What can I write about summer?
About hot days and loud nights?
Too many people on the roof and the crowded bars and coffee shops leak sweat and only sometimes laughter.
What is July?
It’s neither a beginning nor an end, but it hovers here in the middle of summer, languid and busy at the same time. In memory it’s slow and easy, but in the present, it’s waiting and dripping. It’s too many plans with too little comfort and slow walks with the dog who only wants to sleep in the shade.
It’s too hot to fuck in the…
We called it “The Apartment”. It was somewhere near St. Marks and Avenue A back when the East Village was just rubbing against B and scared shitless to go anywhere near Avenue C. There were two girls and a somewhat straight couple living there but on a good weekend all those were subject to change.
It was a Friday night and a bunch of us were drinking in the living room and trying to figure out what to do for the night. …
I watched you take his huge cock into your mouth as we sat in the dark lounge.
We had sat down next to them on the couch with our drinks in hand. They were whispering quietly to each other and we were doing the same.
After a few drinks we noticed her hand rubbing him gently, her nails tracing the outline of his cock through his jeans. When you looked up you realized she was watching you. He was sitting between the two of you and her eyes moved back and forth between you and her hand.
When she had…
She stayed on the roof long enough to get a glimpse of him and agree. It was a quick gesture, designed more to excite her than give her a choice. Once she nodded and squeezed my hand to give her consent, she vanished back to the elevator and the relative safety of our hotel room.
I took my time, bought him a drink, and chatted as we looked out over the city. It must have been a half-hour later that I finally made my suggestion, and unsurprisingly, he agreed.
He did have three questions, all of which I answered.
It had been at least a few weeks, maybe a month or two, by the time my wife finally confessed.
My reaction was initially one of resigned anger, but as always, I could twist that into more than a hint of lust. Part of me was surprised it had taken them as long as it did. And another part wondered if I could have stopped it. Or if I wanted to.
When he came to visit a week after her confession, he was mildly apologetic. She, on the other hand, offered something else. Instead of guilt, she gave me a…
She insisted on sitting in the middle.
My grandfather gave me his old Oldsmobile when he upgraded to something nicer and more reasonably sized. It was burgundy, had a giant bench seat up front, and steered (as they say) like a boat.
It was also the perfect car to make out in, fool around on, and occasionally fuck.
None of this was going to happen since we were driving Kelly to her boyfriend’s college, where she would spend the weekend. It was significant for several reasons, but mainly because Kelly and her boyfriend had never spent a night together, let…
Daydreaming is often an excellent way to start writing something, especially when I can do it without much of a filter. My brain is wired from years of habit to check myself far too often. Don’t dream quite that big. Don’t imagine too much or you’ll be disappointed. It’s gone so far that I occasionally have dreams where I’m about to sleep with someone heart-achingly beautiful, but that pesky condom is nowhere to be found, and I wake up screaming, “It was a fucking dream!”
I can change habits, though. It’s’ not easy, but I told myself this morning that…
It was a year after she left that I found the roll of film. I had stuck it into the drawer next to my bed as she lay next to me, but we had never gotten around to developing it. Summer was too busy and too alive for us to slink into the basement, and besides, she was with me every day.
What need did we have for nostalgia?
But now, it was a different matter. I had a few letters and more than a few memories, but while absence makes the heart grow fonder, distance doesn’t help.
I had a lovely walk and a coffee at Aura with the doggo. It’s another hot and sticky day here in Brooklyn, but the apartment is cool, and I’m chugging water like an elephant. I might ice my feet, but for now, I’m okay.
I sent a story out last night about developing photos of an old love. Parts of it are true, but mostly it comes from a wish that I had taken more pictures when I was younger, of myself, my friends, my partners, my family, and a thousand other things. …
I remember my arms around Georges on the motorcycle.
We had been in the mountains for five days, and we required Oreos. The closest store was twenty-five miles away, but sitting behind him as the wind tore through my loose clothes, distance didn’t matter.
We met the night before at the camp. It was late, and the stars above the New Mexico mountains were brighter than any I had seen in ages. He shared a bottle of wine and laughed in his broken English as we lay back and stared up into the Milky Way.
Sitting behind him, I remembered…