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.
The guys agree to hit up a gay bar with me, but first we pop into literally every Irish pub between the loft we’re staying in on 24th and Park and Chelsea. I can’t quite wrap my head around why the guys want to go to five bars that are exactly alike. But it’s whatever. We’re nice and liquored up by the time we get to the gay bar we’ve chosen. Barracuda. New York Magazine’s website says it’s chill, not too cruisy. Years later I’ll discover what a lie this is, but tonight it sounds perfect. We order drinks, plant ourselves at a table in the back. The guys, who are all generally very liberal, progressive types, start complaining almost immediately. I can’t really blame them. They stick out, beards and bellies in Chelsea before art bears made that look trendy. And this bar isn’t really that much fun, honestly.
Somehow I end up talking to this guy—another Tom—and his friends. We talk until my guys want to leave and I tell them I’m gonna stay and Tom buys me another drink. And then his friends leave and he sticks around, says he’ll make sure I find my way back to the loft, which is good because I’m drunk and have no idea where I am. We stumble past Madison Square Park and we make out at the door to the loft. I invite him up even though we’re not allowed to have guests.
He’s sitting on the sofa, naked in front of these huge windows over-looking 24th Street. His cock is huge, beautifully proportional in the way that tall guys’ cock usually are. I straddle him, and it hurts, but I manage, and we’re both sweating, just feet away from the room where the couple who runs the loft are sleeping. He comes and then we shower, his broad naked body kind of amazing to me, a mountain I want to climb again. I make him leave, a little worried about getting caught, but no one wakes up. I don’t remember going to bed.
The next evening, we’re sitting around the loft and the guys have no idea I brought Tom here. So I tell them, bragging, thinking they’ll high-five me for being the only one of us to get laid on the trip. But they’re pissed because they say I could have gotten us all in trouble with the couple that runs the loft, which is really annoying. I decide that if it had been one of them that got laid, if one of the straight guys had brought a girl back and banged her in the shower there would definitely have been high-fives.
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