For those of you who wonder what it is like to have a penis, I’ll speak for my own. It’s like wearing your heart on your crotch. I sometimes feel like the main source of excitement generated in my life is from the promise of sex: more of it! better of it! When I think about the traditional associations with the metaphorical heart – lust, attraction, love – I find that these emotions emanate not from my chest, but from my groin. My heart doesn’t flutter or swoon, it engorges and swells to the point of bursting.
As I write this, I’m flying back to L.A. after spending a few days visiting friends in NYC. I hate to admit it as a diehard Angeleno, but New York is, yes, probably the best city I’ve ever been to. This city doesn’t sleep, it is frantic and tweaked out, like that one person in your crew who always takes a hit of drugs at last call and forces you to continue dancing with him into the early morning. And the people… The most beautiful and the most hideous people, their faces and bodies canvases of their own life’s art. I was on the 7 train around midnight and I saw a supermodel (I recognized her from a billboard in Times Square) drunkenly letting a one-armed homeless man fondle her boobies and I almost exploded.
I’m going to be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping to sample what the Big Apple has to offer, mens-wise. Granted, I hope to get some when I just go to the fucking grocery store, so this should be no surprise to anyone. Fortunately, I have some of the most awesome friends, and yesterday night they took me to the historic gay bar, Stonewall Inn. Stonewall is where most people say that the gay revolution in America began, “where pride began.” It was the site of the 1969 riots in which the New York gay community finally stood up to authorities and protested for days on end for their right to be openly gay. So no shit, I was excited to get wasted there.
Lemme just say this. Upfront chicks are the best wingmen for a gay guy, and my girl friends didn’t fail me. He was a gogo dancer/costume designer/interior decorator, and he was just so… New York, in the same way that I am disgustingly LA. He had an accent that got stronger with every progressive drink, until it sounded cockney. Afterward, he took us to Splash, where we broke some health laws in the back booths before smoking a joint and stumbling to Grand Central.
After the pansexual Argentinean hipster, I’m not going to do any Chicken Soup for the Slut. I don’t search for a moral after every man. Sure, sometimes it’s profound and epiphanic, as it was with the Argentine. But other times it’s just raw chemistry, pheromones that aren’t just undeniable, but relentlessly impossible to ignore, between you and another person. I kept drunkenly pointing out to him how New York he was, but he finally said before kissing me, “I’m a induhvidual, and so aw you.” Succinct and true. My heart swelled.