New York summer stories (x-rated)

NY summer story 1:

Last Saturday, five girls – dolled up to party – gathered at a newly moved into, sixth-story studio apartment in the East Village (belonging, of course, to one of the five). One – not the tenant – was visibly upset over a boyfriend’s decided lack of consideration. Amidst glasses of chilled white wine, make-up touch-ups and an engagement tale, words of comfort, confirmation and advice were proffered. A couple of cigarettes on the narrow, street-facing balcony drew the attention of two of the girls to a fire escape across the avenue, where two rather naked individuals – a girl and a guy – loitered, intertwined. The girl waved nonchalantly, seeming not to mind the attention.

The inhabitant of the sixth-story studio, upon finishing her cigarette, came back inside, pronouncing her neighbors’ state of undress. She asked her guests not to ogle, as the girl and the guy were, after all, her new neighbors. Which, of course, led her guests to ogle, which – in turn – seemed to excite the new neighbors, and within moments, the girl and the guy were, well, at it. She standing in front – pressed against the railing – and he behind, thrusting rhythmically – the two were indisputably mid-coitus (though ironically, somehow lacking in abandon). Despite the sixth-story studio’s tenant’s mounting protestations that her guests not stare, it was hard not to experience the fleeting New York moment fully, hard not to indulge the couple’s apparent wish to be watched.

Later, one of the girls thought that had she not had four witnesses (and a blog in which to record the details), the episode would retreat – absurdity slowly taking out reality – into an area of the brain reserved for mere fancies, imaginations, half truths and urban myths.

Additional thoughts: This is not having sex in a public restroom, on a dark rooftop or on a deserted meadow in the country, where the excitement comes from “WHAT IF someone finds us? sees us? stumbles upon us?” This is having sex for all of New York to witness, where the excitement comes not from a ‘what if’ but from the certainty of an audience.

NY summer story 2:

And, speaking of exhibitionists, a friend was recently killing some early-evening time on St. Marks, when a guy in a car said, “Hey, do you know of any good exhibitionist clubs around here?” Somewhat intrigued, she shook her head no, but asked for clarity and found out that – or at least according to this guy – exhibitionist clubs involve all patrons stripping down to their skin upon admission.

“By the way,” the self-identified exhibitionist queried, motioning netherwards, “do you want to have a look?”

“No,” my friend shook her head, ready to walk on, but the exhibitionist had recognized her intrigue and played to it, piquing her curiosity, convincing her to have just a quick peek. She walked up to the exhibitionist’s car, expecting an unzipped fly, thinking this is sure to make for a good story, but found instead that the exhibitionist wore nothing but a shirt. Aghast, she decided (rather wisely) that it was indeed time to move on, despite the exhibitionist’s additional supplications that she maintain her, er, eye-contact, until he had finished.

My friend got the distinct impression that the exhibitionist spent his days driving around Manhattan bottomless, in search of a spare set of eyes to humor his fetish. She got the impression that to him, this kick was indeed better than sex, and that to whom the spare set of eyes belonged did not matter an iota – as long as they were willing to watch to the end.

Thoughts: It’s the summer. It’s warm. People dress more provocatively. They feel liberated. And horny.

Sexy Science

This past Wednesday, I attended a Secret Science Club event after work (don’t take the ‘secret’ bit too seriously – they certainly don’t). It was at The Bell House, a 21+ venue in Gowanus, Brooklyn, with tall windows and high ceilings, inviting sofas arranged in conversational horseshoes and a somewhat understaffed bar. The back room (decked with gorgeous gilded chandeliers, wooden ceiling beams and a woolly bison) was positively heaving. Standing room only amongst a rather attractive  selection of geeks & nerds by the time I squeezed in with hard cider in hand.

We were all there to hear Vincent Pieribone – a neurologist at Yale with a penchant for marine biology – speak about the application of bio-fluorescence (not to be confused with bio-luminescence, for which the dinoflagellates in Vieques, Puerto Rico are famous) in solving modern-day neurological problems.

I wanted to share with the world at large a tid bit that had the packed, science-minded house roaring with laughter on Wednesday night.

There’s this ugly looking deep-ocean-dwelling creature called the Angler Fish. A couple pics, one Disneyfied:

The female Angler Fish attracts prey by dangling a glowing bulb of tissue chock full of luminescent bacteria near her rather treacherous mouth. The funny bit, however, is what the male Angler Fish does. Engaging in a sexual suicide of sorts, when he finds a female, he has sex with her and never pulls out. Over time, the male’s organs (save his testes) degenerate and he effectively becomes part of the female, upon whom he relies for sustenance. He is relegated to a life of eternal intercourse, as Pieribone took great pleasure in telling us, his rapt audience. Meanwhile, the female has grown (or co-opted I suppose) a pair of balls. Definitely no doubt as to who wears the pants in that relationship!

The kicker was the quote though. From Pieribone’s preso and his book Aglow in the Dark: The Revolutionary Science of Biofluorescene:

“In his 1983 book, Hen’s Teeth and Horses’ Toes, the Harvard biologist Stephen Jay Gould commented on this unusual cohabitation: ‘In some ultimate Freudian sense, what male could resist the fantasy of life as a penis with a heart, deeply and permanently embedded within a caring and providing female?'”

Apparently this phenomenon is not limited to Angler Fish.

Puts a whole new spin on commitment, huh fellas? And just in time for Valentine’s.

The Adam & Eve Gap

So I left my very decently paying brand-name company job at what was possibly the worst time to have left a job in recent history. I had good reasons and even better intentions, and wasn’t aware (I don’t think anyone was) of how cataclysmic the recession around the corner would prove to be. I am working now but not very many hours and at rather minimal pay, so when I go out with my ex-colleagues, I know I’m in for a beyond-my-means type of evening; but that’s what savings are for, right? (I say as I whittle away my down payment…)

Anyhow, last Tuesday I met up with a couple gals from my old team for a girly evening of champagne and…more champagne. Buzzed on Chelsea Vynl’s house bubbly, we braved our way through a windy West Village to my newest Italian find: Malatesta Trattoria on the corner of Washington and Christopher. Chocka on a Tuesday night, we were greeted by a convivial ambiance and a delectable Italian waiter, as well as exposed brick, high ceilings, candelit wooden tables and a limited but authentic menu. Some vino later, Lara’s looking for the loo – talking about how she thinks it’s through that narrow gap over there. All the best eateries in New York seem to have the narrowest bathroom entries, I offer, and in a boozy, split second non sequitur, between mouthfuls of sumptuous gnocchi, we’ve jumped to how ‘narrower gaps’ do generally tend to be better. It made perfect sense at the time, though Lara did try to steer us back, “I wasn’t talking about the Adam & Eve gap!”

Which got me thinking about apples, the big apple specifically. Full of temptation – to overspend, to overindulge; yet it’s also an indisputable haven of opportunity – where people come to make it big, to run away from places where they have no choice but to make it small – or mediocre at best. Both The Glass Castle and Running with Scissors are acclaimed contemporary memoirs whose authors sought out the big apple to escape their harrowing childhoods. There must be so many others whose memoirs simply don’t make the bestsellers list. A current colleague’s flatmate dropped out of high school in a nondescript mid-western town and moved to NY at the age of 15 to pursue an acting career. That was six years ago, and she’s slowly starting to make it. What of those who don’t?

So the shiny red apple, a biblical symbol of temptation, is a contemporary symbol of robustness, a veritable haven of opportunity. No wonder I came back!

While these thoughts flitted through my intoxication, confirming that running home to NY was in fact a brilliant red apple of a plan (job or no job), Lara and Annie are busy devising all manner of new sexy blog post titles, including:

Pregnant Sex; She’s the best thing I’ve ever done in my life and she’s cheap; If only I could work for Playboy; It’s so good it’s bad

Our waiter interrupts, convincing us (not too hard of a task, really) to order both the chocolate mousse and the tiramisu for dessert. Both sublime, though the former was the bigger winner if judging by the speed with which it was devoured. Malatesta Trattoria is cash or AMEX only. Why AMEX only? Cucina di Pesce in the East Village is the same sort of fussy. Perhaps it’s secret code for a good local.

On the train ride home, I sleep through my stop (a first I’d rather not have experienced), and have to cab it back to the car I left at the right stop, before driving home. Quite the journey for a little local Italian, and I am oh-so-tempted to squander my savings on a move into the big apple proper. Even if it is cash or AMEX only.

Sexperimenting

Just a quickie about neologisms. I wrote a little while ago about fupas and flirtationships; ever since I’ve been on the lookout for words I’ve never seen before, and they are just popping up everywhere.

A friend recently sent me in the direction of a NY Times piece on Rev. Ed Young who encouraged his congregation of 20,000 in Grapevine, Texas to engage in a ‘sexperiment’ (seven days of sex) as a way of getting closer to god. (Don’t worry, he’s still an advocate of abstinence – for the premarital, he recommended chocolate cake as an alternative.) I baked brownies a week ago and have been eating at least one a day – thus far no indication that it’s bridging the gap between me and the almighty. Perhaps brownies don’t suffice as an alternative to chocolate cake?

Grey’s Anatomy coined ‘oncebian’ and ‘twicebian’…for the infrequent lesbian.

A Virgin Atlantic ad spoke of ‘airphoria.’ I think this can be used no matter the carrier. It’s pretty hard to have a good flight experience, especially if you’re relegated to economy (which most of us are), so it seems reasonable to describe a flight that doesn’t make you want to slit your wrists as airphoric. Or should we save the term for those exercising membership in the mile high club?

Chrismukkah. A convenient one for those whose fate is an interfaith relationship (or just another marketing gimmick), but it’s just made the national circuit given yet another White House gaffe. Invites to a White House Chanukkah reception this year bore an image of a Clydesdale-drawn Christmas tree en route to the White House’s front door, already adorned with a Christmas wreath. Nice to know someone’s looking after the details.

I like that language is so malleable. As long as you know your audience and your letters (and a little latin), you can be an inventor of words. For now though, I think I’ll stick to documenting (mockumenting) – a resident neologistorian.

Other People’s Love Letters

It’s a silly coffee table book, a little small in size, so its likely to go unnoticed by your weekend guest especially if you keep it hidden under other silly coffee table books (as Jon did). I randomly uncovered and started thumbing through Other People’s Love Letters: 150 Letters You Were Never Meant to See about five minutes before leaving my weekend home. Slightly out of place in a bachelor pad, its premise was charming. Bill Shapiro (editor and introduction writer) reached out to an ever-growing network to solicit love (or un-love) letters from across the land. Scribbles on napkins, emails, dusty type-written letters hidden in attics, poems, notes on brown paper bags came flooding in. People keep their love letters. And wanted to share them with Billy, so he could share them with the reading public. Would you share your love letters with the world?

I recently received a lovely little ‘love’ poem that I wouldn’t have dreamed of posting on a blog but for the timely discovery of Jon’s coffee table book. In what is so often an all too serious world its lightness made me smile; perhaps it will have the same effect on you.

—–

My Burger King buddy – a love poem about a girl

Just the thought of her makes me hard
Standing beside her so nervous, my words come out like a retard

Her beauty and smarts far exceed anything I possess
All this and she is stunning in her cute little dress

And when I am in the mood
this girl will eat fast food!

In her presence, the sun shines brighter, the air a little purer
My god I’m getting horny – I just wanna do her

I look at her and want more and more
I feel like a little boy in a candy store

Her body like chocolate – so sweet
I want to lick her from her head down to her perfect feet

She is an angel – she is my angel – at least for now
Or for as long as the heavens will allow

From her dreamy eyes to her soft luscious lips
to her strong sexy hips
My friends you must admit
she is all that and a bag of chips

—–

It still makes me laugh. I reckon it would have made the 150 shortlist had the stars aligned time-wise. Everything else I got falls into the too-salacious-to-share category. Sorry.

Craigslist Sex

I was overseas for four years and just made the big move back home to New York. I won’t try to cram an overview of the last 48 months into the next 2 sentences (though I did just give it a valiant effort). I’m going to pick up where we may or may not have left off and you can fill in the blanks (as imaginatively as possible, please).

I like to write. I’ve written some terrible poetry, loads of A-grade papers, some not-half-bad articles for The Florentine, an as yet unpublished manuscript called Amber Hates March and a travel blog whose river of inspiration ran dry when I left India. I’m looking for a job in publishing and among numerous other job boards, check out Craigslist on a fairly fanatic basis.

I recently came across this post:

——————————

Seeking female co-author to tell my interesting, adult story (Midtown)

…I have basically been a sex addict enabled completely by the internet world for the last 13 plus years. I have met and been with dozens of women, men, couples and chatted with 100’s more online.

All of this while remaining a suburban husband and father of three, maintained multiple jobs, lived through many trials and tribulations, some caused by my addiction and some not.

This is not to be a story of triumph or a celebration of what I have done and continue to do. I hope it to be more of a chronocle [sic] that will perhaps open some eyes.

…

I want a female, because I think they would bring more of the clinical persective [sic] and perhaps less of the good old boy, pat me on the back perspective.

…

I thought Craigslist would be an appropriate place to start because it has been a major contributor to the story.

——————————

The internet has enabled so much (says the ex-Google employee sagely), but who does this guy think he’s kidding? Whose eyes, exactly, does he want to open?  If he were a celebrity, then perhaps a smattering of people may care, but I think most reasonably well-read people are aware it’s a sick world out there. Some people get a kick out of being spanked and others like to be the casual third to a couple looking to escape the ennui of monogamy. Sex toys run the gamut from edible underwear to proper whips. Perversity is all about perspective (as long as it’s mutually consensual and doesn’t involve the underaged). So is this jerk looking for redemption? Or has he decided that he suffers from exhibitionism in addition to sex addiction? Is he just looking to make a buck? Or does he actually think that his story is unique? I feel sorry for his kids.

It IS interesting that people are able use not just the the same tool (internet) but the same site (Craigslist) to find a respectable job, a flatmate, a cat sitter, a sofa and a fuck buddy. One stop shopping like never before. The x-rated inconspicuously mixed in with the pg.

Anyhow, I think it’s fab that people are able to find the right sustenance for their sexual appetites but disheartening that so many people are out there cheating on their spouses.