I tried to drink it away like Solange. I had eight hours to kill in the height of summer before connecting with my boyfriend. Like most civilized adults, I waited until 5 pm to drink. But if the bar was open before then I would have gotten drunk sooner.
So, I filled my Friday with books, columns, and phone calls. That went well until it stormed. A sensible gay man would have gone home when the clouds darkened. Not me. I ran for my life in soggy shoes feeling like Sweet Brown, turning my happy hour to The Hangover.
I finally arrived at The Mill. I stormed in soaked in black layers of designer clothing. An image so alarming that the bouncer didn’t bother to check my ID. Did I really look like something from the new Planets of the Apes movie? On the bright side, only the staff saw how drenched I was.
The Mill was my port in the storm. As I sat there reflecting on my career. A decade of over analyzing what I should be writing or if I should be a writing—kept me from writing.
I put the hope of a new iPad aside and picked up a yellow legal pad again, creating a lesson without spending a dime. It doesn’t matter what you’re writing on as long as you’re writing. And I’m back.
From doling out advice to erotic stories and essays you’ll be able to see it all here. I also have some sex toy reviews in the pipeline. Butt plugs, flesh lights, and nipple clamps—oh my!
While my sex toy future awaited, I sipped Ciroc as the storm slowed. My clothes dried but my ass became wet. I can hardly wait to get fucked tonight—nice and rough like Tina Turner.
Speaking of old, a guy emerged in front of the jukebox, playing the worst of the ‘80s. I hated the jukebox, an archaic concept where you have to pay-to-play to reign supreme at the price a song selection. It’s an annoying dynamic that only improves with more cocktails. I hoped for Janet.
I haven’t seen so much control on a device since an ex-boyfriend held my cell phone hostage. I had to call the NYPD to get it back. 10 policemen stormed the club (I guess my 911 call was quite dramatic). But it worked. It only cost me a relationship. But that courtship was over before it started. My love for him lingers in another lifetime.
I miss New York where my din of iniquity was a subway ride away. Those were the days, fighting over $50 cab rides from Chelsea to Canarsie. I enjoy those carefree nights where messiness added spice to our evening.
Feeling the rush of the past penetrated the present. Why don’t I go out more in DC? Has growing older made me boring? Or has contentment in my relationship turned me complacent?
I don’t know. The questions jumped off the page and entered my mind. I guess I’ll drink it away until I can fuck it away.