In New York for a student journalism conference with four straight guys and one very petulant freshman girl who does things like storm out of an Indian restaurant in Curry Hill when we all give her shit for saying that David Bowie sucks. Not that she doesn’t like him, but that he sucks. We go to, like, one, seminar on freelance writing with some cantankerous middle-aged broad who makes it seem like the most horrendous lifestyle choice you could ever make, and the rest of our time is spent seeing sights and going to bars. We go to this party for the premier of an indie trannyfag porno at Babeland and hang out with Tristan Taormino. We go to the Met. We go to the MoMa. We go shopping.
Archive for January, 2010
In New Orleans for Spring Break. A smoky gay bar. Fog machine’s on full blast. Hate that. Big black room with lots of fog, just looks dirty to me. Christian and I have spent most of the night at Bourbon Street’s other gay bar, across the street. It’s after 3 a.m.—maybe after 5 a.m., it’s hard to tell, the bars serve all night. This bar’s emptying out though. Which accounts for the smoke machine. We wandered in here, not ready to go back to the hotel yet. On vacation, still looking for trouble. More trouble.
Here’s the thing about Christian: I was pretty much in love with him—horribly, obsessively, unrequitedly in love with him in the way that you tend to be when you’re 21—for a solid eight months. But we didn’t fuck until I was so over him the very sight of him made me sick.
