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Except Sundays

It was “culture” day. I spent the afternoon with G going to the museum in the hills. It became pretty beautiful after I decided that I was into the architecture. Does this happen to you? – when you don’t really know about something you just emotionalize your relationship to it. I do it all the time. Bereft of any actual knowledge about architecture, I just feel my way through the experience, which is fine because everything’s a performance. Although I get sort of annoyed when you get to a building and you know you’re meant to go “Ooh!” right away. Congratulations, Mr. Architect! But then I always hate things right before I love them.

I don’t even know how it happened but I decided to go to a music show later in the evening at the fancy concert hall downtown. G couldn’t go cuz he had to work and I felt too lazy to try to lure someone else, so on the spot I decided that “I love seeing concerts by myself!” – that thing single and depressed people say about going to the movies. I called and they said I could get rush tickets, which sounded thrilling. So I showed up early but I couldn’t figure out where the fuck the box office was as I circumnavigated the torqued titanium monster of a building. The signage sucks, and it feels like the building is annoyed that people want to interact with it. It’s so stoic and unfriendly and I just wanted to scream at it – Help me, where’s the fucking box office! Finally I found it and then learned that I couldn’t get rush tix since I’m not a student or a senior. Wish they’d told me that on the phone. The rush lady shoved me off to another attendant and I got a ticket behind the orchestra even though I could tell from the seating chart that my sight lines were gonna be fucked by the grand piano. I could have just gotten a ticket for the other side, but yet again I practiced my habitual “make the wrong decision even though you know exactly what the right decision is but are too chickenshit to say it” shtick and got a seat behind the piano.

I had some time to kill and I remembered the good ramen place R and S had taken me to a couple of years ago in Little Tokyo so I headed over there while listening to a creepy story on the radio told in the first person about a guy who was molested as a kid and then confronted his abuser as an adult to talk about it, even though all he really wanted to do was just kill him. Parking was impossible, as usual. It’s all you do here: drive, park, drive, park, repeat. I want to make a t-shirt that says “I used to read but now I just drive.” Finally I found a spot and went through the whole “Do I have to pay or not on a Sunday?” mindfuck and then kept listening to the radio on my phone because I wanted to find out if the guy killed the guy or not (he didn’t). I went to the ramen place, where you put your name on a list and wait forever. Since I was by myself I thought it would be a breeze but these bitches were hardasses and stuck to the wait list order. I tried advocating for myself a couple of times – I’m just one person! – but no luck. I was getting hungrier and hungrier and the umami chunkiness of the ramen was this ever-thickening cloud in the air and my consciousness until it seemed like the answer to all of my life questions. Finally I realized I wasn’t going to make it to the show if I stayed so I gave the hostess a surly look as I harrumphed – I’m leaving! – and careened onto the sidewalk fully crazed and maniacally hungry. The idea that I wouldn’t be able to realize the promise of ramen was suddenly the most epic disappointment of the year. How would I re-organize my expectation around another flavor? I went back to the concert hall and rushed into their overpriced cafeteria, where I begrudgingly settled on an egg salad sandwich and lemonade. Boulders of disenchantment were tumbling inside me into a river of regret. I never make the right choices about seating, parking or dining establishments.

With my blood sugar finally leveling out I went to my seat, which was pretty great after all. The usher started a conversation with me. He was socially awkward and formal, but young and charming nonetheless. I was quietly impressed that we were even talking. I told him I was checking out the city and he told me he loved living here but that he sees himself in another city also because he has a good head for business. I nodded like I understood. The concert hall made me think of Santa Fe. It’s all curved wood, romantic proportions and an unfortunate flower print pattern on the bench seats. But I like that it’s hippy new age and not stodgy like the classical houses in NYC. The first group went on and it was this dreamy, soft contemporary jazz and I thought – oh my hardcore experimental music friends would be horrified at me being here right now. I don’t think I had fully registered that it was a JAZZ concert and I was struck, again, by the thoughtless itinerary that I design for myself. But the music caught a curve of melancholy in me and I was crying in the aisle seat as I looked up beseechingly into the empty space below the bowed ceiling while the recessed walls slowly changed in hue from orange to green to red. What am I supposed to do with my life? I thought. Now, tomorrow, forever.

And then it was intermission and I went to the bathroom and on my way out I saw him, standing in the line of men waiting for urinals, with a hangdog expression as if he had just gotten off a long flight but maybe it’s just his face. He shuffled a bit from side to side the way you do when you really have to pee. I got tunnel vision and everyone around him disappeared into a fuzzy cloud as I quickly assessed all of the particulars. He’s short, a dirty blonde. I can’t remember what he was wearing. Maybe a jacket. Wow he really really looks like Truman Capote so of course he played him in that movie, which I never saw so can’t say if it’s good or not. When I went back to my seat I wondered if he’s a big new music fan and if he plays “interesting” music in his trailer or whatever and if the make-up people are like “Wtf is this?” and if maybe he sees that as part of his purpose or mission on the movie sets, to educate. And then I imagined him in a concert hall in London listening to some other music and I imagined him here and I imagined him having conversations about all of the concert halls he goes to and which one he likes best. Only later did it occur to me that since he was at that bathroom it meant he wasn’t in an orchestra seat and that made me wonder whether he: doesn’t have a lot of money, doesn’t like to spend it on fancy seats, or prefers just to sit on the side. I always assume they’re mega-rich but I know that isn’t true. My friend A just got a small part in a movie and he has to find his own sublet during the shoot, which is ridiculous since you know the star of the movie is being flown out on a fucking jet or something. Everything is so out of balance. T was sorta good in that movie Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, but he had like three lines maybe? And anyway the real stars of the movie were the art direction and the slow moving camera. Sad and smoky.

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Civiluppbåd

K had gone to see if the line for ordering food had quieted down. We were catching up after not having seen each other in like fifteen years… no, more. I actually can’t remember the last time we saw each other. We’d walked from her cute apartment to the busy cafe. You’re supposed to order food first and then take the number to your table and wait for them to bring you the food. This tactic feels cheap, and more of a hassle for everyone, but it persists I guess. The line was too long so K’d had the idea of just sitting and waiting for it to die down. We took over a corner table that these two women were leaving. It felt renegade, we were doing things out of order! and I wondered if the busboys were going to bust us or what. I’m always nervous about the rules. The women had left a bowl of cold, uneaten fries and a half drunk Bloody Mary, all sleazy looking cuz the ice had melted. We joked about eating the fries but then of course I actually ate one. I can’t help myself. I told K – remember when we were young poor dancers going to school in New York and AR’s mother would come into town and take us all out to a fancy restaurant and we’d stuff ourselves silly? -Like camels eating for the whole week! K exclaimed, and laughed. I laughed, too, like it was all in the past but truth be told I’m always looking for the next free meal.

Anyway I was sitting there by myself for the moment and I looked through the trellis and there he was, looking intently at his friend, whose back was to me. He was with this group of guys and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen him as I’d walked in. I mean, it would have been the back of him but I’m really attracted to guys’ backs, jealous of them in fact. Especially of long, v-shaped, broad backs, which he has. Ok maybe not so broad. Anyway his friends were just a bunch of regular looking guys and now that I think about it they’d all turned and looked at me as I was walking in, maybe to protect him? Or see who would recognize them with him? Who knows. He was wearing a slate blue cotton t shirt and jeans. He was very tan, which concerned me of course because I thought well you’re really making it hard for the make up people aren’t you, having to make you look like the undead. I’ve heard he’s nice — he seems it. I’ve watched videos of him online where he’s pulling pranks and stuff. He came across as nice in Melancholia, even though I couldn’t really buy it that he’d go to all that trouble to marry that woman, in like, a fucking castle. She was such a mess, oh excuse me, an advertising “genius.”

His face was slightly wet, like he’d just done a misting spray. The whole thing was so unreal — I was peeking through the trellis for god’s sake — and it was almost as if he was looking right at me and he was so tan and moist, it felt like the right thing to do was just to lean in and lick his face. I realized he was speaking swedish to the guy and then that they all were. K came back and I pointed him out and she pretended to stretch and twist so she could see him. One other really good looking swedish guy arrived and they hugged and he joined them, sitting next to A and I thought wow what’s it like to be two ridiculously good looking people sitting next to each other. And then after a while the whole pack of them got up to leave – he put on a generic black cap – and I said to K, look it’s a whole entourage, that really happens. -It’s his Swedish Posse, K said and I said, that’s good, I’m going to write that down later.

And then that night, as I was lying, confused but satisfied, next to _______, I imagined I was looking right up into a nighttime snowfall. The small, white flakes raced out of the blackness as if out of an invisible shower head and fell around me in a perfect circle. I was just a face, no body, no ground, no clouds or stars either.

“Where’s my yacht?”

I was at the supermarket, a little ravenous because I hadn’t eaten yet and I’d been up for a few hours, though it was still morning. In retrospect I realize that I was circling the periphery, just like Michael Pollan’s recommendation about that. I came around to the salad bar/hot food area where the sandwich ordering happens. I was happy because there were free samples of this delicious cracked berry flatbread and, just a little further, small cubes of gouda. “Breakfast” I thought. Just then I turned and I saw him. He’s a lumbering hulk of a man. I had no idea. I guess I assume that they’re always short so when they’re tall it feels anomalous, almost unnatural. He was wearing a white button-down shirt with thick blue vertical stripes tucked into blue jeans, a black leather belt and burgundy loafers. He had on rectangular glasses that were perched down his nose a bit, as if he were reading a contract, but really he was just pushing around his shopping cart, circling the salad bar. His size made me think of the Spider Man movie where he becomes that man/machine hybrid who accidentally kills his wife played by the strangely cast Donna Murphy. I say strangely because sometimes when you see those Broadway actors in movies you can almost smell the stench of crossover desperation.

I went over and ordered my quinoa panini — who knew such a thing existed. The woman behind the counter said I could choose any bread I wanted and I acted surprised since on the board it said it comes on sourdough. Sometimes I get like that in these interactions, all demure and ladylike. “Oh, I can have it on anything?” I gasped like she was offering me a ride in her gilded carriage. I chose onion focaccia, mostly because I liked the look of it. I turned around and he was still circling the salad bar. I saw a young, pretty woman stop him and ask him a question. He leaned in a bit and then nodded his head. She must have asked him “Are you ______?” and he was like well yeah duh who else would I be. It must be bizarre to be always asked “Are you yourself?” and you say “Yes I am myself.” This has happened to me a couple of times and for a moment I feel like I’m in a parallel universe.

I couldn’t stop with the gouda and the flatbread. I must have looped back for it at least six times. I sort of have an eating problem. I thought I had lost sight of him – he eventually disappeared into the soaps and lotions section – but then we ended up next to each other again at the cash register. Here I clocked what he was getting – Fage yogurt, free range eggs, broccoli, beets. All good stuff. He looked like an out of place aging Italian playboy, like, what the hell are you doing at the supermarket, A? I couldn’t imagine him as anyone else at that moment, and then I remembered that he played Joe Orton in that movie long ago, oh with Gary Oldman who was so hot and scrappy looking then. They say Oldman’s a republican which is too sad to hear. A paid for his stuff with a gold Amex. That makes sense.

Ghostwalker

I got to the cafe early, which is only because my friend and his friend were late. Usually I’m the late one. Recently on my way to a work meeting with some VIP, I remember thinking that the person who has to wait is the less powerful one, and in that particular case I wanted to be more powerful, so I tried being just a touch late, rushing in from my very busy life. I can’t remember if it worked. But mostly I think it’s obnoxious and selfish to be late. Once, many years ago, when I was stoned and late, like every time, I had a brunch date with my friend E and my then bf and I were running super late and E left me this message on my voicemail: “I’m waiting for you and you’re not here and it’s been forty-five minutes and FUCK YOU, ok? FUCK YOU.” E’s anger is really virtuosic.

I picked a table outside, nervous, though, that A wouldn’t approve of my seating area choice since it was right by the door. He’s very particular about restaurants – the food, the ordering, the everything. He’s really a top when it comes to dining experiences and mostly you just have to lie there and let him take control. It’s kind of a relief – who wants to be the one who makes the wrong choice about where to go eat – but sometimes I think it prevents me from seeking out places on my own. I was keeping my eye out for them when I saw her coming down the sidewalk with a friend. She struck me as very tall and was wearing a knit hat, a long sleeve cable knit sweater and dark pants and boots. Too many clothes for the warm afternoon. She had on sunglasses, too, so I wasn’t sure it was her but I’m pretty sure. She’s the one they all speculate(d? I haven’t kept up) is gay maybe. I couldn’t remember her name until I looked it up. I never watched that show, except for once, and yeah it was just about as bad as people said it was.

She was so skinny. I think it’s why she was wearing all of those clothes. I always get the sense that scary skinny women wear big, oversize clothes to hide how skinny they are. I might just be making that up. Does she work a lot, still? It seems like there are so many scary skinny women actresses I mean duh. Just tonight watching the Oscars I was shocked at Angelina and Rose Byrne. When Angelina made that pose it was like When Skeletons Attack. My sister commented on how unhealthy her hair looks from malnutrition. And I feel really sad about how skinny Rose Byrne is, especially since she was so beautiful and full bodied (i.e. normal) in that disaster Troy. Anyway K’s expression was haughty, circumspect, aloof. She’s very pretty, but spectral. It was such a brief passing. I thought her skin looked good. I was looking left when I first saw her and then she passed behind me with her friend and I waited a little bit, probably looking down, then looked to the right to watch her from behind as she continued her loping gait down the sidewalk. God that sweater I thought.

Hungry Like the Wolf

So this time it wasn’t accidental because I had found out that he throws that party. He’s not a celebrity to all but he’s one to me. I wanted to think I was the only one who felt this way but I did a Google search and realized I was just one of a million fags who like him. Big surprise.

I debated for a long time what to wear. Tried on different combinations of tight t-shirts and underwear with my boots, in case I felt inspired to take my jeans off, cuz it’s advertised as an underwear party but in my experience, fetish wear parties are a grim hook of expectation to hang your hat on. Ads always make these events look bacchanalian, but most people are too shy or boring to play along. Tighty whities with my Tom of Finland tank top seemed like a good choice at first but I looked like I was trying too hard. Lately I’ve been going for this proto-leather look, with the short hair, beard, muscles. I don’t wanna call myself a bear because I’m losing weight. But I’m not young or skinny enough to be called an otter. My friend D told me last summer on the roof deck of the Eagle that I’m a wolf. I was relieved to find out I had a category, even though I think it’s stupid and disappointing to aspire to be ursine, canine or a semi-aquatic.

Anyway I settled on my torn black 2xist undies and a navy blue tank top. I wonder if it’s true after all that I’m doing a “muted color palette” like C told me. The bar was big, two rooms. The bigger one is basically the back yard; there’s a makeshift roof of panels and since it’s technically “outside” people smoke, which looks really transgressive these days. There was a firepit too, which I kept going to cuz it was cold. A quick overview of the underwhelming crowd led me to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be an underwear night for me. “They don’t deserve me in my underwear” was my actual thought. He was there right at the coat check, where I handed over my jacket. He had a welcoming smile, but it was also a bit painted on, a practiced warmth. He’s tall, as I’d seen on that youtube video. He looks good but more weathered in person. He has tattoos.. I think they’re suspenders. Something with lines and circles at the end like eyeholes. Maybe they cover these up for the show or maybe they’re recent. Maybe you should just never meet your idols cuz I wasn’t too impressed. Though I could just be bummed that he didn’t flirt with me or invite me to join his Wolf Pack. I kept trying to determine whether he stuffs his underwear or if his cock is really big or if he just has that underwear with the forward thrusting pouch that makes everyone’s cock look big. His ass is ok. Depending on how he stands it seems juicy but when he walked it looked kinda small and flat. But it might just be the way he deals with his lordosis when he moves. I remember reading an interview with Kennedy Carter where he said that an important part of being a bottom on camera is keeping your back arched all the time.

He kept roaming around the bar, doing his laps, saying hi to different guys who all seemed to know him. He was really the “patrón” of the situation, the way he carried himself authoritatively. It reminded me of my uncles on my dad’s side, the way they’re social and important-acting. He is very good looking but the way his age shows I wondered if it’s a thing where he doesn’t sleep enough, or maybe he drinks/drugs a lot. His receding eyes and crows’ feet reminded me of the majordomo of this farm in Colombia I went to with my family when I was a kid. He was one of the first guys I remember being super hot for. I would linger around the courtyard because he’d walk through, shirtless in his dirty jeans, skinny and taut. I think I was seven or eight at the time. S looks like he’s got that kind of laborer background in his family. An inscrutable face.

Later when ____ was cumming on my back, after I’d spent almost half an hour shoving my ass in his face, acting the part of the eager horny bottom like it was my favorite thing to be, I thought about how we’re all always pretending, wearing costumes, negotiating who the fuck we want to be for whom and when.

I dream of Johnny

It was at the gym. I had ended my workout, had showered and changed and was going down the stairs to leave when I saw him coming up the stairs with his personal trainer, a very fit, hot dyke, whose challenging workout had been astounding me just moments before. He had just arrived to start his work out. He’s slim. He had on a cotton, ivory colored tank top. I think he was wearing a pair of gray sweats. His hair is shorter now than it is in this picture. Still long on the top, but trimmed on the sides. More streamlined. He looks young, or maybe he gets treatments on his face, I can’t be sure. His eyes were cast downward slightly. Maybe he was avoiding other people’s eyes, maybe he was just concentrating on the stairs. They are unstable. He seemed determined to get his workout going. At the top of the stairs I heard him say to his trainer something like, “Let’s start with the incline….” Or something like that. The words aren’t coming back to me now. I thought it was strange that he was choosing how to start. When I had a trainer I didn’t get any choices.

I wondered how he feels being an Asian actor here, well I mean, period. It’s so funny because just before, when I was still working out, there was this older Asian gentleman on the mats beside me who I kept thinking was the actor George Takei, though after repeated glances I determined that it wasn’t him. He was too wrinkly, narrow faced, and George Takei’s face is broad and always appears smooth and pulled in pictures. How ironic that J should walk in then, having played Sulu in the new Star Trek film. Sulu always struck me as an odd choice for an Asian character’s name. It sounds African. J was born in South Korea, but he grew up in Los Angeles, so he must really know his way around. I wonder if he has an opinion on the ongoing difficulties in Korea’s North/South politics. Intriguingly, George Takei was born in Los Angeles. Funny, the older guy is native born, I wouldn’t have figured that. People always seem to need Asian people to not be from here, as if it’s impossible to imagine them being born in the U.S. At least it sort of feels that way. Whenever I see Asians in other countries (outside of Asia), I have the same judgment myself, like, how could they have been born here? It’s ridiculous to think that of course.

I liked that he had a hot dyke as a trainer. I wonder if he’s liberal. I’ve never seen his Harold and Kumar movies. Not out of principle or anything, I just haven’t gotten around to it. His trainer is incredible looking… the veins on her biceps pop out when she flexes them. It’s almost scary. J didn’t seem scary.