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 :).