Friday, July 25, 2003

Last night I spoke to Bono of U2 on the telephone, and then I lost my virginity as a bottom.

I don't know which is harder to believe, but both, nonetheless, are true.

Wednesday, July 23, 2003

STD and the City

Last night, I first met Yence, a Dutchman leaving in New York, who incidentally has a Puerto Rican boyfriend nonsensically named Arnold. Then we met Dimitri, Greek, by the rocks. He didn't speak a lick of English, but we somehow managed.

Alone again, I met Kevin, Alan, and Justin, all three Brits, who knew Richard, Australian, and Petro his Greek boyfriend. The Italians, Antonio and Santo, were an unexpected but pleasant addition, surfacing together like two colorful fireworks on the fifth of July.

Nationality in Mykonos seems to be as important as penis size. Of course, I was dubbed the "Californian" even though Greek American, I figured, would have boosted my appeal score up a few points. Nevertheless, I took part in these carnal soirées, that resembled what a UN committee of gay men might look like, with an authority and know-how that even Margaret Thatcher would have envied.

This morning I woke up with a terrible hangover and a terrible case of hypochondria. I rushed out of my hotel room and down to the nearest Internet cafe, appropriately named Double-Click, and ran the following Google search: "oral sex" AND "hiv".

The current literature of the subject has reached the consensus that the contraction of hiv via unprotected oral sex is unlikely but not impossible, bleeding gums being a significant risk factor. Probing the inside of my mouth with my tongue, I was pleased to find that my gums were in fact not bleeding but was troubled when I noticed a healing wound on the inside of my cheek, a result of reckless gum-chewing I reckoned.

Naturally, I manned my motorbike and headed toward the nearest cliff. En route, however, I remembered that the gum-chewing incident had occurred post head, the Wintergreen Trident an attempt to rid myself of a certain lingering aftertaste. Plummeting to a tragic death, I guess, would just have to be put off for some other day.

Nevertheless, I've decided to relinquish myself of my duties as US spokesperson during these European committees of Diesel jeans and hairless chests.

International affairs were never really my thing anyway.

Tuesday, July 22, 2003


Last night I officially cruised for the first time.

I mean, sure, I've cruised before in that commonplace kind of cruising all gay men eventually succumb to during closing hours, our eyes, hawk-like and attentive, scanning the dwindling crowds for anything not frightening.

But last night I cruised.

I don't know how it all happened actually, as always. I docked in Mykonos at around eleven at night, alone. Caroline, who had planned to spend the week with me, decided that she'd rather travel back to London for an abortion. A coat hanger, she said, was out of the question despite my many pleas. So were repeated kicks in the stomach.

Either way, I found myself on a rocky shore, leaning against a stone church ironically enough, with Pierre between my legs and water occasionally splashing against the rocks, placing us in our own exotic snow globe.

My hotel room, it seemed, was harder to find last night than sex, as I stumbled through alley and alley, making it into my room minutes before the sun rose and crept through the shutters. Maybe I should brush my teeth, I thought, but decided to lay still instead. I could still hear the waves beating against the rocks. If I strained hard enough, could I hear Pierre beating against the rocks too?

The sound of a motorcycle below my window was the last thing I heard. Sleep finally came, and it would last me well into the day.

Wednesday, July 09, 2003

Rocket Man

My flight to Greece is in ten hours. You'd think that my suitcase would have been packed and ready by now. Instead, I've decided to hold off on the packing and wax certain body parts. I hear the prepubescent look is way hot in Europe at the moment, and who am I to rebel against current trends?

At any rate, I doubt I'll be doing much blogging since I'll have limited internet access. So, I will miss all my loyal readers--all four of you--dearly.

In ten hours I'll be leaving on a jet plane with half my body hair, a dozen vicodins I've managed to cache like a squirrel, and the desperate hope that I get some summer booty.

See y'all in a month and a half!

Tuesday, July 08, 2003


I leave for Greece this Wednesday, and the neuroses are in full alert.

Typically, I have no fear of flying considering that I have done so since an infant, but for some reason I feel as petrified as a fat kid at summer camp forced to undress and take swimming lessons.

So, beyond all better judgment, I visited air safety online to view the number of fatal accidents my particular airline has accrued over the past few decades. I was pleased to find out that Air France has received an A rating and has only suffered one fatal accident in the last two decades.

The report explains: Aircraft departed runway 26R at CDG at 14:42 UTC and was observed by the air traffic control tower personnel to have flames trailing upon rotation and lift off. The airplane undercarriage did not retract; flame continued and there was little altitude gain. The accident site included a small hotel. There were no survivors.

Granted the whole “no survivors” thing sounds disheartening, the crash occurred in July of 2000, so I’m somewhat assured that all glitches that might account for “the undercarriage [to] not retract” (whatever that means) must have been resolved by now. I might have been able to sleep well tonight with this information, but of course I detected a link labeled “In the Unlikely Event…” and was entirely powerless over not clicking on it.

In regard to wearing synthetic materials on a flight, the site cautions:
You do not want your clothes to melt against your skin, it is extremely painful.

The fact that the sentence is grammatically incorrect served to only add to my anxiety over flying.

Being burned alive somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean with polyester melting against my abdomen is one thing.

Incorrectly using a comma to describe such a case, on the other hand, is just unforgivable.

Monday, July 07, 2003

The Meeting

As a young child, my parents favored having me loiter around our restaurant than be trusted with a babysitter, arguing that molestation occurred only among Americans and their insistence that strangers were more than qualified to care for their young. Thus, most of my childhood was spent irritating our chef, Chilo, being scolded by my father for unscrewing saltshakers, or, more importantly, playing Mrs. Pacman, which had been placed by my father, somewhat dismally, in our waiting room. When I had grown tired of my Great Wall of Sugar Packets or determined that it required 137 bends to break a spoon in half, I could always rely on Debbie, our blonde-haired, fifty year old waitress who never missed an opportunity to smear pink lipstick onto her anemic lips with two deliberate and predicted swoops of her hand, to generously dig into her apron and pour a handful of quarters into my palms. “I don’t want to see you for at least an hour,” she’d breathe into my face, knowing that were it not for her bribery I’d trail behind her in the salad bar and inquire pointlessly as to why some preferred beets while others did not or why old people, which seemed to constitute most of my parents’ clientele, cared so much for cottage cheese.

So there I’d be, stuck in the waiting room of Palms Family Restaurant, clearly annoyed when my parents’ loyal geriatric customers, who had observed my growth from a toddler to a prepubescent boy, found it necessary to pat me on the head or attempt a conversation, usually something involving my height or some other incredibly banal subject senior citizens occupy their conversations with (seasonal temperatures?), as I attempted to beat the top score so that I could, when prompted to enter my three initials, enter in ASS and giggle furiously.

SDG, the near-to-death 70-something year old who would wheel his oxygen tank up to my arcade in my absence, proved to be my most ominous competitor, almost always outscoring me and replacing my initials with his. After school, I’d rush in and immediately inspect the screen only to find that my latest victory, identified as TIT, had been replaced by the stern, colorless, and almost sacramental initials, SDG. I loathed SDG with such passion that when I was informed by my mother, somewhat somberly, that his selfish American children had robbed him of his money and placed him in a retirement home where others like him were routinely beat and forced to withhold their bowel movements all through the cold and unrelenting night, I almost shrieked like a developing girl noticing the first hints of breast growth on her chest.

But even with SDG out of the picture, there were other things that annoyed me about Mrs. Pacman. What irritated me most about the game were the five-minute intervals between levels depicting pivotal moments in Mrs. Pacman’s life history, i.e., the birth of her child, aptly named Junior. The one I found most bothersome followed level one. In it, Mrs. Pacman is shown head butting Mr. Pacman, with a heart splitting forth from their locking heads as if it were Athena sprouting out of Zeus’ skull with the words The Meeting looming above them like a blue canopy. How could love occur so swiftly, I wondered, as if it were a 3am earthquake: abruptly, in a single taking, and without warning? What did she know of this yellow character that came crashing into her life with the velocity of a taxicab and with the anonymity of a stripper? Where was the courting, the dinner and a movie, the obligatory armful of roses? Something was terribly wrong, and even at eleven I felt horribly cheated.

And even at twenty-one I still feel somewhat robbed, somewhat still preoccupied by That Meeting, that damn pink heart escaping into the air like carbon monoxide. I’m still out of the loop, still wondering what occurred in that millisecond before their obtuse yellow heads collided into each other and soul mate-hood was determined. It’s as if missing a month of science class due to laryngitis all over again and arriving to class not having a clue as to what photosynthesis meant or what it accomplished. It’s like lacking an invitation to Timothy Larson’s, the sixth grade class hearth throb, birthday party and helping your mother bake cookies instead, knowing that you’d catch bits and pieces circulating around homeroom, the Could you believe it when (insert something about someone)? comments, the next day but never, ever, being able to get the entire picture.

Not knowing what relationships—love, even—are made of harbors that same kind of disappointment I would imagine forgetting how to spell your name would.

And now, a decade later chockfull of nonstarters and uniformed attempts, I find myself too tired to even begin to hypothesize what it takes for history, that passage of time from Meeting to ______ that makes anything from vinegar to relationships all the more valuable, to begin with someone new.

Saturday, July 05, 2003

And prospective date number two never called.

I might as well donate my penis to science.

Friday, July 04, 2003

So, date number one, to mirror my date’s immaturity, sucked ass.

Perhaps I could have overlooked the fact that he left me waiting at the bottom of his building for over fifteen minutes, barred me from having the vodka tonic I had been craving since the nanosecond I saw him since, as a nineteen year old, he was not allowed into any bars, and possibly overlooked his two diamond studded rings that had Italian mafia written all over them, but there was something about him leaning over dinner and confessing, as if confessing to an accidental passing of gas, that he was currently on Crystal Meth and asking whether I would care for some that was just a little too much to stomach. Thank God I rode the subway into the city tonight, allowing me to claim that I had to catch the twelve o’clock train for fear that it would otherwise turn into a pumpkin.

Maybe if he hadn’t been in such a drug haze he would have appreciated the predictable yet still clever reference.

Wednesday, July 02, 2003

Isn't it the worst when you're studying at Starbucks and you meet eyes with an incredibly adorable boy with Camus' The Stranger propped in his hands and, beyond all laws of nature and probability, he actually meets your stare with a generous smile, so you hurriedly bury your head back into your psychology text book attempting to concentrate on images of ambiguous genitalia occurring in female infants exposed to increased levels of androgen, but your mind would rather occupy itself with thoughts of his name, his top/bottom identification, or whether he'd prefer a pug or a beagle running around in our one bedroom apartment in Castro, and so when he finally raises himself from his seat, puts down Camus, and nears toward your direction, you, almost reflexively, thrust your chest out, suck in your stomach, rummage your mind for a clever one-liner, Fan of Existential angst, too, I see?, and spiritually prepare yourself for The Meeting, he, rather than approaching you and admitting to being paralyzed by your stunning beauty and symmetric facial features, discards his Venti Iced Mocha Macchiato, is ignorant of your helpless gaze, and walks into the night and out of your life forever?

If it weren’t for my two scheduled dates at the end of this week, I'd set Sade on repeat, consider myself worthless, and not leave the apartment for days.