Beep beep.

I live on a street which is one of the few routes to get to the Lincoln Tunnel. Ordinarily this is not a problem. Traffic is heavy and noisy, but low rent and good location make up for it.

On sunny weekend days like today, suburbanites flock to the city as I described in yesterday's post. At dusk, they all try to go through the Lincoln Tunnel back home to New Jersey. All at the same time.

As you can see above, this causes some traffic congestion. In response, everyone from New Jersey honks their horn. Continuously. Whether it helps or not. Whether there's any point in it or not. Basically, as soon as they see the light turn green, every New Jersey driver on the block lays into their horn.

One day I will organize a convoy to someplace in suburban New Jersey. I will have 100 vehicles in my convoy. We will drive into their nice, quiet neighborhoods. And we will honk our horns. All at the same time.

I need a tan.

This may or may not be my ass, but either way, I'm white. Very, very white.

Jink and I had a quiet, relaxing afternoon. The temperature was nearly 70 degrees and the sun was shining. We picked up ice cream at Mary's Dairy--the best ice cream on the planet, in the author's humble opinion. The West Village was quiet in the lull before the weekend migration in from Long Island and New Jersey, when straight people by the tens of thousands will take their grandparents to shows and restaurants, vainly attempting to assure themselves that it's "okay" that they've settled down to suburban life. Because, you know, the city is just a bridge or tunnel away. Having dodged strollers on countless beautiful Saturdays in the Village, I found the quiet, good weather combination to be a delectable, albeit a tad eerie, treat. I savored it.

Struck by inspiration, I convinced Jink to take the short jaunt West to the Christopher Street Pier park. We found two empty chairs begging for us to sit in the sun and breeze. The conversation wandered from silly to serious and kept coming back to one topic: Summer. New Jersey looked beautiful from those chairs and tugboats dragging barges laden with huge cranes looked stately in the still-sharply-angled sun of late afternoon. Summer was undeniable this afternoon.

Of course, Jink and I made plans. That's what we do. Had we a calendar we would have been blocking out weekends. There will be the Jersey Shore. There will be Fire Island. There will be leather--judiciously and minimally applied. There will be trips to giant New Jersey supermarkets that cost half of what we'd spend in the city, and there will be meals cooked for friends who never knew we could do it so well. I confessed to a childhood filled with camping hundreds of miles away from civilization--preempting my own prissy complaints about fully-equipped gay campsites and a professed inability to live without room service.

This Summer I plan to get a tan the old fashioned way.

Transfixing!

Here I am on March 19th with Buck Angel and Bonfire, hamming it up at the Black Party movie premier, of which Buck is the star. I noticed Peter snapping photos of Buck all by his lonesome, so I grabbed the flamer, dragged him across the room (kicking and screaming--can't you see how he hated it?) and we plopped ourselves down in the middle of that photo shoot. Seriously, Buck is hot and all, but our fabulousness brought everything up a notch. *grins*

Later that evening I must have said something smart as Buck was walking past, because suddenly he reached out and grabbed me firmly by the throat! Arf. When he felt I'd been adequately chastised he let me go with a little push and wandered off, shooting "nice Adam's apple" back over his shoulder. Hot.

The only Brady I want.

Brady Quinn. Oh, Brady. Brady, baby. Brady, Brady, Brady.

Say it over a few times. Let the name roll off your tongue. Say it once for every ab. Say it at least three times for each nipple. And mumble it into that navel all night long.

I was cleaning up my desktop when I came across a little collection of Brady pic I'd downloaded on impulse a few weeks ago. Honestly, I'm far past my online porn phase. I went there and did that in the late 90s. Lately the only porn I bother to have on my computer are those movies I make myself, and I don't think I'll be posting those any time soon.

Maybe it was the doctor in the photos. Maybe it was the fact that the man is being ogled and evaluated like the slab of meat he is to me. Maybe it was the hyper-masculine video of him doing some outrageous feat of bench presses.

Whatever. I lust for Brady.

BPM at the BP.

Yesterday, or I should say the day before yesterday, as in Saturday, I went to the Black Party. The boys and I had been hired to do a little stage show which consisted of putting together a dungeon bed and sling while everyone watched. Michelangelo, the producer who got us into this job, has a fantastic outlook on fetish that puts a priority on the process and exactness of what we do--turning the mundane or exotic into ritual--and it vibes with me and my compulsions very well. I think we gave him what he wanted; there were a few starts and stops, but overall it worked. For this we got in free, which at $125 per ticket, is no small thing.

Now everyone is going to have some opinion on the Black Party, and as far as I can tell, they go toward polar extremes. You either love it, wouldn't miss it, and accept it for what it is, or you hate it, wouldn't be caught dead there, and probably mock those who you believe are foolish enough to pay that price for entry. I'm not quite crazy enough to make an attempt at talking anyone out of the second camp, so if you're one of those, this post may bore you to tears.

Going into it, all signs pointed to me enjoying the experience. I love to dance. I love music and light shows. I like to dabble in a little public sex in the corners. I like looking at beautiful bodies and creative costumes. I can put up with the silly, overblown attitude of some of the circuit queens. I enjoy getting caught up in the moment, in the sheer hyper-reality of what is happening.

I was not disappointed. The production was beyond belief. Lasers, lights, dancers, video screens, thousands of beautiful people...it was something to see. As I told many over the course of the party, I'm just a kid from Kansas, this was my first Black Party and indeed, my first circuit party, and thus I'm fairly easy to impress. But while my New York-imposed dismissiveness demands that I excuse my enjoyment of the thing, if pressed I could not deny that I would most likely love it just as much on my tenth visit as I did on the first.

I didn't have a watch, so time was fairly meaningless to me there, but I believe it was about halfway through my 14 hours there when something strange started happening. I began to run into people who were totally unexpected and out of context.

Top Dog and Headmaster were the first. I've had a little crush on them both for a while. Top Dog and I frolicked and fooled around, finding interesting and fun ways to turn each other on. Headmaster was subjected to one of my very long rants on leather and politics, and even some leather politics, from which he gracefully and kindly extracted himself when he'd had enough--understandably, as it was more than most would take. We danced and I grinned like a kid in a candy store; I knew I looked like an idiot, but I just couldn't help myself, it was too much a fanboy's dream come true.

And then there was Joe. I haven't blogged about it yet, but I met Joe a week ago at the Buck Angel movie screening. He's the closest thing to a blog daddy that I have--though he'll hate hearing that term applied to him, and it's hardly the "traditional" blog daddy relationship. Couch Stalker started out as a joke I made to Joey, who took it seriously and started this blog and then gave it to me. The format has changed a lot from those early posts, but in a very real way I'm writing today because of Joe.

The fact that I spotted him at the party wasn't a surprise, it was the nature of the contact that was unexpected. Talking with Joe is so new that I'm still nervous and falling over myself. For a week now Joe has been a real person with whom I've had conversations and non-stalker interactions. And it's great--Joe is just as interesting, intelligent, and sexy in person as he is on his blog. But reading a blog is not knowing someone, and for all that I'm a child of the computer age, it turns out once again that knowing someone is better than reading them.

Joe and I hung out for quite a while. We snuck outside to have a cigarette in the 53rd Street sidewalk smoking corral, where I was painfully reminded that it was nearly lunch time on Sunday, and where he took a photo of me shirtless and in skinny jeans (that would not stay on my ass) with a couple of orthodox Jewish men in the background. We talked about the paradox of D/s relationships when the sub is also a masochist. He told me stories about sex in the 1970s and he explained what the DJs were doing and how morning music works.

At the Black Party! I really hadn't counted on the event being anything more than debauchery and fluff.

Of course there was a lot more. Spiky turned it out like only Spiky can--motorcross body armor, goggles, army helmet, intense kneepads--he was fierce. Tall Top managed to get himself leashed and tied on stage, something I'm sure we'll never let him forget. Bonfire was looking fine and totally in his element helping Michelangelo run errands. Satan's Straight Boy was extremely helpful and bemused by the whole thing. Papa was all kinds of fun--he doesn't realize how much he's the social center of a very extended group of excellent guys. Adonis is a dancing fiend who is gorgeous to watch, and I suspect he may have danced out a lot of his recent stress.

There was more, but I have to keep some it for myself. Plus I've probably forgotten a lot of things--14 hours is a long time to be at one party. And I think I understand why this can happen only once per year--it's just too much to do it any more than that--but I'm certainly looking forward to my second!

Pretty deep.

I like church. It's pretty.

No, I'm not particularly religious. I mean, I tend to agree with the basics of Judeo-Christian ethics and morality, but I'm very undecided on the specifics of most church teachings. It seems to me there are reasonable sociological explanations for most of the Christianity story. Furthermore, organized religion has been and is too often used to exclude, oppress, injure and kill. I won't even get into the economics of the whole phenomenon.

But I was raised a certain way. My paternal grandparents are quietly and devoutly Roman Catholic, as was my maternal grandfather, so I was often taken to Catholic services. My maternal grandmother, however, is a devout pentecostal, and as a child I generally went to church with her at a tiny Assembly of God parish around the corner.

My parents were not observant of much anything, so on the rare Sunday morning when I was home with them, we usually had donuts and a big brunch. So while I learned all about Jesus during the many weekends spent with my grandmother, I didn't have my parents really encouraging me to believe deeply. The result is a spiritual agnosticism. Yes, I'm a Christian. But I do not feel strongly that Christianity is the one true way. Whatever god is, it's not a power that humanity can begin to understand. The forms I use to get in touch with god are a result of my upbringing and I follow them because they work for me.

For me, church is pretty. Pictured above is the interior of the Church of St. Mary the Virgin in Times Square. I believe it's one of the most beautiful places on Earth. The liturgy is equal to the space. When I'm there I am serene, reflective, and peaceful. I hear sermons containing ideas I can put to use in my own life, like love, welcome, patience, forgiveness, and thankfulness.

This Lent I have been going to church a lot. I'm excited for Easter. I no longer feel conflicted about doing so and still keeping my agnostic beliefs. I go there because it makes me happy, and that's all that matters.

Issues abundant.

In the course of re-reading my last post, I realized there might not be enough context for my family's pinata bashing, especially if the reader is new to Couch Stalker. A while back I posted about the Christmas traditions of my father's family, which include the clever ruse of pinata bashing in order to keep the grandchildren from realizing that one of the uncles is dressing as Santa upstairs. Sounds a bit silly, I suppose, but for most of my single digit years I really believed in that magical visit every year. It was totally cool.

Above is a photo of me hanging out with my one and only nephew, Anthony Otto, while I was visiting Kansas during the 2006 holiday. He is, without question, the most adorable and intelligent baby who has ever lived.

My sister does not plan to call him Tony, thank gawd. His middle name, Otto, is my late maternal grandfather's first name. I learned of Anthony's birth and his name via a voice mail which came late in the night and which I heard while walking uptown on 9th Avenue on my way to work. My grandfather was an incredible man who had a big influence on my life, so I was very touched that my nephew was given his name. I think that's the only time I have cried on the streets of NYC.

Bonfire slept over last night, after NYboL's monthly bar party. He wasn't into going to church with me this morning, so I snuck in on my own, only ten minutes late. The choir sang a modern setting of the mass which included many discordant sounds and unusual patterns, and I found it refreshing and beautiful. For some obscure reason, on this particular Sunday in Lent, the restrictions against using the organ are relaxed. I was enjoying the postlude and checking my text messages, Father Daddy snuck up behind me, put his hand on my shoulder, and told me that he's the kind of rector who will forgive me for using my cell phone in church. My jaw hit the floor; I was so startled I didn't even have a snappy comeback! We had a nice laugh.

For now I have a little serenity.

The family issue.

As evidence that my father's family must surely be descended from Spartans, I present a photo from Christmas Eve 2006. As you can see, violence is encouraged early in life, and rest assured once the pinata breaks open, it is every grandchild, cousin, niece, nephew, aunt, and uncle to himself during the scramble to collect the most candy. Being the oldest of my generation in the family, you'd think I'd clean up, but let me tell you some of my cousins are big, muscular, (dare I say a little sexy?) brutes. I let them have at it; I can buy candy at the store and I care not a whit whether I return to the clan as king. I take after my mother's side of the family, the Croatians rather than the Spartans. I've no idea which child is demonstrating such fine form with a stick in the above photo, nor do I recognize any of the people in the background, but I am undeniably related to them all somehow. At least they're civilized enough to hold the Christmas violence in the basement; I won't frighten you with the photos of the decor upstairs, other than to comment that everything on the walls features Jesus somehow.

I'm feeling familial this weekend...more to come!

It eats your brain.

I made meatloaf and scalloped potatoes for dinner tonight. As usual, I looked up a few recipes online, and then I did it my way. And (not necessarily as usual) they turned out well! Yummy yum yum.

I am somewhat distressed by how much I enjoy watching Family Guy. It's crap television, right? And yet it amuses me.

I am not nearly so distressed by how much I enjoy watching Ugly Betty. It's really, really good television! Of course it may just be that I idolize the gay assistant. His suits are absolutely gorgeous and I could never pull them off. His hair is absolutely fabulous and I quit trying to pull off that perm back in 1996. He is everything that a gay assistant should be; he is my idol.

I ate too much meatloaf and scalloped potatoes and now I feel fat. I've bought a pint of vanilla ice cream, which I will smother in Hershey's chocolate sauce, and which will take all my pain away.

I want to be raped!

Last night NYboL held the first event planned by its newly-formed social committee: a movie night out to see the film 300. Attendance was good; I won't name them all because I'm not feeling creative enough to make up blog names for those who don't have them yet. I was very glad that several associate members of NYboL were able to attend. While full members of the club must be leatherboys who can attend a majority of club functions, the intent is not to exclude those who have time restrictions or different orientations, and it's nice to see that inclusive philosophy really work.

The movie, however, was horrid. Yes, yes, yes, the men are all hot muffins. However, I can't even throw out the "visually spectacular" praise which can often be given to bad films (I'm looking at you, Lucas). Of course it's a matter of taste, and I must admit that mine is perhaps a bit more delicate than the general public, but there is simply too much blood and gore. The stunning Greek interior spaces and landscapes of golden wheat and mountains are far outnumbered by the amputations, gougings, beheadings, corpses, deformities, monsters, and a plethora of other exotic horrors. The plot was silly and senseless. The writing was unremarkable. The acting was overblown to the point of hilarity. It's possible for a film to redeem some of these deficiencies and gross visuals (Pan's Labyrinth) but 300 doesn't come anywhere close to doing so.

After the movie most of the group hopped the train down to Pieces for karaoke, where we witnessed Rare and Huge singing the song about doing it like they do on the Discovery Channel. I'll be selling rights to the photos on eBay soon. Apparently we all got a good huff of Bonfire's coat while we were on the train; spray painting outerwear is all the new rage for kids these days.

Look ma, pics!

Here's a pic of the interior of Cielo, a small dance club in the Meat Market area of Manhattan. Yes, the walls and ceiling are finished with cylinders (it's akin to a log cabin), many of which light up, creating a fun lighting effect in the room, when combined with the fairly standard dance floor lighting.

Last night Adonis and I attended Super Snaxx, a party featuring DJs Rick King and Gustavo. It was the first time we'd been out dancing together and I'm glad to report that his freak is just as crazy as my freak, so we got along just fine. Frankly, I danced my ass off and I'm rather sore today. It feels good.

The music was all over the map, frequently venturing into some very esoteric territory and requiring a "Beam me up, Scotty!" moment. Most of it encouraged me to move my booty, however, so I'm glad that these guys will have the upstairs room at the Black Party. At least I'll be sure to enjoy some of the music during my first trip there!

Michelangelo was working the door and was charming as always. It sounds as if I'll be able to volunteer for him this week, thus earning a ticket to the Black Party, which I'd otherwise never pay $125 to attend. Yeehaw!

So I've got a pic and a couple of hyperlinks in this post. I'm experimenting. I hope that these things will add some interest to my blog posts and ground my topics in the literal rather than the metaphorical.

Once we danced.

You handed me the headphones as we walked East on one of the teens. It was long, you said, but amazing and worth it. At first I had trouble focusing. There were words, there were cars, and there was the city. But as it built things fell away, and there was the ramp up, and it peaked, and it was incredible. I loved it like you.

Later I asked you for more. You sat with me in a living room and listened to them all, writing down names to satisfy my need to know. None of them had quite the same magic, but they were all special, because you gave them to me.

I admired. I envied. I loved what they were to us and I loved that you never questioned my hunger. I imagined you saw a kindred spirit. I cherished.

We sat in your room, drifting away. You had more and every one was exciting, or maybe sharing them was as good for you as it was for me. I didn't question. I relished.

We bounced together under the lights, among the glitter. We heard the first one start. It was overwhelming and flawless. It was all around us and it moved us. We shared it, reveled in it, were amazed by it. We knew it was unique. We grooved together like we believed it would never happen again, would never be so good, would never be so ours.

Somewhere, later, we lost it. Somewhere we lost us.

But once, once we danced. What else is there?

Scattershot won't kill you.

A friend is out of town on business and I miss him. I'm frustrated because I want to talk to him and I can't. For all their magic, cell phones don't compare to being in the same space with another person.

I apologize for the recent spat of song lyric posts. It's a habit from my teenage years. I'm not very good at expressing my emotions, so when I get upset I run to music, and nearly always to angst-filled songstresses. I do feel I'm somewhat reformed, however, as this time I held my transcription work down to three songs, when in fact there were nearly five times that many whose words were demanding to be shouted. That's progress, right? Right?

A few weeks ago I had a conversation about catalysts. Chemically speaking, these are substances which facilitate or speed a reaction, but ultimately have no place in the resulting compound. The conversation extended this definition into metaphor and we talked about how we believe it's possible to be a social catalyst. I haven't yet decided whether such a thing would be a gift or simply incredibly sad.