Wallowing in misfortune is not only dull, it is disrespectful to your intellect. It is a clue to the fact that you have lost perspective on your own life. But, of course, removing yourself from the pattern of negativity is easier said than done. It takes awareness of every negative thought that passes through you so that you can stop it in its tracks, turn it around, and send it creeping in the other direction.
And so after the breakdown of the two most important friendships I held in this city, I did not curl up with my laptop and a jar of Nutella, as I was inclined to do. Instead, I called up A&R (see Line of Beauty) and made an emphatic appeal as to how we should do something fun and different in the coming weekend. After the success of our tranny night, we owed it to ourselves to go exploring the depths of all the alternative gay scenes in London.
A decision was made, perhaps a little too hastily. The outfits were bought. And on Friday night just before midnight, 3 leathered up boys in harnesses, boots, studded collars, chaps, masks and whips walked across covent garden (to the horror of some tourists) and hailed a cab for the Hoist.
At the front door, our outfits were meticulously checked. I was told the Jeans I was wearing under my chaps had to go, which meant that I was therefore in a leather thong for the rest of the night. The doorman tightened my harness and winked at the black band on my left arm. We rolled into the ‘club’, and i use the term loosely. The space was claustrophobic and labyrinthine, strong spotlights showered a direct ray of light below them and left the surrounding areas in gradual darkness. The smell of leather and sweat was invigorating. Music pounded but nobody danced, there was far too much testosterone in the air for that.
A&R and I made it to the bar, got some drinks, and then reached into our boots for our pouches: sexual stimulants, stimulants in general, associated utensils and condoms. We laid them out on the bar with our drinks and began mixing and matching. I felt like I was in East Berlin. Noises started to become more audible from the back rooms.
After a swig of courage, we started to make our way through the dark corridors. More than a hundred men were prowling, not a single word being said. Two hoists were being put to good use, with one guy getting double fisted in one, and the another guy double fucked in another. Deeper into the maze, we came to ceramic clearing, where about 20 men were urinating on one another. Further on, the sound of clinking metal and cries of pain was getting louder. Metal bars were scraping against the body armour of one man as he was being flogged with a large horse-whip.
The three of us watched all of this in amazement. The animalism was extreme and we weren’t sure whether it was arousing or disgusting. Nobody looked like they were doing anything they weren’t accustomed to doing.
We felt like outsiders, like tourists, gawking at everything that looked out-of-this-world, occasionally giggling at certain sites, and downright intimated when someone attempted to grab our genitalia or engage us in the relentless orgy.
For all the weirdness, I felt a certain excitement in experiencing a different thread in the the diverse fabric that is human sexuality. This is just how they roll in 2010 in the dungeons of London. Will I go back? Maybe in the spirit of fun, but probably never to engage in any of this madness.
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Monday, 18 January 2010
Empire State of Mind
Nader did his best to snuggle up under the thick, crispy hotel duvet. He checked his watch: 4.00am. Sleep was not in the stars this night it seemed. Having arrived in Manhattan just before midnight, he assumed exhaustion would take over and allow him a few blinks. He wasn’t sure if it was his recent 3 month bout of insomnia, or just old fashioned jet lag, that made the idea of sleep inconceivable.
It was Tuesday night. For a minute he considered getting up and going out for a drink, but decided it would be 5am by the time he made it anywhere, and that would be too ambitious for a Tuesday night even for this city. His laptop was within arm’s reach, he pulled it towards him and threw open its lid. Manhunt, the only way to kill enormous amounts of time without ever a moment of boredom. His eyes scanned the assortment of faces, torsos and genitalia. He wasn’t aroused, but he was sufficiently entertained. The steady stream of messages in his inbox appeased his ego enough to keep him hooked and going. Like his insomnia, Manhunt put him in a state of semi-consciousness. His perusal and movements were robotic.
Before he knew it, daylight was creeping into the room. Nader jumped out of bed and into some running shoes, Hollister sweat-pants and a polo shirt. It was –6 degrees outside, but he knew once his body started heating up he wouldn’t need to wear anymore for his run.
Outside the fog was clearing up and the sun bounced off the million panes of steel and glass spectacularly as the urban jungle smothered Central Park. The lakes were frozen, Bethesda stood delicately beyond the arches, and park rangers were making their rounds. Nader’s heart raced as he sped through the lifeless trees.
Back at the hotel, Nader held the elevator door open for a handsome gentleman that had just checked-in early. Feeling slightly self-conscious about his sweaty state, Nader stayed quiet. When it transpired that this intriguing stranger had actually checked into the room across the hall, Nader volunteered smoothly “Hey, we’re neighbors.”
The man, 5’11’’, tanned with piercing grey eyes and a wide smile replied back “Are you sure you’re not just stalking me?”
Out-maneuvered, Nader laughed awkwardly and turned to his room. Later that night, he began feeling anxiety as he realized the number of hours he’d spent awake. In his bathroom mirror the whites of his eyes were no longer so. Red rivers pulsed through them, forking their way to his iris like devil’s fingers. He walked to his closet door, and threw it open.
Clad in leather, metal and mink, Nader zigzagged his way around the island from bar to bar to club to bar with an assortment of former lovers and friends. His vodka never ran dry, and despite his exhaustion, he never felt drunk.
Back at his hotel at 4am, he decided to give its heaving bar a short visit for a nightcap. Just because he could do so with more ease than anyone else. Being a guest at the hotel meant there was a separate entrance that he could use to skip the dull line and intimidating bouncers (“Now where y’all from? Can ah see sum aahhdee?”).
The room was heavy with the scent of expensive cologne and New York swagger. His leather diva outfit turned a few surprised eyes, but they knew better than to comment lest they be known forevermore as “tunnel and bridge”. At the bar, he was two sips into his vodka rocks when a hand fell on his shoulder. He turned around slowly and it was his hotel neighbor, smiling barely. His eyes were now even more transparent in ambient glow of the bar, and full of questions. Nader extended his hand, which with the exception of his fingers was still covered in sharp metal and rugged leather, and held the back of the handsome strangers neck. He pulled it in, and the man submitted. They kissed slowly, but intensely. For the first time in days, Nader suddenly felt like his eyes wanted to stay shut.
Recovering from the sweet taste of this man’s mouth, Nader slowly regained consciousness. He had another sip of his drink and took him by the hand back through the private exit to the 10th floor.
In Nader’s room, the clothes were peeled off in haste as they both remained lip-locked. Nader forcibly turned him around and pushed his naked body against the wall. He got down onto the floor and began slowly to taste his prey’s skin with the tip of his tongue. First the back of the ankles…his calves…his thighs…his tongue gently making its way to his anus as the short hairs tickled its tip. His neighbor moaned violently.
***
The next morning, Nader realized he’d actually gotten some sleep. Two and a half hours. A miracle. He felt an unbelievable amount of energy. Next to him, his lover was also already awake, running his fingers through Nader’s hair. “I like your hair.”
Nader looked at him and thought, ‘Your eyes are not human.’
Within 2 hours, his lover had departed for Los Angeles.
Nader lay awake in his lifeless bed. The contrast was noticeably severe.
The events of his days in room 1077 in Manhattan’s Hudson Hotel did not change significantly over the coming days. Then, one night, as he lay in bed, his eyes bloodshot and his lover asleep, he slipped into last night’s jeans and put on a heavy shirt and coat. His bag was packed, and his flight was in 2 hours. He planted a gentle kiss onto his bedmate’s cheek and explained gently that he could stay until noon before the room was due for check-out.
In the street, Nader pulled behind him his bag on its silent rollers. It was 6.30 am. Sunrise was an hour away, and the forest of skyscrapers, usually lit up randomly and intensely, was pitch black with darkness. He could see their silhouette just barely traced against a sky of deep purple. Like a silent army, poised, lifeless, they stared down at him. His hand shot up at the sight of the first yellow cab. “JFK,” he grunted, wrapping a scarf around his neck and holding on tensely to his passport.
It was Tuesday night. For a minute he considered getting up and going out for a drink, but decided it would be 5am by the time he made it anywhere, and that would be too ambitious for a Tuesday night even for this city. His laptop was within arm’s reach, he pulled it towards him and threw open its lid. Manhunt, the only way to kill enormous amounts of time without ever a moment of boredom. His eyes scanned the assortment of faces, torsos and genitalia. He wasn’t aroused, but he was sufficiently entertained. The steady stream of messages in his inbox appeased his ego enough to keep him hooked and going. Like his insomnia, Manhunt put him in a state of semi-consciousness. His perusal and movements were robotic.
Before he knew it, daylight was creeping into the room. Nader jumped out of bed and into some running shoes, Hollister sweat-pants and a polo shirt. It was –6 degrees outside, but he knew once his body started heating up he wouldn’t need to wear anymore for his run.
Outside the fog was clearing up and the sun bounced off the million panes of steel and glass spectacularly as the urban jungle smothered Central Park. The lakes were frozen, Bethesda stood delicately beyond the arches, and park rangers were making their rounds. Nader’s heart raced as he sped through the lifeless trees.
Back at the hotel, Nader held the elevator door open for a handsome gentleman that had just checked-in early. Feeling slightly self-conscious about his sweaty state, Nader stayed quiet. When it transpired that this intriguing stranger had actually checked into the room across the hall, Nader volunteered smoothly “Hey, we’re neighbors.”
The man, 5’11’’, tanned with piercing grey eyes and a wide smile replied back “Are you sure you’re not just stalking me?”
Out-maneuvered, Nader laughed awkwardly and turned to his room. Later that night, he began feeling anxiety as he realized the number of hours he’d spent awake. In his bathroom mirror the whites of his eyes were no longer so. Red rivers pulsed through them, forking their way to his iris like devil’s fingers. He walked to his closet door, and threw it open.
Clad in leather, metal and mink, Nader zigzagged his way around the island from bar to bar to club to bar with an assortment of former lovers and friends. His vodka never ran dry, and despite his exhaustion, he never felt drunk.
Back at his hotel at 4am, he decided to give its heaving bar a short visit for a nightcap. Just because he could do so with more ease than anyone else. Being a guest at the hotel meant there was a separate entrance that he could use to skip the dull line and intimidating bouncers (“Now where y’all from? Can ah see sum aahhdee?”).
The room was heavy with the scent of expensive cologne and New York swagger. His leather diva outfit turned a few surprised eyes, but they knew better than to comment lest they be known forevermore as “tunnel and bridge”. At the bar, he was two sips into his vodka rocks when a hand fell on his shoulder. He turned around slowly and it was his hotel neighbor, smiling barely. His eyes were now even more transparent in ambient glow of the bar, and full of questions. Nader extended his hand, which with the exception of his fingers was still covered in sharp metal and rugged leather, and held the back of the handsome strangers neck. He pulled it in, and the man submitted. They kissed slowly, but intensely. For the first time in days, Nader suddenly felt like his eyes wanted to stay shut.
Recovering from the sweet taste of this man’s mouth, Nader slowly regained consciousness. He had another sip of his drink and took him by the hand back through the private exit to the 10th floor.
In Nader’s room, the clothes were peeled off in haste as they both remained lip-locked. Nader forcibly turned him around and pushed his naked body against the wall. He got down onto the floor and began slowly to taste his prey’s skin with the tip of his tongue. First the back of the ankles…his calves…his thighs…his tongue gently making its way to his anus as the short hairs tickled its tip. His neighbor moaned violently.
***
The next morning, Nader realized he’d actually gotten some sleep. Two and a half hours. A miracle. He felt an unbelievable amount of energy. Next to him, his lover was also already awake, running his fingers through Nader’s hair. “I like your hair.”
Nader looked at him and thought, ‘Your eyes are not human.’
Within 2 hours, his lover had departed for Los Angeles.
Nader lay awake in his lifeless bed. The contrast was noticeably severe.
The events of his days in room 1077 in Manhattan’s Hudson Hotel did not change significantly over the coming days. Then, one night, as he lay in bed, his eyes bloodshot and his lover asleep, he slipped into last night’s jeans and put on a heavy shirt and coat. His bag was packed, and his flight was in 2 hours. He planted a gentle kiss onto his bedmate’s cheek and explained gently that he could stay until noon before the room was due for check-out.
In the street, Nader pulled behind him his bag on its silent rollers. It was 6.30 am. Sunrise was an hour away, and the forest of skyscrapers, usually lit up randomly and intensely, was pitch black with darkness. He could see their silhouette just barely traced against a sky of deep purple. Like a silent army, poised, lifeless, they stared down at him. His hand shot up at the sight of the first yellow cab. “JFK,” he grunted, wrapping a scarf around his neck and holding on tensely to his passport.
Sunday, 10 January 2010
Update
So, I've been away. For a while. But I have had a few excuses, summaries in the latest email to JS below:
"I feel crushed, but I guess this had to happen at some point. Though I always knew you were gallivanting, I never had a problem with it so long as it was out of my sight. But not only did you push your desperate predatory behaviour in my face by pursuing PAE, one of my best friends, you didn't even respect my feelings enough to ask me whether it was ok, or at the very least warn me. I feel like I was owed at least that much. My gut sank so far that day on nye when you two were outside my flat to pick me up. I chose to ignore the signs and give you the benefit of the doubt. I thought, he would never do this to me, not now, not when I'm preoccupied with the knowledge of my father's terminal illness. I was so wrong.
But then again, I was wrong about a lot of things. Most unfortunately, I was wrong in thinking that you were different, that you weren't like every other gay man in this city. I believed that you probably wouldn't have anonymous sex off gaydar, or ever rub my face in your exploits. It really is like I don't even know who you are. Where was this latent persona? Listening to you talk at the dinner table on new-years-day about your man-whore days, I should have guessed, though at 50 you'd think things would be different. Why did I always think that I was the one that fell short of your expectations? You have always had such strong convictions, and I relentlessly judged myself against them. I was such a fool.
But your moral failure and my resulting pain is not the entire reason why I am crushed. I am crushed because the odd truth is, you're as good as it gets out there in this world. If this is who and how you are, what chance in hell do I have to meet someone worthy of my time? Why do we keep living knowing that fundamental failure is inevitable? Why am I writing this email to you, when I know beyond reasonable doubt you will never apologise or try and make it up to me? My hopeless optimism is only pitiful. You have proved my so far infallible theory – that getting too close to anyone invariably means immeasurable pain.
Good luck with your life."
"I feel crushed, but I guess this had to happen at some point. Though I always knew you were gallivanting, I never had a problem with it so long as it was out of my sight. But not only did you push your desperate predatory behaviour in my face by pursuing PAE, one of my best friends, you didn't even respect my feelings enough to ask me whether it was ok, or at the very least warn me. I feel like I was owed at least that much. My gut sank so far that day on nye when you two were outside my flat to pick me up. I chose to ignore the signs and give you the benefit of the doubt. I thought, he would never do this to me, not now, not when I'm preoccupied with the knowledge of my father's terminal illness. I was so wrong.
But then again, I was wrong about a lot of things. Most unfortunately, I was wrong in thinking that you were different, that you weren't like every other gay man in this city. I believed that you probably wouldn't have anonymous sex off gaydar, or ever rub my face in your exploits. It really is like I don't even know who you are. Where was this latent persona? Listening to you talk at the dinner table on new-years-day about your man-whore days, I should have guessed, though at 50 you'd think things would be different. Why did I always think that I was the one that fell short of your expectations? You have always had such strong convictions, and I relentlessly judged myself against them. I was such a fool.
But your moral failure and my resulting pain is not the entire reason why I am crushed. I am crushed because the odd truth is, you're as good as it gets out there in this world. If this is who and how you are, what chance in hell do I have to meet someone worthy of my time? Why do we keep living knowing that fundamental failure is inevitable? Why am I writing this email to you, when I know beyond reasonable doubt you will never apologise or try and make it up to me? My hopeless optimism is only pitiful. You have proved my so far infallible theory – that getting too close to anyone invariably means immeasurable pain.
Good luck with your life."
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