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Do U Wnt 2 Be My Boifriend

28 Sep

Life in Manhattan is like living inside a gigantic Twitter stream.

Susan Orlean

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?” I texted this message into the digital ether like a drowning man reaches for a wayward lifeline.

Two men had descended on Stoner G and I, “The ghost of pussy past, and the ghost of pussy future,” I told Stoner G in a cynical tone.  The ghost of pussy past had curly hair and was wholly unremarkable, the ghost of pussy future was from Canada and had recently started chatting me up.  He had two buttons undone exposing some chest flesh, he had a swagger of a smile and said things in my ear like “let’s move, I just farted.”

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Meanhood Rogues Gallery: The Phantom (or 1 Day of Summer)

29 Jul

He was the Phantom. He towered over me several inches above the top of my head as most people I am attracted to have a tendency of doing. He had an athletic frame with a vulnerable and nerdy head. We sipped our drinks and our knees touched and then my hand touched his back as he told me about his job in the music industry, about the place he owned in the Bronx, and about his extensive education in music theory and then business.  I told him I loved David Bowie and he said I should go to his place to compare playlists.  I said I would love to and we should do it now.


The Phantom purchased a large bottle of wine, “any leftovers can be finished later,” he said. A man after my own heart.  I was in the Bronx in an apartment decorated with angular portraits, tables, and drapery color-coordinated with bed sheets.  “It’s too hot in the living room,” he sighed breathlessly from our make out session, “the bedroom is better air-conditioned.”  When we drink we fast forward in time and seem to pause and play for all the interesting bits; in this case it was a shower of  compliments, “you’re so cute/handsome/sexy.”

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That Guy From The Wire/Generation Kill/Ken Park

16 Jul

I was at our local Mediterranean eatery in Brooklyn when I saw him.  He was of average height and thin build with stringy black hair some of which dangled in front of his eye.  Our eyes met and I felt a spark and a feeling of recognition as shame.  I realized I was looking into the eyes of a celebrity, one I had a crush on but whose name escapes me.  You see he’s neither A-list or B-list in terms of popularity, but he has starred in several avant garde artistic endeavors as well as the Wire, the critically acclaimed HBO tv show, and one of my favorite programs of all time.

“Who was he?” my friend asked.

“He’s this guy who is pure sex.  I mean he has two legs and the rest is just sex.  He’s in Ken Park and there’s a scene in the movie where he uses a cord to strangle himself while he jerks off and he cums all over himself, and I hear it was not a prosthetic and that it was all real when they filmed it.”

“Remind me to put that on my netflix queue.”

“I tried to and they don’t have the disc!”

As we walked down Grand street on a sizzle summer day I saw him wearing a tank top with tattoos visible along his chest and arm.  We locked eyes again and the force of his stare caused me to pinch my friend who had the misfortune of being the closest thing to me that was pinchable.  As he passed us I let out a subtle “yeeeeeeeeeeh.”

“OW!” My friend recoiled as he rubbed his arm.  “What was that for.”

“It was him.  That guy, it was him again.”

“Who?”

“Did you ever watch the Wire? He played Ziggy.  There’s a scene where he pulls his dick out to show off to a bar full of guys, but it was a prosthetic.  He was also in Ken Park where he…” and as I looked onto my friends face I was greeted by a blank poker face.

“Argh no one knows who he is except me!  I’m a huge fan of his and he’s just pure….sex!”

Manhattan is 95 degrees but the subway tunnels are in the high 100’s.  A mass of bodies is tangle near the Brooklyn bound side of the L train platform waiting for a long-delayed train.  As I struggle to make my way through the crowd to take an alternate train home I see him.  He is wearing a sensible shirt and shorts with short hair.  He is covered in sweat and so am I, and then we lock eyes for a nanosecond as we brush by each other.

Generation Kill.

James Ransone.  Damn.

No words were exchanged, just penetrative looks.

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