traveled to new york a few weeks ago for yet another bachelorette party. the city was still cold despite all the b.s. from my friends who said it was ‘great weather.’ on the way there, i was two rows behind louis c.k. and my heart was racing with all the useless proximity. before i got on the plane, i was buying a chocolate bar and was admiring the cool sweat pants + ass of a male model in line in front of me. i dropped the handle of my roll-on and my suitcase fell and hit him on the leg, and i could tell by the way he told me, “it was no big deal,” that he was a douchebag.
fast forward 15 hours and i’m at output. which was also the same club i was at during nye 2014-2015; also when i vowed i would never step in again. it’s not that i’m too old, it’s that i want something more interesting. it was pounding in there, and the floor was coated with a mix of sweat, blood, cocaine, mdma, vodka, jameson, lipstick, urine, semen, dirt, vomit, water, single strands of hair and cigarette butts; a concoction that runs through the city’s veins. that part, i missed. i got pretty drunk and ended up speaking to an attractive gentleman for an hour or two, who didnt even dare to touch my knee. i respect that kind of control. it was late morning when i left, and i pressed my body to his, slightly, and then lunged into a cab, away.
at my friend’s place, i sat in the bath tub for half an hour. knees to chest, hoping the running water would save my life. it kind of did and my girlfriend held me until 9 am, when i had to take a cab to JFK. i slept all the way home, to los angeles, where from my dining room table, i could see the head of a palm tree, it’s dead leaves a tufted beard, bobbing in agreement with all my major life decisions.
i have started thinking that if i ever go back to new york, and i would like to, but it won’t be a big deal if i don’t, that i’d live on the island, past 100th, like real people do. after that weekend, i got two emails from the dead. one from j., whom i love and one from d., whom i also love, telling me that despite the fact we hadn’t talked in year(s), that they still loved me too. i have dinner with d., who looked svelte and a little defeated, spoke soberly, hesitantly which was how i knew he was all better now. he told me that the best analogy for it was jake barnes from the sun also rises, and his love for the aristocratic whore, lady brett ashley. he asked bravely, succinctly about the boyfriend and i gave replies that i had practiced beforehand. afterwards, we went to a korean cafe where he smoked a pack of cigarettes. under the dim lights of the heating lamps, with his hair tossed back, chain smoking, he looked fucking miserable. and then i told him what was in my heart, that i was so happy to see him.