Brown Eyes

They smolder at me

Blazing

Beautiful

Brown

With arches of hair above

Perfectly curled like sand dunes on a beach

Curving down to meet the frothy sea

And lashes so long, they curl upward as if searching for sunlight

Each lip perfect in and of itself,

One arcing upward, with a small dent in the middle, as the line in the small of your back

And the other sitting silently: thick, dewy and soft

I love when you kiss me and keep those brown beacons open

Looking into me, searching, prowling, grabbing, owning

They become smaller as our lips conform

Smaller but still larger

And every emotion seems to pass

Small hands, like mine

Soft, like mine

I want nothing more than to be touched by them

Please:

Run your fingertips along my inner thigh

Press down on my back

Grab my hair and pull

Squeeze my neck in passion as we kiss

Gnarl your palms around my ass and put your fingers in

Hold me from inside in your small hands

And hair on your chin that pricks, the way a pear’s grains gently graze the tongue

It covers some of your neck, growing over the rocky Adam’s apple like blades of grass growing on a lonely moor

I love kissing the apple; pointy, hard, large

It jumps when you swallow

Moving upward and sinking in simultaneously

Then reappearing as if nothing happened

The browns roll away into the back of your head

Leaving behind white – only white

Seen through a small slit between eye and eyelid;

They flutter as you let out a heavy breath

And your body shudders for a moment beneath mine

I kiss the blades on your neck

More shuddering

Then they reappear;

Staring into me from below

Beckoning me in, lulling, cooing, seducing

And I follow without hesitation

There is no need to defy those brown eyes

Costco.

A friend I had dated briefly lent me his Costco card. There’s a branch in East Harlem and I planned an entire day of renting a Zipcar and driving there, using my friend’s card and buying a bunch of shit in bulk which I could now store in the downstairs basement storage unit that came with my apartment (or in all the extra storage space I had installed in the apartment itself).

I felt like a pornstar seeing themselves onscreen for the first time: vibrant, energetic and full of self-esteem that wasn’t necessarily merited. I had found a beautiful apartment in a neighbourhood that was sure to be the next big shit as soon as The New Yorker got a whiff of it and I was about to go grocery shopping for wholesale items like toilet paper and dishwashing liquid.

I had officially succeeded in creating a life of my own.

The day would be long: I had to rent the car, I had to drive to Costco, I had to shop, I had to drive back to West Harlem, find a parking spot, unload all my groceries, hop back into the Zip and return it to a designated spot.

As excited as I was at the thought of saving .89c on each roll of toilet paper, let’s just say, the thought alone of hauling my booty (the groceries, not my ass) up four floors at the end of it all didn’t make my nipples hard.

As I entered the Costco parking lot, I witnessed a woman pushing two shopping carts expertly to her car. A kid was in each shopping cart seat. She motioned to me and I stopped alongside her. “Come take my parking spot,” she said. I nodded and followed her in the car. There was a parking spot right next to her car so I pulled into it and got out.

“Hey,” I said with a big smile when I had walked up to her. She was unloading the contents of her shopping carts into the trunk of her car. Her two kids were looking at me with wide eyes from their posts, strapped into the shopping carts. One was biting on its balled fist and the other had just dribbled the nastiest looking bit of spit from its mouth onto the handle bar of the shopping cart. I prayed to never have the misfortune of using that shopping cart in my life.

“Yo baby,” she said to me smoothly. She had smooth, dark skin and her wavy hair was light brown and reached her waist. She was also tall – taller than me – with a large, round backside and round, jaunty breasts in an all-black get-up. Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on your stance), while I’m not straight, it doesn’t stop me from noticing these things about women. Not in a perverted way, necessarily, but in admiration.

“I say, you wasn’t gonna get no parking up there. Full of cars – Christmastime in Harlem, y’know.”

I smiled at her and she returned it. She had small teeth set into dark gums; a beautiful smile that also flowed through her eyes. “Can I help you with your groceries?” I offered.

“That’s aite,” she said coolly, “but you can help me put one of these babies into the car.”

I didn’t think much of this, considering I’m from the Caribbean and babies are like oral sex; you love it even if you can’t admit it to yourself at this point in your life. However, when I relayed this story to one of my American friends they thought it was highly “weird” that a woman from East Harlem felt comfortable letting a male put one of her kids into their car seats.

I immediately claimed the kid who hadn’t dribbled. “That’s Allistair,” she said to me. “This,” she raised the dribble-kid out of the shopping cart, “is Frederico.”

I nodded in amusement and put Allistair in his car seat which he didn’t seem to like because he kicked me, punched me and screwed up his face like mushed up dog shit while he cried.

She hurried over to soothe him and buckle him in.

“Have a good day,” I said to her as I started to walk away.

“Have a great day!” she smiled to me and we waved to each other.

I smiled while recounting the incident on my way to the entrance. I had to say, nothing phased me much anymore here. I hadn’t been in New York for a full year of my life yet but already this was my life. The randomness of life seemed so much less random here, and occurrences that might seem oddly placed and even spiritual to others, to me seemed justified in this beautiful City with endless possibilities, realities and reactions.

As I approached the entrance I quickly fumbled in my wallet for my friend’s Costco card. I imagined that if I simply flashed the card nonchalantly, the guard at the door wouldn’t even notice that my picture on my Costco card was of a blonde white dude with blue-grey eyes.

Luckily, at the door the guard was standing a ways off speaking to a suited gentleman. Shoppers were filing in without showing a thing and I just followed the throng while pushing my shopping cart jauntily. I was in; I felt like I was in The Incredibles.

Incredible, James Incredible.

I got my list out and started perusing the aisles. It was like Candyland. Or what I assume Candyland must be like, whatever Candyland is. Seeing all the possible shit I could consume had an overwhelmingly joyous reaction on me. I could buy a bag of fifty Twix bars if I wanted, or get a 20lb can of cranberry jelly if the mood suited me.

All in all, I stuck to my list and added a few indulgences to my cart (like a pack of twelve jars of Alfredo sauce and almost-expired Snickers ice cream bars that were 75% off).

About two hours later I joined a cue to cash out. My cashier was a buxom Latina girl with winged eye make-up and sleek hair pulled into a high ponytail. She was laughing with the last customer and I smiled at her. One thing I’ve learned is that Caribbean charm works wonders in the service industry. Once, a Rite-Aid attendant gave me a $50 refund on a non-refundable phone card after seeing my Trini ID card, which in Rite-Aid code is the equivalent of God donating you his lung.

She smiled at me and put out her hand for my Costco card. I gave it to her and she took a swift look at it and then back at me. “Where’s the cardholder?” she asked.

“Oh, he’s just still looking around inside. But you can just cash me out,” I said coolly. I had practiced this line a million times while I was waiting to be cashed out.

She looked at me pointedly and said, “We’ll have to wait for him.”

I sighed heavily as she motioned to the guy behind me to bring his stuff up.

“Ok,” I said slowly and softly, leaning closer to her over the conveyor belt with my 40%-extra container of cream cheese melting between us, “I didn’t really come with him. I’m new to the city and my friend lent me his card.” I gauged the situation. She was looking at me and listening so I continued, “Can we please let it slide this time? I won’t do it again. I’ll even just go buy the membership right now. Please?” I smiled sweetly at her, my heart hammering away.

“Alright,” she said slowly, swiping the card quickly and cashing me out. “We’re not supposed to do this but at the end of the day, you’re buying the stuff. There’s still the economic exchange.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and looked around with a relaxed grin. My eyes caught the guy’s who was behind me in the line and I doubled back. He grinned at me and I turned back to the cashier immediately.

“I’m James,” I told her and she introduced herself.

“You from Trinidad?” she asked me and I nodded my yes.

“You know some Trinis?”

“Lots of my friends from school.” We spoke a bit more, I paid my bill, thanked her for being so nice and pushed my goods away, glancing back at the guy.

I pulled over at the cafeteria area and hid behind a wall, sneaking another look back at the guy. His back was to me as he cashed out and his butt looked fantastic.

I knew him. We had bumped into each other one night at Industry in the dark entrance hallway more than a month prior. I was going outside for a cigarette and he was leaving. I saw him and said hi and he smiled before one of his friends yelled for him to come with them, they were fucking leaving like, NOW! As in: “Adam! Come on, we’re fucking leaving like, NOW!”

He passed by with his shopping cart heading for the exit and I emerged from my stealthy spot among the Costco eaters and followed him. As he rolled his shopping cart outside I summoned my courage and said, “Hey! Adam!”

Instantly, I regretted it and my lips clenched shut as he turned around. “Hey,” he said with a look of recognition. “Way to work the cashier inside,” he added as he walked over to where I stood.

I smiled and said, “Never underestimate the power of being nice.” He grinned and nodded and looked at me expectantly. “We met at Industry a while ago. Your friend yelled your name, that’s how I know it,” I explained.

He nodded, “Oh, right.”

I realised he didn’t recognise me in the least but I ignored it. “Well, it was nice to see you…” he began.

“That’s it?” I asked recklessly. Something comes over me during these encounters. Firstly, there’s abandon where I engage the situation without giving a fuck. Secondly, there’s panic because I have no idea what I’ve just engaged in. Then, from nowhere, comes absolute arrogance because I’m thinking if I’m going down, I’m going down like a Charlie Sheen hoe – nothin’ less than hundreds.

He stopped and looked at me. “I really have to meet a friend. I just ran here to buy the cake and I’m really, really late.”

I nodded in recognition and started to pull my shopping cart away. “Okay. Have a great day!” I called to him. I figured I had tried, and fuck him if he didn’t think I was cute. Or maybe he had a boyfriend? Or maybe he didn’t like younger guys? Or skinny guys? Or guys who weren’t white and blonde? Or short guys?

“James,” he called after me. I turned around immediately because I didn’t think he knew my name. “Can I get your number?”

I looked into his eyes for a moment, feeling like I was stuck on the pendulum of the cuckoo clock of doom, swinging back and forth between “will he/won’t he?” I then looked at his lips. There was brown stubble around them and I noticed that his bottom lip looked a little like an incredibly skinny baby carrot. It was sexy, his eyes were stunning, his hair defied fucking gravity for cum’s sake…

“Don’t ask for it if you don’t plan to use it,” I retorted.

“I’ll use it,” he assured me. I gave it to him skeptically. “I’m going to use it,” he promised, smiling widely at me.

I shrugged and walked away, wondering how much kismet I could take for one day.

crash

helmet x shades

Born

Born of hate
Bred in rage
Never believing in a state of grace
Fed with guts
Used for glory
Just useless words to a heartbreaking story
Honed with lies
Sharpened by cruelty
Always made to feel stupid and guilty

But you are a man
A man with a beating heart
And you have hands
Hands in which, I beg you, please accept my heart
And an open will with a life less than pure
But together, facing rapture, we have found something worth living for

Guilty, oh!
For everyone's responsibilities
Guilty, oh!
Of your own fluidity
Guilty, oh!
For being hot as City summer heat
Guilty, oh!
Shall I read you Socrates?

We're in bed. We're naked. You're wearing glasses and all I want to do is fuck you.

Guilty, you are not
Born of hate, bred in rage
How could you ever attain a state of grace?
Fed with guts, being used for glory
Feed your heart to me, for I adore thee
Honed with lies, fucked by cruelty
But you were never proven guilty

No, you were never proven guilty
No, you are still worthy
No, you are a master
A fucking disaster
An asshole drinker
A mister maybe never
A fucker emotionless
I'm not fucking impressed
But you were never guilty and that is why I adore thee.

What happens when drugs meet me.

it's always hard to look at someone in the eye and hear that we're not they want - even when we feel that they were put into our lives for the divine purpose of love. knowing that no matter what we do or say, nothing can change who they are and what they want - it makes us powerless and insignificant. it's hard to think of them living their lives free of us; joyous, purposeful and beautiful while we're left holding on to the hurt that comes with the letting go of something that feels like an organ made for our sole intention. we are in agony and feel complete rejection... but perhaps this is the true understanding: our ingrained feelings are not the only emotions in play; the person we love isn't rejecting us - they are simply accepting themselves.

Do the Beyonce. Arnaldo James Photography, 2011

"somalia, bosnia, cuba, colombia, ecuador, mexico, butanne, morocco, botswana, ghana, india, serbia, syria, lebanon, zambia, namibia, bali, mali, chile, malawi, bequia, st. vincent, trinidad and norway, china, canada, USA and UK, nepal, nigeria, ethiopia, north k, myanmar, panama, philippines, nicaragua, palestine and greece, peru and france; it's so simple, do the dance."

a very random thought i had: i will actually never have the feeling of having sex with the woman who is pregnant with my child. if you think really deeply about this, it's a little sad.

i'm not particularly attracted to pregnant women in any way - sexual or general interest-wise - but imagine being in love with a person, deciding you want to have a baby together and then make love to that person knowing that inside, they are carrying the fruits of your immeasurable love. that's some hot emotional sex.

and hot emotional sex is the best sex. you know it.

For the love of Gay, part une (because everyone knows French is the language of the lovers. Lovers are gay).

For the time being, I live in Trinidad which is a small island in the Caribbean with a big cultural heritage and very big conservative minds, voices, thoughts and lots and lots and loooots of priests.

So it's no surprise that online dating sites - or rather hook up sites - are big business for gay men here. Much of the country's homosexual population is still lurking in the closet like it's 1975, while the ones who are out and living their lives face the stigmitisation that they are not "living on the down low" - a very in-demand trait considering how many men abhorrently administer their very serious intent on only hooking up with masculine, discreet, closeted, married, girlfriended men through a barrage of insulting words on their dating site profiles.

Yes, I'm gay and I don't live the idealised life of Bambi and his thumpy rabbit friend. I don't live in a perfect world where my tastes are as varied as a Frenchman's wine palette - give me scruff, a gravelly voice and a man who doesn't use words like "fabulous" or "ostentatious" and I will probably blush like a virgin whose first pubic hair has just become visible. However, how can there still be gay men living in this year of the Vagina, Twenty-fucking-Thirteen, who believe that someone who lives their life openly and freely (the term "out" grates my nuts. Gay is in, ask HBO) is less than a man? How can there be men who still think that hooking up with people in your twenties, all the way into your forties, without ever knowing the freedom of true love, is "normal"?

I think of myself right now, as I am: a 23-year-old male, living in the Caribbean, pursuing life, figuring out the important things in life (black jeans or blue jeans today?) and gay, gay, gay, gay, gaaaaay. I can't run from it. It's not "who I am". (I know there are so many schools of thought on this one. Is it who we are? Is it not who we are? Is it our dog? Wait... hang on... our dog is really the one who is gay! This has been a matter of gross gay projection! You're saved! Jesus and her 12 girl scouts welcome you into Heaven! Yey, now shut the fuck up and let me finish this post, thanks). But you know what: it's a very large part of who I am. The way I think, the way I dress, the way I comb my hair, the way I speak, what I speak of, who I want to be around, what I watch on television, what I don't watch on television, what I get tattooed on my body - all or slightly in part or maybe probably a very minuscule derivative are affected by the fact that I love cock. The thought of having a job, earning my own money, living in my own house, driving my own car, buying mixed vodka drinks with all the earning I've been doing... the thought of all this while NOT being able to also enjoy the insatiable fact that I am gay makes my knees tremble and I'm sitting down for Christ's cocksake!

Being gay is one of the most delicious experiences I have ever had. I appreciate a woman's ass and tits, albeit in a slightly different way than a heterosexual man (ha, like that exists) may appreciate it (I mostly appreciate how delicately her tits hang in the balance, while admiring the silhouette of that chiffon blouse... oh, wait, is it chiffon or silk?) I can't explain the rush of emotions I get when my palm wraps around a particularly beautiful cock that belongs to a beautiful man, neither can I imagine what it must be like to not care about chapped lips or not moisturising one's face. Ok, I'm kinda kidding about some of these (the kinda kidding that is true and makes you laugh awkwardly because what else are you fucking to do? Just act like you're watching an episode of the Kardashians).

Being gay is fun. And dating a man who is comfortable in that, who owns it, steps up to the plate and can take it. A man whose family members support and love him, whose co-workers say all kinds of fucked up shit like, "Mike can come fishing. The homos like fishing, yeah?" because they KNOW he's a homo, whose 9-year-old niece still asks about his ex from three years ago because she loves his leopard print eye-glasses case - this is the man I would like to date. A man whose life isn't immersed in homosexuality, but whose homosexuality is immersed in his life. And whose only experience being "downlow" is during fucking.

Give me back to me

Floating through the world -
Child, ward, now adult and scarred.
Your world has never been enchanted with mine
Your thoughts, beyond speculation or speckled sight

We exist independently and freely
Autonomous deities with four hands each:
one to scratch, one to slap, one to maim and one to cover our eyes;
Because looking at the truth is harder than anyone can sing, write or postulate

But we still share the world because we share each other's worlds
Blood, shed and borne in a sphere of loathing, love and constant responsibility
I don't own you but there's still a part of you inside
And beyond leaving you behind, I have engulfed yourself in mine

Why? You are a cretin, a coward
The mercy you have shown my love is pathetic
Grown, manful, sacred fear boils in your blood, to the weakness of your bones
You cannot help me any more than you ever have because you lack the gall

You fear the road not traversed, you fear fighting for righteousness and beauty
For love, for a bountiful break of bread, for the sake of my love, my bread and my beauty
You fear yourself within me, you fear me within yourself but cannot find the words or actions
To show and express the prickly emotions that make the back of your neck tingle or your eyes well with liquid

And thus, you have failed - because where you have gone wrong, you have left dark pieces for me to pull together
(A magician's son would be no better equipped against your twisted forage)
Dark pieces that have become me, that I will not escape forever all because you, in your fumbling existence, cannot understand what it is to fully love

So you will steal more of me, you will plunder my vibrations and you will exhaust my trust
You will exclude my light from your life, you will interrupt every particle I send your way
You will entrench me before I can even attempt to regenerate, you will scrape at my insides like a tiger who takes its claws to the bark of a tree
You will devour my heart, you will corrupt my mind, you will lie and cheat me because you think you can, you will eat my feast before my very eyes, you will ask of me and I will give but you will never return any of it

You are a taker, and you have taken all of me.

Tell me

Tell me how I walk
And tell me how I talk
And tell me how I kiss
Tell every detailed thing

Tell me why I smile
Tell me what a little child
I become around you
Tell me, is it also true for you?

Tell me whispers in bed at night
About life and love and fright
Tell me secrets of yourself
While I pull you to myself
Tell me how the light hits my eyes
When the sun peeks through the blinds
And our feet are tangled into one
Both our hearts, undone

Celibacy

I have taken an oath. It's somewhat like a nun's, except my oath has nothing to do with an extra-spiritual belief. More the belief that I should save myself for love.

Over the past few years, I've come to regard sex as probably one of the most rote things. I've had sex in dark bushes, sex in cars, sex at the seaside, sex in bathrooms, sex in dirty one-room apartments, sex in luxurious hotel rooms, sex on rooftops, sex outside churches, sex next to ogling complete strangers, sex with ogling complete strangers... my point is, as biological and wonderful the act is, I'm all sexed out.

In the quest for love and partnership, the absolute rule for me holds true: honesty. Emotional honesty is probably highest on the list, as well as honesty with oneself. And if I'm completely honest with myself, love and sex are things that I want entangled beyond untangling - like headphones that have been scrunched in your pocket for over four hours while on an over-packed car ride.

Luckily, I've had sex with someone I loved (I think...) within the past year. And the feelings of want, care, absolution, desire and possession were overwhelming. If you can have sex like that, why would you ever want it any other way?

Sure, my dick still gets hard looking at beautiful pictures of men on tumblr and I lust dutifully over guys with hard pecs and biceps with the most resplendent of curves but physicality is so far-removed from emotion that it doesn't matter anymore.

I'd actually taken this vow once before, about a year ago and I stuck to it until I got to New York and men were falling from skyscrapers and I just thought it was silly to deny myself of pleasure. But now more than ever, the drive behind everything in my life is love. And not just love from another but love from myself. It's probably self-preservation or self-indulgence; whatever it is, I think I deserve sex with love. And so I've decided that the simple act of sex is not enough anymore and probably never will be again.

I will forage and plunder (and blunder) until I find someone I care, respect and love enough to know that when we fuck, we will also be making love. Because there are better things than cumming on a guy's stomach while he looks up into your eyes and smiles. Like laying next to him after, maybe not even touching, and knowing that what lies between you is more than words or thoughts could ever express and that right there, in that moment and in that space, you are safe.

Special Enough

"You know that you're special;
With you or without, I'll be good enough again."

"Us"

And he, one day, said, "I am inexplicably tied."

"Tied to what?" I countered, unsure about the direction of the conversation. I looked at him with a confused expression and he smiled, extended his arm and touched his index finger lightly to my knee.

"To this. Us."

I continued to stare into his eyes, waiting for him to look away uncomfortably, or fidget oddly, or cough unexpectedly, or sneeze gratuitously. But nothing - he held my gaze the entire time until I ran my hand through my hair dazedly and shifted markedly and cleared my throat delicately.

"Us?" I asked quietly as I dared to look at him once more. My heart hammered and there was a numb grind in my ears; as if everything was pressing into me, sucking me into a vacuum of nothingness.

"Yes. There is an us - and it's beautiful."

December

I can't forget but won't remember by December.
I tell myself this to feel better, I won't be bitter.
I read, I see, I feel, I sing and try to let it all in.
Just in the hope to let it all go, I let my emotions flow.
I pretend it was a dream sometimes and wish it were real oftentimes.
I write constantly about this, and slowly everything becomes amiss.
Did it really happen, I wonder while I try to not be fonder
Of it, of this, of the not knowing which limits the growing -
The growth of me, the growth of beauty.
The expectation of things to come; Russian Roulette's gun.
If I pull the trigger will I drift assunder?
Or will I return resplendent? Back to independence?
I can't forget but won't remember by December.
Though it will be alright if I do - because it's you.

Cabbage baptism

Yesterday, I went to help my father pick cabbage that he planted himself. Firstly, my affinity for manual labour is nonexistent. In fact, I consider my only useful limbs to be my fingers since they type (and they do that so well).

We got to the field where the cabbage is planted around 4PM - the sun was orange and hot in the sky and the field looked beautiful with huge cabbage leaves sticking out of the soil in endless rows that went on and on. I have no idea how you actually determine whether a cabbage is ready to be picked but my father went around looking at the heads, cutting at them with his machete when he deemed them ripe (do cabbages get ripe?) and then throwing them at me to stack into boxes.

The beauty of this was that I didn't feel too incompetent because cabbages are big enough that you can't easily drop them when they're thrown at you and, even better, their large leaves act as dams for rain water. As the cabbages made contact with my hands, the water inside the leaves would splash onto me. Probably not the cleanliest water, but as the liquid doused my forearms and neck I felt oddly reshaped. Maybe it's because I was catching cabbages, something I never thought I would be doing or maybe it was because mentally I've been trying this new thing where I see the glass half overflowing or whatever but it was a peaceful experience. The sun was warm, the cabbage leaves were billowing and green, speckled with white and I was soaked by the end of the expedition in cabbage water.

Halfway through, my dad and I went to a mango tree across the way and picked a few. We sat down and sucked on mangoes and he genuinely laughed when I described my views on the cabbage-water baptism and it felt like we shared a nice moment. In all, we picked a whopping seven hundred and ninety pounds of cabbage.

Can we please stop and reflect on this for a moment? SEVEN HUNDRED AND NINETY POUNDS. I tried to keep count but got lost along the way but we picked roughly 600 cabbages. It was long, tiring and I can't believe I felt so cleansed by cabbage-picking. I even had enough energy to go run for an hour and a half after which seemed miraculous.

So if anyone out there has the chance to get a cabbage baptism, I definitely recommend it. It was enlightening... or just fun.

Letting go

The past few days have been hectic, with a lot of new shit popping up in my life. It feels like I've reached a bit of a juncture - you know what I mean. There's one of those metaphorical forks in the road - pesky fucking forks - and I have to choose a path.

And in doing some reflecting (as well as reading other online blogs about general life trends/rules/love) I have come to the conclusion that I must fully let go of the past few months of my life. This is clearly a vague statement and probably seems like I'm trying to be mysterious and sexy in a desperate bid to seem interesting. I totally am.

In reality, I've just had the most tumultuous time within myself for the past month with many questions arising, emotions that have been betraying me and leading me to believe a myriad of things that were either completely created by myself or the byproduct of analysis that was completely self-indulgent and one-sided (points for using two hyphenated adjectives. I rock). And so, today I am completely letting go of the past. Not in the truly dramatic "write letters to the people you have unfinished business with and burn them in a symbolic gesture" way (although that would probably be fun and is definitely something I should consider, come to think of it...) but more in the manner of "it's in the past, it was the best of times and it is over." I've been holding on to an idealised and fantastical motion picture screenplay in my mind, trying to make sense of shit that basically isn't real and probably never will be.

And so, on this here blog, I profess that I rid myself of the past and will only hold fond memories of times gone by, but will not have expectations, place ultimatums, imagine ensuing scenarios or wreak my inner-self with havoc and sorrow over things that aren't.

Life is now and I gotta keep the fuck up.

But my heart, it won't.

Now I feel it, now you don't.
Like a grave of forgetfulness,
Leave it behind, I won't:

Can I be transparent,
Or is it all through haze?
My love is apparent,
My heart beats your phrase.

Electric transfer, darkest nights,
Awake, in sleep; I am always haunted,
Farthest reaches of my weak plight,
Wash away your stain, may this be granted.

A burnt root, blackest ash and coal,
With uprooted insides, scattered afar;
Thus, my heavy, sacrilege soul
Is interred in the numbest war.

This isn't pain, that wouldn't be justice,
It wrings and pulls and kicks and wounds.
Your face and body and voice insists
On seeing me through 'til all hope is pruned.

Bare, leafless, adjacent to fact,
At war with what?
It is you I lack.

Now I need you, now you don't.
My mind will forget you
But my heart, it won't.

Dark Paradise

"All my friends tell me I should move on,
I'm lying in the ocean, singing your song.

Loving you forever can't be wrong,
Even though you're not here, won't move on.

And there's no remedy for memory,
Your face is like a melody: it won't leave my head.
Your soul is haunting me, telling me that everything is fine
But I wish I was dead."

Saying "I love you."

My question today: why do the words "I love you" freak everyone out? For some reason, we have conceptions that saying these words too early can scare a person away, give them a sense that the individual who has said it is claiming some sort of possession over them and in general means they are clingy.

But does it? We can all agree that relationships should be built on some form of trust and honesty but why do we feel that being honest about our truest and most uncontrollable emotion - that of complete want, care and support - must be hidden until the "time is right". Is there ever really a right time to say these words? Better yet, is there ever a right time to feel them?

And what about these rules that we can never be in love too early? Who writes this shit? We have been completely blinded by Hollywood and literature, where first kisses must happen with intense eye contact and a slow movement of faces toward each other, as if the subjects are unsure about the upcoming action or the sheer energy of the kiss is too much to bear. And when someone says, "I love you," there must be a huge musical crescendo and a dramatic flair because these three little words mean so much.

While I'm not discounting the magic of first kisses and I love you's, the amount of emotional baggage we attach to some of these things (including, but not limited to, first sexual experiences, hand-holding, introduction to friends and parents, being completely vulnerable and honest about every emotion we feel) put them upon this pedestal that is scary and attainable only through some form of divine sign or experience.

And that just isn't the case. First of all, feeling like you love someone is a testament to how open to love you are and how loveable the person you feel the emotion for is. It should not be scary, it should not make you question numerous circumstances and your feelings, it shouldn't make you wonder whether your feelings are being skewed by situations that you are reading incorrectly or over-thinking. You should be ecstatic and truly indulge in the feeling. Not only that, but you should be able to tell the person you love exactly how you feel without them thinking they owe you something, or that everything has changed because you feel strongly for them. And you, yourself, should not feel like it means anything more than it does.

Maybe this is the problem: we hinge more on being in love than there is. Feeling like we are in love is a self-indulgent and personal experience. A true testament to us and our emotions - not the other person's. Yes, we would love for our love to be reciprocated and it is what we all deserve. But our love is not another person's and we should be comfortable with that (as should the other person in question). It is what runs through our own selves and it is completely, absolutely okay.

Who doesn't want to be loved? Who doesn't want to love? One of the goals of human nature is to find a thread of commonality that can make sense of the senseless and put purpose into breathing. Being in love is one of these things - it makes you feel attached and like you belong, like you are living for someone else who you give a damn about and want only the best for. This in no way should be made to seem like a weakness or a curse.

So I've decided the next time I feel it, I am going to say it. I'm not going to keep it to myself because what the fuck is the use? Even if it's only been a month, even if the self-help websites say you don't want to scare him off, even if I am scared of what it can mean and change - it is something that should be shared and felt in its entirety. Denying it only makes it seem dirty and unworthy of being felt which love is not.

It is beautiful - and we are beautiful for feeling it and even more beautiful for being able to say and express it.

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A Gay's "Guide" to Online Dating

Over the past few days, the Technological Universe has found a way to show me just how slutty I am: I have received roughly 30 or so odd emails from all the dating sites I have profiles on. With subjects like, "James, your next love is literally RIGHT HERE ON OUR SITE!" or "James, open this email - it's free and you're easy", it's hard to ignore the fact that

a) I am dreadfully single
b) I'm not important enough to get regular and personalised emails from friends, and
c) the cosmos are trying to tell me that the next love of my life has a perfectly instagrammed and airbrushed profile photo and is waiting for me somewhere out there.

In our technologically booming society, online dating isn't just a trend, it's basically the way we are resigned to find love. Statistics don't lie, and as a man who appreciates proper numbers I can't help but feel slightly bruised by statements like "People with online dating profiles are three times more likely to find a relationship." The fact is, most of my dates within the past three years have been procured from online sites. And I am no more closer to finding a relationship than I am to stumbling across a cave opening in the Sahara in the shape of a tiger's open mouth with a magic lamp hiding somewhere inside promising three wishes (a nicer ass, an unlimited supply of Neutrogena Combination Skin facial moisturiser and the elusive perfectly-fitting pair of jeans).

With the massive glut of online dating profiles - especially gay online dating profiles - has technology actually done us in? There are literally thousands of these profiles and everyone somehow finds a way to make their lives sound ten times more fabulous, make their skin look eleven times smoother and their personalities shine like gold.

In a completely self-indulgent and retrospective mood, I mapped out the online dates I have been on in the past few months. Some of them procured ongoing "things" (the word things is used very loosely here to mean multiple hook-ups, free dinners or - deep breath - actually dating) while most of them led to absolutely nothing but futile attempts at second dates and bouts of hair-pulling rages where I realised a man who described himself as "good-natured" probably meant "fucked up, three years older than I claim on my profile and a whore."

The really sad fact is that most of these profiles offer completely false hope and most of the men actually never respond, or even better, respond succinctly with "Ok", "Good" or "Fine lol". There have been multiple times I've become completely blown away and excited by reading a man's profile, viewing him scantily clad in his photos and reading the probably-fucked statistics saying we are a 98% match. I should know better, after all. If I wanted a 98% match then I would sit down with an extra-50%-free bottle of Vaseline moisturiser and masturbate for sixteen hours a day.

And once you get to the first date, it's a complete 50/50. The person can either turn out to be a distant relative of Sasquatch or Ryan Gosling's long-lost second cousin. And that's just physically. First date conversations are classed in two groups: good or fucking deranged and terrible. And if the conversation itself isn't deranged and terrible, the acts following said conversation can be disastrous.

For example, I once messaged a guy on OkCupid late on a Sunday afternoon and we met an hour later in Chelsea (I should have known it was going to be bad from the moment he suggested a bar close to W 19th and 9 Avenue aka the whores' playground).

After spending literally two hours sharing margaritas and great first date rapport (wherein I made it clear I wasn't really into the sex-on-the-first-date thing because, foolishly, I was on the quest for love or something), he invited me back to his apartment two streets away. We went, he pulled out his incredibly large cock and got all kinds of bent out of shape when I refused to sit on it. He asked me to leave, said he hated guys with no follow through and then sent me an angry text after saying that he felt jilted because he footed the margarita bill and I couldn't even show my appreciation by giving up my anus. I explained that my anus costs more than five margaritas, thank you very much, and that I had made it abundantly clear - in English, which I was pretty sure was his mother tongue - that sex was not on the table.

Of course, I had no one to blame but myself because I had gone back to his apartment to "watch TV", I looked incredibly good that night in particular and - in his words - I kissed the way vanilla smells.

The worst part about it was his dating profile said (I'm actually copy/pasting here for full effect): "I am respectful and enjoy great company and conversation. Hook ups aren't my thing, I'm looking for something more substantial" yada yada bull fuckery.

A few weeks later, I met an Australian who was roughly the height and size of Atilla the Hun (which was very sexy, aesthetically). We had spoken numerous times on the phone after our online exchanges, his accent was a Madonna-esque hybrid of Australian/American, he had a gorgeous, gravelly laugh and  his profile said something to the effect of "looking for the one" - in not so much a gag-worthy tone.

We met in the West Village for tea late one night and immediately I sensed the chemistry wasn't right. He barely shook my hand, called me "Jack" which is as insulting as smearing dog shit on my cheek and refused to let me pay for his $3.75 cup of tea, which especially annoyed me since I had to break $20 on my own $3.75 cup and wouldn't it have been easier for me to just pay $7.50? We sat and spoke for some time, although I was a little miffed by our initial face to face interaction. By 10PM, he was ready to hit the road and I was ready for a large glass of a mixed vodka drink. As we stepped outside, he informed me that he had just procured a large art installation piece (which I really didn't give a fuck about because in my mind, large art installations and large men who call me "Jack" really don't interest me individually or in conjunction with one another) and would I like to come see it, his apartment is literally one building away.

Against my better judgment I said fine, why not? It was in the direction of the nearest bar anyway and I couldn't get the thought of a vodka/club soda/lemon out of my mind. As we entered his apartment (which was the most impressive thing about the night up until that point, it was huge), he lunged at me and started kissing me like I was a concubine from the Old Testament. He pushed me against his exposed brick wall (was that maybe the large art installation he was speaking about?) and grabbed at my hips with his huge hands. Immediately, I was turned on and extremely confused. After about ten minutes of clothes-dropping against his wall, he stopped and asked me if I wanted a bump. Looking at the large, luminescent creature in front of me (he was very sun-deprived), I asked if he meant what I thought he meant.

Yes, he meant coke.

Ok, I'll take a bump.

Just one?

Yes, just one.

It's pointless if you take just one.

How many would you suggest for it not to be pointless?

At least five or six.

I'm not taking five bumps.

Never mind, then.

Ok.

That was it. I dressed myself, I left, got my vodka drink and purposefully lost his number and never responded to his text to meet for another cup of tea (really, a man who thinks five bumps is the least amount of coke one should do in one go-around can't even go out for a proper drink?) and haha, wasn't it funny that I never did get around to seeing his art installation?

On the other hand, men I've met in the more "traditional" sense have turned out to be less neurotic and more charming. One day I was biking in Prospect Park when I had to hit the brakes really hard to avoid killing a mother and her child crossing the bike path. The bike skidded and I fell on my side in front of every morning cyclist and jogger Brooklyn has ever seen, scraped my elbow pretty badly and wished I could evaporate into thin air. A guy who was riding behind me stopped and asked, "Did you just have a bi-hicular accident?"

It was cute, I laughed and he offered me a hand up. After my fall, we pushed our bikes around the park and had lovely first date conversation - which was simply chalked up to "conversation" considering it wasn't even a date. He lived around the area, he was very handsome and had the kind of eye/smile combination that makes panties vanish in a puff of sexual energy. He even made a makeshift bandage for my elbow scrape with some tissue and saran wrap we got from a nearby hotdog vendor. I didn't even mind walking around the crowded park on a sunny morning with an elbow wrapped up like a piece of pork - he was that disarming. When I was ready to leave, he asked for my number and sent me a text later that day to ask if we could meet for a drink in the neighbourhood.

I loved this particular interaction because it was very romantic, the way we met was worthy of some Bridget Jones hi-jinks and it was easy. There was no "will he/won't he?" online exchange, no fighting to try to meet - we didn't even have a conversation about being gay. The chemistry was instant and our subsequent dates were fun. I met some of his friends, he liked to hold my hand in the street and he knew the oddest tidbits of information about old New York which I love hearing about.

The only reason it fizzled was because I was dating another man and Bike Guy, while charming, intelligent and beautiful, didn't hold my attention in the same way.

The other guy, Ren (who I've written about before) was actually a hybrid: I had met him outside a club once before with very minimal dialogue, then messaged him online only for us to realise we had interacted months before in person. This was also by far the most fun, interesting, personal and deep connection I had felt with any man in New York. So maybe this is the trick? Maybe a mixture of the real world, coupled with cyberspace is what makes a proper click? Maybe reality coupled with the online fantasy is what can really push a relationship into hyper-drive.

Indeed, an online profile is stilted, intangible and can be misinterpreted in so many ways, we should have a tarot card reader next to us while we're on the hunt. And as true a representation we may all want to give, how honest are we really on these profiles? Even if the information is honest, is our relaying of it the same? Information has a funny way of being mistranslated, pictures can be completely skewed (and, in some cases, over ten years old when the subject was fitter, younger and had actual hair colour) and even the online statistics can be fucked depending on the subjects' honesty when answering the questionnaires that are responsible for these percentages.

And even knowing this, I still log on to get my flog on. It's simple, there's a ton of choice and hey, it's easier than approaching some hottie in a bar with Adam Levine's beard and arms. But I have resigned myself to expect the worst. At least then when I meet someone who is everything I want and more, I can pretend that I never really hinged that much on it because I'm too cool and it was all by chance... even if the website said we were a 98% match and his self-summary said, "I am searching for true, irrefutable love oh, and by the way my diet consists of eating anything yet my body still manages to resemble every hot Italian sculpture you've ever seen."

Now, that's honesty.

The Want.

How does it keep growing?
This feeling inside myself?
Like a ghostly haunting, thrashing -
A monster that won't be shelved.
Beating around, thumping my core,
Inching slowly toward my very innards,
How can I douse it when my mind screams for more?
A vine that keeps growing inward.
It's there before I sleep and in the moment I awake,
Fiery, icy, gravitationally enhancing,
These are unknown and gargantuan stakes,
And nothing will stop its advancing.
It hurts because the feelings are wry,
Your face is beautiful, far but dear,
Love won't escape me, although the heart feels dry,
I'm falling and falling, dissonance is near.
I can't stop the dreams; the murmurs,
I can't stop the wanting and wishing,
I can't stop the thoughts, a roaring ferver,
I can't stop the hoping, praying.

Year in, year out

Today marks a year since my mum passed away. Never has a year felt so long and so short, broken up into different bits that have been heart-wrenching, scattered, fumbling, guilt-ridden, enlightening, fulfilling and fun.

And while a year ago I don't think I would have pictured myself being where I am right now, I think that's a true testament to how human I am and also how much has changed within me. And although I can't say the sorrow has passed or I have come to terms with anything more or less than I had a year ago, I can say that I believe my mother would have been happy knowing, hearing and seeing everything that has happened within the past year - and even more pleased to know a lot of it was because of her.

Life isn't perfect and living without a mother, even less so - but it carries on and carries you right along with it. So to the many years ahead, and the one that has just gone by, I dedicate to her and to myself - the only two people who could ever understand, appreciate and love our relationship as much as we both did.

It Matters Not...

It Matters Not whether white, black or Spic.
It Matters the size of your dick.

It Matters Not whether lithe, frumpy or large.
It Matters your courage.

It Matters Not whether straight, gaysexual or bi.
It Matters that you try.

It Matters Not the feeling of incomptence or disgrace.
It Matters always coming back to what was misplaced.

It Matters Not waist-size, smooth lips or muscle mass.
It Matters how you shake dat ass.

It Matters Not moments crappy or lives crappy.
It Matters always finding yourself back at happy.

The "I don't want a relationship" guy

In keeping with the general topic of confusing men, confusing male interactions, confusing signals and confused men on the whole, I want to address the very confused man who says stupid, infuriating and hurtful shit like, "I'm really not looking for a relationship right now..."

I can completely understand hearing this the first time I meet a guy - especially if all we're going to get up to is being down to nothing in the clothing department. I completely expect it if we have just met and the general signs I receive are that of a horny caveman with a dick like a rhino's horn and the air of a Fuck God whose favourite hobby is listed as "fellatio" on his online dating profile. I absolutely, definitely and completely expect it from a guy who I have no probable chemistry or commonalities with apart from the fact that we both have penises, they both spurt cum and we're willing to test out the apparatus.

But what about the guy you've dated, who you seem to have a connection with, who makes you laugh because he says things in silly voices and holds your hand in the movie theatre? How are you (and how am I?) supposed to decipher the "I don't want a relationship" line?

The unadulterated fact is that if a guy who I've dated, who I spend nights with, who I kiss in the street and who introduces me to his friends says something like that to me, I'm to assume that all I'm good for is a fuck and good times until someone who he deems hotter and more deserving of his commitment comes along.

And with that piece of information, all I can do is scratch my head and wonder, What's wrong with me?

Except nothing is wrong with me. I am perfectly fine. I am having an absolutely human (which is code for "normal") reaction to being in the company of a blundering fuck-up who has no idea what he wants.

My real question, though, is how can you date someone consistently over a period of time and then have the balls to disrespect their time, effort and intelligence by saying you don't want a relationship? What in fuck's name have you been doing then? Playing handball? What these fuckers need to do is grow multiple pairs and be honest. It's not that they don't want a relationship. They don't want me. And while that may be an 11 inch dildo-sized pill to swallow, it will be alright. It will hurt, it will be disgusting and I will probably hate you but wouldn't it be helpful for me to know the exact turf I am standing upon? At least with all the information I can make an informed decision and feel completely justified when I say, "Go fuck yourself in your own ass."

So why are men so uptight about being honest? "I don't want to hurt someone's feelings," is what a guy I broached this subject with told me. Ok, so you don't want to hurt someone's feelings. But what's next, then? "Well... I just go with the flow." Ok, so you just go with the flow until what? "I don't know."

Oh, well in that case can you point me in the direction of the person who fucking has a shadow of a clue?

I don't care about hurt feelings. Hurt or not, I prefer an honest man who has the courage, wherewithal and insight to know that being truthful about his feelings isn't only respectable. It's right.

I will get over you.

It's happening again,
And I am your stead.
This isn't love, it's a stain
That's spreading through my head.

The feelings persist, your smile persists,
And my emotions rear their ugly head,
My heart loses connection (if a romanticised heart exists),
And once again, I am your stead.

Not only miles apart,
But we are worlds apart.
Do I want you?
What is missing?

You are not mine, just like the Reader said.
You will never be mine, all "love" is dead.
You are not mine, so go ahead;
I will get over you.

The "dating" question...

I've been in love before. More than once actually so I know the accompanying feelings. For the past month and some change, I was seeing a guy who I can genuinely say I cared about. And while I can't speak for the other person and his feelings towards me, I'm sure on some level we both felt strongly for each other. We saw each other consistently, we slept together many nights, we lay in the dark and spoke about the deepest and stupidest shit there is. In essence, there was true intimacy.

At the same time, I continued to date other people (although not as consistently or consecutively) and I had sex with other men.

The last man I had sex with asked me an interesting question. The question wasn't interesting in itself, but upon reflection it raised a bunch of Carrie Bradshaw-esque personal musings. After we had sex, we were laying down cuddling and he asked, "Are you dating someone?"

I felt naked - and I was already naked so double whammy. I answered coyly along the lines of, "Aren't we all dating someone?" I don't know why I was afraid to say, "Yes, I'm dating someone" since in all fairness I was. Well, actually I do know why and it's pretty much the subject of this blog post: I was embarrassed to admit that I was dating someone yet had thrown caution to the wind and fucked somebody else.

In my older years, I've become hugely aware of the intricacies of human relationships. Commitment, dating, courtship, hooking up, friends with benefits, fuck buddies - all of these terms have very different rules and regulations. While some may be a lot less defined, there are still boundaries that one can and cannot cross.

Commitment, which is probably the most coveted and despised of the abovementioned, is like the holy grail to any single person who wants to be in love. It doesn't just mean going steady, it's runs the gamut of seeing each other almost everyday, spending very intimate moments together, being able to hold hands and kiss in public, sharing the deepest and darkest parts of yourself, sharing your life in almost all of its entirety and being completely vulnerable with someone all the while being stuck at the receiving end of their judgment.

Dating is a little harder to define. Personally, when dating someone I prefer the clean and simple. I can't date more than one person at the same time. It can get sticky, details, dates, situations and stories can get blurred and to be very honest, if I see someone more than four times it pretty much means I can see a future with them in some capacity. Sharing a part of yourself like that can be tiresome if you spread it out among multiple dating partners.

I did see the guy who asked me the "dating" question once again. We met for coffee in Chelsea and we had a conversation about sex. He asked me if I had bottomed for anyone since we had had sex (I had refused to bottom for him because, as I explained, I feel the need to have a certain level of emotional connection with a man before I can enjoy being penetrated by him). I didn't respond but that was enough of an answer for him to assume the worst. I think he was genuinely upset that I had let someone else fuck me but not him.

The interesting thing is even I felt a little weird after. Was I being some kind of slut martyr? What was the difference between dating someone and having sex with someone? Furthermore, the guy who I wasn't dating was actually sweet and hot and we did have an emotional connection which wasn't completely based on simple sexual tension. We had met before, we had conversed and were both very attracted to each other, not to mention I knew the possibility of dating him was on the table.

And even deeper than all of this, was the person I was actually dating even taking any of this into consideration? Not that it mattered much (except it totally did). I rarely fuck someone when I hook up with them. I'm not old fashioned but it takes a lot of emotional energy to stick a dick into a person and it is infinitely more pleasurable if it's someone I actually like, really like, really, really, really like or love. However, was this the case for the man I was seeing? Or was he fucking other people without the scruples I was holding on to?

The dating question also wasn't just transfixed on sex though. I was genuinely in like with a guy, a future would have been exciting, dare I say a relationship could have blossomed yet I was seeing other people and having sexual relations outside my courtship. The reason being that I felt like if nothing was said and no discussion about a probable future ever had, I was free to do whom I pleased. Except I never tried to broach the subject.

Early on in our relationship, I'd had a conversation with my dating partner and he had made it clear he "wasn't looking for a relationship" yet on the flipside he had told me (during the same conversation) the quest for love was paramount in his life - so even these confusing signals left me with an eyebrow raised and a straying penis. However, in other conversations he would say things like "our dating life is going well" or that we had a good thing going together or while he wasn't looking for a relationship, the natural flow would dictate more than he or I could.

So when does dating become DATING (caps intentional). And when does DATING become being open to something even more serious... like a relationship? While a month and a half is definitely not enough to know if I want to pursue a full fledged relationship, I wish I had brought up the topic just to bounce it off the other person. It's a confusing land, and the terrain isn't that well traversed. I remember being 15 and after making out with my first boyfriend, we hung out everyday and never even spoke about the fact that we were in a relationship - probably due to the fact that we were too young to even realise how earth-shattering and gravity-defying the word "relationship" tends to be. Is it that we just put too much weight on shit like commitment, or boyfriends, and we should just hop on board and hope for the best?

Or do we just need to program our minds differently when it comes to relationships and dating. Do these terms only hold the weight we apply to them? And if we don't apply any weight, or don't even think about the consequences of what they can possibly mean, would our dating lives/relationships be the better for it?

Something to ponder.

The final days of my finer days (Part 1 - The one with two Trinis in New York)

In the spirit of blogging, as well as keeping a tab on the goings-on in my life, I've decided to write a post about the final days leading up to my absence from gay New York. They were a lot of fun (I don't think I slept for two weeks...) and I should document now before I forget everything that went down.

Dates are blurry but I'm going to try to type everything that I remember for the sake of remembering.

Here is a rundown of some of the characters I met in New York:

Ren and I had a great run - approximately a month and a half of dating consistently, seeing each other multiple times a week and in general having a great connection. He actually was the only person on my entire trip who I developed personal feelings for and actually cared about.

Martin is a guy I had met on OkCupid. He is Czech, was staying at a friend's in Far Rockaway and had only been in New York about a week before I met him. Subsequently he moved to an apartment on the Upper East Side with a guy named Robert. Martin also has a dog named Pablo who was brought across from Prague about two weeks after I met him. Martin and Robert were a big part of my final weeks in New York. I saw them frequently, we always had great conversations and Robert's fire escape was the scene of many great times. Robert is an art teacher at a private school in the Bronx. He paints and also designs clothing while Martin is a photographer/art director/creative type. Martin and I became really close since we share a lot of the same ideologies and outlooks, and we had intense conversations, funny conversations and a lot of fun together. He also is looking for a job currently, and since I didn't work we had a lot of free time to spend together.

Tali is a beautiful New Yorker I met one afternoon in February at the Ritz. I was alone, she was with a friend named Ronak across the bar from me. Ronak called me over in a friendly manner and we all started speaking. The rest is history. We became friends, I hung out with Ronak a few times and it was always fun but Tali and I especially became close since we both lived in New York and were young and didn't know many people. She lives in a beautiful studio overlooking 9 Ave in Hell's Kitchen, was always up for coming to gay bars with me and we fell in love with each other.

Two weeks before I left my friend Kristian from Trinidad visited (from Friday 17th May - Sunday 19th). It was amazing, considering I hadn't had any visitors in New York until he came. It was fun showing him around, feeling like I knew things about the city, etc. The first day we went to Times Square, had breakfast close by and then shopped like crazy teenage girls. Then we headed to Chelsea which was somewhat boring, on to the West Village where we drank copiously at Boots and Saddle, one of my favourite hangouts. After B&S, I took Kris to the East Village to Yuca Bar for their amazing mojitos. After that, everything was a blur. We got intensely drunk... at about 2PM in the East Village. It was funny, but it didn't feel funny at the time. I was hunched over on a stoop on E 7th Street for about an hour while Kristian took numerous compromising photos of me. An example of such photos:

Kris was staying in Williamsburg so at about 4PM we headed there and completely passed out in his bed, only to wake up around 10PM to text messages and a voicemail from Ren since we were supposed to meet him in Times Square to see The Great Gatsby. Suffice to say, I felt like a dumbass for a) ruining Kris' first night in New York and b) standing up Ren when I really wanted to see him. All worked out well though, since I sent Ren a text and he told me to come spend the night at his place anyway which I did gladly and Kris was admittedly tired after his 12-hour bus ride from Toronto and wanted to rest up.

The next day, I messaged Kris to meet me on Christopher Street with specific instructions on which trains to take. Of course he took the right train lines but went in the opposite direction which was hilarious. He ended up at Penn Station/34th Street instead of taking a Downtown 1 train to Christopher. All in all, it was an adventure for him and he did eventually make it (like a true New Yorker). There was a fair on Christopher Street so we walked around for a bit, had massive sausage dogs that weren't as delicious as they were impressive, then decided to head to the Staten Island Ferry terminal so he could see the Statue of Liberty. The plan was to take the ferry itself to SI so we could get some views of Lady Liberty and he could snap some pictures, but the terminal was paaaacked and Liberty Island didn't open until Memorial Day (which was the following weekend) so we just went upstairs and viewed the statue through the glass windows of the ferry terminal.

It was a pretty dreary day (contrasted to the beautiful weather of the day before) and we headed back uptown to Hell's Kitchen where there was also a huge street fair on 9th Avenue. The events that followed were both hilarious, terrible and fun.

We first headed to Rudy's which had become one of my go-to spots. Free hot dogs and $3 beer was like heaven. After eating and polishing off some beer on the rainy outside patio, we went to Posh on W51st where Kristian flirted shamelessly with the very cute bartender. His name was Ricky (like Martin), he was Latino (like Martin) and his body was super fucking cut (like Martin). I asked to touch his nipple and he was very gung ho for it. I will hold that cherished memory close to my heart for the rest of my life.

After getting slightly sloshed at Posh, we headed to Boxer's on 50th. By far, the most fun I'd had in Boxer's my entire trip was with Kristian (which makes sense. Trinis know how to party). After being there for about half hour I went downstairs to use the facilities. Back upstairs, Kristian is taking pictures with a huge group of drag queens and ladies. I jumped into the picture, excited that we had made new friends. These drag queens were serious. They had had a show earlier that day at Traffic and were crazy. One of them really liked Kristian and he showed us his picture of him as a guy (he was infinitely cuter as a man, which almost never happens for DQs but who were we to judge?) After getting smashed yet again, I made out with who I presumed was a cokehead from Alabama who I had met on the street in the fair. He was cute (although Kris insisted he wasn't), I was drunk and it was funny. We behaved badly, went down into the restrooms and fooled around for a bit. I would've felt like a whore except I was drunk, it was Saturday and why the fuck shouldn't I?

Upstairs once again, a guy who was hanging out with the drag queens and I started to have a conversation. He was a red-haired Jew who wore glasses. Again, I thought he was cute and Kristian argued that he wasn't (he was probably just jealous that he could only pick up a drag queen. Snap) and this guy and I proceeded to make out, do dirty acts and then got thrown out of Boxers. It. Was. Awesome. I'd never been thrown out of anywhere in New York, plus the fact that it was Boxers was poignant and hilarious.

I found Kris, told him I was getting the boot out of the bar and we left with Kirsten, one of the drag queens' friends. She was going to a friend's apartment in HK and invited us to come along. Kristian peed on someone's stoop (which was funnier while we were drunk but slightly horrendous to think about in retrospect) and we headed to Kirsten's friends' place. They had a beautiful apartment overlooking 10 Ave and we drank some more, flirted with the guys whose apartment we were at, went to the roof and took a bunch of pictures like piny tourists, compared penises (because what else do gay guys do in New York?) and engaged in tons of debauchery.

When we left, Kris headed back to Williamsburg and I went to Ren's apartment to spend the night.

On Kristian's last day (Sunday 19th), we had breakfast in Brooklyn and then took the G train all the way to Park Slope which takes fucking forever. After that we headed to Times Square to meet one of his mum's friends, Lisa, who lives in Greenwich Village. We had a lot of fun with her, she was gracious and funny and kept buying us alcohol. First we went to a bar off 42 Street which was alright. Then we headed uptown to collect some documents and then went to the Meatpacking District for more alcohol. The Meatpacking is beautiful - everyone is trendy and fancy and shiny. After that we had some dinner in Chelsea and then bade Lisa goodbye. I dropped Kris off at Port Authority and we had a tearful goodbye, then I headed to Ren's again to spend the night.

All in all, Kristian's weekend was a lot of fun. We're best friends and I hadn't seen him in months and probably won't again for many more (he lives in Canada now) so it was nice to reunite in the Empire State. Very fitting :).

Ren - 13/4/13 to 21/4/13

Ren... yes, he's a guy. And as the date in the title suggests, I first met him Saturday 13th April, 2013.

Well, actually, it's a little more complicated than that. After scouring OkCupid for likely matches (and there are hundreds - maybe even thousands in the New York, five borough area), I messaged this guy. He had pictures of himself with video cameras and captions like "On set in Brooklyn", a very cute smile and a picture of his cat. Now I generally think pet pictures can be a bit corny, especially when it's your pet and nothing else - pictures with captions like "Buddy sitting on a park bench" or "Lola, 3 weeks old". How am I supposed to gauge how hot you are when the biggest picture on your profile is that of your solitary pet that you could have scratched from some unsuspecting ASPCA fansite. It's just like strangers with candy: they lure you with the idea of something sweet and then rape you unrelentingly, blaming your naivete to justify their pillage.

But I made an exception because his cat was adorable and so was he, not to mention I often don't hold steadfast to my general rules of courtship because then I'd only date Noah from the "Notebook".

I can't remember exactly when Ren messaged me back, but he did. And his message went something to the effect of "Hey James, I think we met before outside Industry. I remember asking a guy from Tobago with a cool accent for a cigarette a few months ago."

Upon reading the message a vague recollection of the event entered my hypothalamus. We're talking months back - maybe around January - and I vaguely remembered speaking with a guy who I thought was cute outside a club, giving him a cigarette and nothing ever coming of it.

So I hit this stranger with my number and told him to contact me if the urge ever led him to. Later that day I got a text with plans to meet in the West Village the day after (Saturday the 13th - useless Friday the 13th pun not intended) for coffee. I didn't reply right away because I had another date that Saturday and for some reason I thought the other guy was hotter and better. He wasn't.

Eventually I messaged him back, I agreed to meet at the desired location and the next day I headed down to the beautiful West Village to meet "that guy I loaned a cigarette to". I got to Mojo Coffee which, if I might say, has the most unoriginal and base coffee shop name in all the world, and waited outside. Eventually, Ren came out from the coffee shop and poked me in the back. "James?" he asked.

My heart sank to my penis. He was cuter than his pictures (I love when this happens. It's like waking up on Christmas morning to find a naked Hugh Jackman with a bow nestled snugly on his crotch, waiting to be unwrapped next to your 20 foot tall Christmas Tree) and his smile was like the glittery part of a rainbow right before it touches the pot of gold with the fat leprechaun dancing around it oddly. We went inside and immediately had some of the best first-encounter conversation I have ever had. He was funny, he touched my forearms when he spoke, he kept prefacing his sentences with my name (eg. "James, you are so hot and I want to do you on the espresso machine right now."), he was animated and intelligent and our conversation never lulled. We weren't sure if we had met previously outside Industry until we started speaking about our cats. Immediately I recognised his cat wallpaper and he said he remembered me telling him that my cat was "a bitch".

We left and walked toward Chelsea, spoke about "Breaking Bad" which he has just started to watch (he received immediate props since I'm a big fan of the show) got more coffee and sat in a park where we chatted more, got very close and engaged in kissing in the presence of complete and unsuspecting park-goers. After, I walked him further uptown to his gym and we made plans for me to go over to his place on Monday to watch a few episodes of Breaking Bad - which, in gay world, is slang for engage in massive doses of making out, cuddling and being ridiculously inappropriate with the hot stranger I hung out with for a few hours for one day. Because being a slut is what I do best.

I was pretty excited after meeting Ren. He was a sweetheart in almost every sense of the word. He kept trying to mimic my accent, but sounded like a lazy, white Jamaican-Bahamian hybrid, his smile (I'm sorry, did I mention that already?) made me want to giggle like a seventeen-year-old who is watching porn for the first time and when he held my hand in the park he entwined his fingers with mine - which my mum always said was "the way someone who loves you holds your hand". Insert obvious squeals of excitement here. Also insert a puke bag in case the corn factor is just too much for you.

He messaged me after that very day and said he had a good time, that I was really cute and he couldn't wait to watch Breaking Bad later that week. Well, a man who is sweet and then texts me right after gratuitous park making out is a man among men in my book.

On Tuesday, I headed to his place. He made dinner - or heated and boiled pre-packaged goods - and we got right to it. Now, the reason this guy gets an entire post becomes clear in my mind on this very night. We watched Breaking Bad, spoke about the acting class he goes to, ran some lines from "Death of a Salesman", he gave me an extra copy that he had because he said he thought I would like it (points for trying to expand my artistic intelligence), got hot and heavy and eventually retired to his bed for the night. We're talking, kissing, talking, kissing, groping, talking, getting more and more naked, talking, et cetera. At one point, with the moonlight on his face (or the lights from the apartment building on the opposite side of the street facing his window) he stops to look at me and says (paraphrased), "James, I don't want you to think the only reason I invited you over is to have sex."

Melt. Melt melt melt. This is me melting. This is my jaded New York City dating heart melting. This makes up for every douchezilla I encountered, every ignorant fucktard, every cunt and any other viable terms that can be geared toward the horrible gay single men of New York. In one sentence, he patched up every wound I had felt and every disastrous encounter I had taken part in.

We were there, in the bed, in our skivvies, I was ripe for the taking, he was huge and strong and ridiculously gorgeous and all he wanted to do was talk and cuddle and laugh and act like that seventeen-year-old. There is a God. Kidding, there is no God. But there is some kind of karmic retribution that sent this fine motherfucker my way.

After that night, we planned to meet on Friday for a drink with his friend and see a movie. I spent the night and the day after we met again for dinner and a movie - since the movie the night before didn't happen. Our conversation is always going, I haven't laughed like this with someone in a very, very long time and who the hell lies down in bed, in the dark, in each others arms, talking about the silliest and smartest things? Me, that's who. Not to mention the sheer serendipity that I met Ren months ago in front of a bar where we didn't flirt, didn't exchange numbers and I ran off inside prematurely because it was too cold and I didn't think he was worth freezing my right ass cheek off for is so New York, I want to die.

Now the hopes aren't up. I'm a writer and very aware that hope is for the faint of heart who are disappointed at every juncture. I am still exceedingly weary of the men in New York. But finally, I feel like I am being rewarded for being a patient gay camper, Brokeback style (although his tent is a studio in the Upper West Side with heat and cable).

And while I am still dating other people, and I am keeping every door, window, peephole and crack open I'm finally aware that maybe there are guys out there who are nice and charming and kind. And sometimes you can just hang out with a sweet guy who is intelligent and beautiful and thinks just as much of you as you do of him.

Praise Jah.

Date Night #3098439 (Gay in New York)

I hate admitting it, even to myself, but when I first came to New York a big part of me was hoping to find love. I've been single for the past three years and my relationship before that wasn't much to write home about (although it wasn't terrible either... no offense to the guy).

Within the last three years, I have lived in my home country which I love but which isn't particularly open. You can't hold hands in the street with another man, you definitely can't kiss unless it's behind closed doors and if you grow to be 40 and live with a man, your neighbours say things like, "They're special 'friends'" followed by awkward coughs and a dawning of the understanding that gay men DO live among us.

So you can imagine my excitement when I packed my bags and came to New York for an extended period of time. For one, it's gay New York. It's the home of Broadway, for chrissake, which is nicknamed "The Great White Way". Honey, if that's not gay then I drive a pickup truck and wear muddied work boots.

I've been here for roughly four months now and I've gone on about 20 dates (maybe more) and I just want to express how very disappointed I am. Not in the city - because the city is fucking awesome - but in the men. From the gorgeous men in their three piece Armani suits to the scruffy guys with bright eyes and the whitest teeth on earth to real estate executives who always check their watches when they pause on the sidewalk at a stop sign to lithe dancers who have pierced nipples to the all-American guy with blond hair, blue eyes and an ass that would make any gay man's dick whistle the tune of a Marvin Gaye song - ALL of them really, really suck.

Before coming here my eyes were bright, I imagined a man of my dreams (about six foot, sparkling eyes, hair so thick my fingers would get lost forever in their tendrils, an emotional maturity and capacity far beyond that of a 19-year-old, the heart of Gandhi and mind of Einstein in one and a body that would make Ryan Gosling shed tears. Real tears). Spoiler alert: I haven't found this man yet.

Now, I'm not one for this romantacised notion of what one's ideal partner should be or a fucking bucket list full of haves and have nots. I understand that a man on paper doesn't exist - I may be a writer, not a fucking Republican. But by far, the biggest problem I've encountered thus far is the fact that every single, gay New York male is absolutely terrified. Terrified of life, terrified of their ex, terrified of their masculinity (or perceived lack thereof), terrified of what other gay male New Yorkers think, terrified of affection and commitment. Place anything in front of a gay New York male and they will skittle away in the opposite direction - even a half naked A&F ad will probably bring them to tears faster than give them a woodie. They'd be terrified that their abs don't live up.

Last Saturday, I went on a date with Thom (you decide if that's his real name or not. I really don't care). Thom is a handsome, highly successful, absolutely luminescent and perfect-haired real estate mogul. He's also in his early 50s and fresh out of a relationship with a 27-year-old who, by all accounts, will reside in Satan's left ball when he dies.

Now the last two pieces of information were unknown to me before I met Thom. We met in a sunny side of the West Village after conversing for about two days on OkCupid and having back and forth texts about meeting up. Finally, a man with follow through who seemed handsome enough and knew that the word "your's" doesn't exist.

When Thom walked into the restaurant we had agreed upon I was beyond thrilled. He was hotter in real life, he was just a little taller than me and he was wearing a white button down that showed me he wasn't nursing a spherical stomach (I'm gay, I still care about some of these things. Sorry).

Right away he sat down and ordered choice appetizers and drinks ("These are the best in New York," he assured me sexily) and we immediately started to have great conversation. We spoke about Trinidad - where I'm from - and his family, my family, the things we did on lazy Sunday afternoons, how annoying it was to walk behind tortoise-speed tourists who didn't know their tits from the Empire State building, our conflicting views of the subway (I love it, he is a staunch believer in cabs which I could get over because at least he was ridiculously cute and smart) and a number of other topics that basically led me to the conclusion that our first date - if you could call it that - was a resounding success.

Afterward, we left and went to a bar and continued speaking, at which point we engaged in voracious, gratuitous public displays of tongue thrusting and groping. In my defense, we were at a lesbian bar so who really gave a fuck how ridiculous we were being?

We spoke about what we thought of each other - I complimented him on how cute he was, how very shiny his hair looked, how adorable the little gap between his front teeth was, et cetera, et cetera. To all of these, Thom would shoot me down and say he wasn't worthy of any of my praise. Warning sign number one.

We decided to head back to his place in Midtown West, and we both agreed that we didn't want to have sex, we simply wanted to spend time together. We never did have sex - I don't want you to continue reading waiting for this to become a Harlequin romance special.

We did, however, romp in his bedroom drunk as fuck and have a very personal conversation about Thom's ex who was unfaithful, broke his heart and is unfortunately my age. Already, I knew the art of projection was happening to me. From time to time, he would stop what we were doing and look off into the distance very broodingly. Warning sign number two.

That night we slept close together. To me, that is the best part of intimacy and I enjoyed it the most. The next morning was good, we were pretty affectionate, we watched the news a little, I expressed my interest in seeing him again as did he and then left.

After that, I sent him a couple cute, funny text messages from which I garnered some terse responses such as, "Yes", "Good", "Ok" and, my personal favourite, "Right on". He apologised in one of his texts for getting "goofy" (his word, not mine) about his ex and I assured him it was alright; everyone has bad break ups and are allowed to be in pain. In essence, I was being an understanding and famously lovely person. I tried to make plans to meet up with him but he was never really forthcoming and would always give offhanded excuses.

So my question is, am I the most hideous being there is to lay eyes on (please, as if) or are all New York gays just scared of their pasts and futures? I'm proposing meeting up for a drink or two - which went down pretty nicely the first time around. I assure there were sparks otherwise I would not have ended up with precum soaked into my underwear (his precum, not mine - for reference).

At the end of this all, I just feel duped and pretty stupid. I must also say, I've become so jaded about dating in this city that it is pretty easy to fall hard for someone who seems so different from the rest the first time I meet him. Not in a let's move in together tomorrow kind of way, but in a let's maybe start something up for fuck's sake kind of way. Let's date, let's go see a movie, let's spend the entire night cuddling in front of the television watching BBC America, let's laugh about stupid shit. The beautiful things of courtship are what I crave the most.

And once again - empty handed. Like a wisp of smoke that disappears into the wind. Not really because an ex fucked a guy I like, or because he is too maimed and damaged to know the difference between a good guy and a bad one but because the guy I like is too scared to admit that moving forward is really the only way forward.

And truly, there is no room for fear in love.