beige walls, and floral arrangements on tables in front of mirrors, it seems as if the men are preparing for the final bar they will attend. The whole place is like God's waiting room.

I go there for two reasons. You can't beat the self esteem boost of being one of the youngest men in the bar, having drinks bought for you, and well...the drinks are really strong. Thus why I've fallen asleep on trains after having left this particular establishment.

But what does this have to do with tricking? Well, you see, back in February, I happened to meet someone in that bar. While at the Townhouse, a younger guy with a southern accent began to talk to me. He introduced himself and his first name slightly clicked, but when he told me his last name...I remembered who he was.

"You don't remember me do you?" I asked.
"No." he answered.
"You left your business card at my place."
"Upper West Side? Loft apartment?"
"Now you remember."

While this man and I were getting reacquainted, my boss' boyfriend checked to see who I was talking to. He commented that we seemed to get along well, like we knew each other before. I would have let the comment go, but the person I was talking to made the mistake. With his liquor influenced tongue, he explained our prior meeting experience.

As I said before, there are two things all gay men do. The first being that we all trick, but never discuss it. The second?

Gay men will always share the dirt they have on their friends. Especially something like this.

I left for the bathroom out of embarrassment and when I returned, all of the people I knew in the bar were all staring at me and smiling. They all knew. I officially claimed the title of "Slut of the day" and would wear that title until one of the others takes the title away from me (nearly impossible since they are all in relationships).

I secretly began plotting revenge against the boyfriend of my boss, including the posting of his picture on this website. It's amazing what you can do with photoshop. But as my boss' boyfriend was leaving the bar, he went up to the man I had spent the night with and said this:

"It was good meeting you, and you have a good night. Oh and one more thing. If you hurt him (and he points at me), I will break your face."

***Sniff***

I'll take the slut title. All is forgiven...for now.

Burning Like Acid

Have you ever noticed that you can rarely find people who like to lift weights and do cardio exercise. The people who love to lift weights have fairly large muscles, yet when they try to run a mile in under 8 minutes, they look like they are going to collapse. The opposite is the cardio athlete, who would rather stick rusty nails into his or her eyes than lift three sets of weights. I'm of that school. I hate weight lifting, and since I was training for the race in June, I skipped lifting so I could build endurance and speed.

Since the road race is over, it's time to start focusing on lifting again, even if I hate it, and Monday started my journey into the weights area of the gym. I focused only on legs for that particular workout, and afterwards, felt only slightly sore. Nay, I actually felt good.

I wasn't sore at all that night or while in bed, but when I woke up in the morning and tried to move, I realized something had happened. Apparently, in the middle of the night, I had been taken to a hospital, had both my legs amputated, and I was now wearing prosthetics. Prosthetics I wasn't able to move.

I had to roll out of bed to get up, then slide down my stairs (my knees would not bend) and nearly drag myself into the shower in hopes that I could at least loosen up my muscles in the warm water. I don't know which had higher pressure flow: The water from my shower head, or the tears from my eyes as I stood in pain.

I then went to work, where I sat down for 8 hours. Sitting in an office job, with sore muscles is the worst experience you can possibly go through. You drink water, and suddenly regret it when you have to stand and walk to the bathroom. Thank God I use a disposable plastic cup.

I went home that night and walked into my pizza oven...I mean apartment, and took two Advil. An hour later, I still hadn't felt any relief, so I went back into my medicine cabinet. Now, when I moved from Cleveland, I figured I might need anything when I got here, so I packed my entire medicine cabinet. Thus, some things are a bit old. On the top shelf, behind the cold and flu relief, was a tube of Icy Hot tiger balm. The gods have blessed me, or so I thought.

During the 2003 softball season I had pulled a quad muscle. To help alleviate the pain, I would rub the Icy Hot on my leg before a game. The stuff had done wonders and I was usually able to play my weekly double header without any problem. The stuff was three years old.

I opened the tube and squeezed to get a generous portion into my hand, when the oddest thing happened. The cream poured out like liquid. Confused, I attributed the liquid to the fact that my bathroom had to be over 90 degrees (Brick walls and no air conditioner = Pizza oven). I rubbed the liquid into the skin on my legs, thighs, and buttocks, praying for even temporary relief.

Instead, searing pain ripped through my skin like someone had placed my body over an open flame. I could feel the "Hot" but where the fuck was the "Icy"? Tears were in my eyes again (and not because of the fumes). Something was wrong and I made the quick decision to jump in the shower and wash the chemical off of my skin. Unfortunately, Icy Hot is like LSD. Once your skin has absorbed it, you can only ride the stuff out.

Washing my skin only spread the chemical to other regions below the waistline. Something still seemed wrong, but there was nothing I could do, so I toweled off, climbed into bed naked and put the fan at the foot of my bed. There I lay, spread eagled, letting the wind of the fan blow on my skin in hopes that it could slightly cool my skin. Two hours later, I was finally comfortable enough to fall asleep.

I called the company using the telephone number printed on the tube. Did you know that Icy Hot has a shelf life?

I obviously need to go through my medicine cabinet more often.

How to Know You've Become a Real New Yorker.

Every other day, I go to Fairway Market and get my groceries for the next two days. I have a dorm sized fridge, so I am limited on how much food I can store. However, in order to save a bit of money, I've decided to make all my lunches this week. Call it claiming my independence from the restaurants near my job! Really though, I just miss making my own meals. My kitchen is this size of a postage stamp, and it's not going to grow, so I just need to start cooking in the small space.

Back to Fairway. I walked into the chaotic mess of a store around 4pm, which is when it is most busy. The fruit produce is kept outside on the sidewalk, so I had picked up my apples, and added some asparagus for my dinner that night. I grabbed a loaf of bread and had it sliced by the baker and made my way to the deli counter.

Going into the deli area of Fairway is like walking onto the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. People everywhere are pushing and shoving to get close to the counter, just to check on what is on sale for that week, as well as what is even left behind the glass case. Inside the counters, fresh made lasagna and stuffed peppers sits next to turkey breast and roast beef. One of the things I love about New York grocery stores is that a large portion of food is already prepared. New York is all about convenience.

I took my number from the dispenser and compared it to the number being shown. My number was number 84. The sign read.

Now serving
42

I settled myself near the prepared salads and waited patiently for what was going to be at least a 1/2 hour wait. I debated in that time if maybe bread sandwiches were better than ham and cheese, what would solve the Middle East Peace Crisis, and if Scientology is a religion I could pursue.

As they called out number 68, she came in. A short Mexican woman and her American friend. She pulled a number from the dispenser, and it read 01. She had well over 30 people in front of her, but she tried to be a little sly. She told the man behind the deli that she had a 01 and must have been skipped. He corrected her and said that after 99, the numbers started at 01 again. She and her Mexican friend were not happy.

Behind the deli, the six workers franticly to fill all the orders in the 70's. I started to make my way forward and stood next to the American and Mexican friends, both who were having a perfect conversation in English complaining about the length of the line. As the deli clerk called out "81", The Mexican woman screamed out "81...That's us".

I try to be a good person in life. I'll think the best of anyone, and am willing to give anyone a second chance if they do wrong by me. But I'm also Irish, and I had been waiting for over 30 minutes, and I could blatantly see that her number was 01 and not 81, so I blame those reasons that my temper flared as it did. And with that I challenged her.

Excuse me. Your number clearly states 01, not 81, so please wait your turn.

The Mexican woman looked at me slack jawed in shock that I would have even challenged her, and then did the ultimate faux pas! She spoke in Spanish like she didn't understand me.

People who know me will eventually see the Irish temper in me (it's inevitable). It's not pretty and once it comes out, the best thing to do is let me rant, not speak a word, and wait for five minutes when the temper and anger will be gone. Never make eye contact with me in these moments, and NEVER push me.

Don't even pretend that you have no clue what it is I'm saying, as you've were speaking in English moments ago. For the last 30 minutes I have been standing here in this unaircondtioned hell hole, clearly near people who have no idea what deodorant is used for, while waiting patiently to order 1/2 lb of cheese and 1/2 lb of ham. I have seen people have their numbers called and not know what they wanted, or seen people ask for a sample of the 8 different hams for sale, to only pick turkey instead, and I have said NOTHING, as they have all earned that right as they waited for their turn. You on the other hand, feel that you are beyond waiting, and when you are called out on it, use your bilingual abilities to pretend you don't understand. Now I know it says "Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses" but nowhere does it say give us your impatient!

So I suggest you take a very large step back, and wait your turn, because if you don't I have no problem continuing this rant while you continue to shop in this store. Hell, I'm actually crazy enough to follow you home, just so I know exactly where I can bring the INS later when I report your sorry ass, because honestly...I have no life and all the free time I need to make your life hell!

I am paraphrasing slightly here, but this was the basic gist of it.

I inhaled deeply as she lowered her hand, and I began to look around me. The crowd was completely silent and I looked at the deli clerks (one who was cracking a nervous smile) and said nothing. People in the dairy section were on their toes, looking to see who had made the commotion. The smirking deli clerk inhaled deeply and said "82". A person answered and ordered their corned beef.

You know you've become a real New Yorker when you have no problem making a scene.

Who Wants to Be Friends?

Have you ever noticed the interaction of two dogs when they meet? The ears perk up, the tails go in the air, and they immediately smell each other's asses. It's their way of being friendly. Sort of like gay men.

Sitting in the park this weekend with two other mo's, our conversation turned to the same topic that all gay men's conversations turn to. Sex. Who's hot? Who's not? Who's gay? What have you done and with whom? It amazes me as to how much this topic can fascinate and how easily it is discussed, even among strangers. Hell, I've had people try to set me up by asking someone if they were a top or bottom.

But this Saturday, the conversation took a different turn. As a group, we decided to define exactly what sex constitutes and what it doesn't. I've thought about this before, but I've never voiced my opinion. The consensus definition?

Sex is when at least one of the participants has an orgasm.

A quicky blowjob on the dance floor, or when one guy does a little "sucky sucky" in the steam room is just a gay man's way of being friendly. The equivalent of two dogs smelling each other's butts.

Wow...I think I might have too many friends in New York City.

Oh Please, Mary!

A few weeks ago, while standing on the top of Rockefeller Center, I stated to Tunagirl that if I was to get married, it would be there that I would want to do it. The view of the entire city all around you, I could imagine the whole dining area lit by candles, and the whole affair being really intimate, as space would be limited to only 100 or so. Of course, this would mean finding a potential husband, and well seriously, not too many men could handle me.

Yet, the New York Supreme Court how now ruled that gay marriages can still be illegal in the state. I'm really not that surprised. What surprised me was a comment I heard today.

The whole gay marriage issue should be a non-issue, seeing that sexuality is something that should be kept in the bedroom.

***Sigh***

This came from an African American woman. At first I thought she was kidding, but realized with some horror that she is completely serious. After listening to her, I just wasn't sure how to go about it. And maybe that's when I felt hit the most. When your allies are siding with your enemies, you realize that you are the only one left fighting.

I honestly don't think I'll ever get married (not because I can't find someone) but because it's not going to be allowed in my lifetime. With so many religions condemning us, and those who blame GLBT people for the fall of morals in society, and our current conservative courts, I'll be lucky if I ever see a ring on my finger that the state recognizes. Hell...given my dating history, I'll be lucky if I see a ring at all (unless it's a cock ring).

Does it matter? Maybe not anymore. I've been labeled as "non-traditional" family", "sexual deviant", "Alternative Lifestyle", and even "sodomite" and I've just accepted it. Seeing how the traditional normal family is doing with marriage, maybe I don't want any part of it.

Getting The Message

Sometimes, I think that the god is trying to send me a message, and I can't always get it through my thick skull.

I started my weekend on Friday, going out with some friends. It had been a hard week of work for most of them, and they each sat together and washed away the week with their respective drink of choice. FARB and his other half, sat next to each other, both looking very snazzy in their work outfits, holding hands. It can be sweet seeing the two of them interact, touching each other's shoulders, and having those "in" jokes that only couples can have, such as "I can only spend my allowance tonight". I went home alone and to bed early to be ready for my Saturday run.

On Saturday, after running, I went furniture shopping for the sofa I covet. Sitting on the supple fabric, I saw a two men holding hands while purchasing a sofa of their own. As the shorter one handed over his credit card, the taller stood behind him and wrapped his arms around him.

Sunday, while walking along the piers, I saw a lesbian couple boarding a sailboat for a sightseeing tour. The one boarded the boat, and helped the other by holding a hand out for her. As the second lesbian was boarding the boat, the boat lurched and she fell into the arms of her partner. They both embraced and laughed while handing their tickets to the shipmate. A very sweet and touching image.

Monday, I decided to do a little shopping, and I stopped at a store offering a unique sale. You buy one clothing item, and if a friend buys the same style of clothing item, you both get 25% off. I saw several gay couples taking advantage of this, proceeding to the cashier to take their new purchases home. Probably laughing at how cute they are going to look wearing the same clothing.

And yesterday, I started my day by taking a subway to Battery Park. For some strange reason, they were shooting cannons off there, and I watched as two men were waiting in line to buy tickets for the ferry to Ellis Island. Each time the cannon went off, the two would jump, laugh, and quietly embrace. They finally got their tickets, climbed aboard the way crowded ferry, where the one sat on the other's lap.

I decided to check out a festival being held on Roosevelt Island. Approaching the gate, I saw the admission sign. 1 for $20, 2 for $30. It was a nice deal for those traveling in couples, and a very romantic spot to finish the day, watching the fireworks go off, while their hearts were setting off fireworks of their own.

I got home last night and while laying in bed (in the sweltering sauna of my apartment), I realized that God has been sending me a message and I've been too dense to realize it.

Farb and his partner buying drinks together.
A gay couple furniture shopping.
A lesbian couple going sailing.
Another gay couple taking the ferry to Ellis Island.
Discount tickets for couples to watch the fireworks.

The message is received.

I need to pay the Visa bill.