Contradictions, False-Promises, Sex and Omission

So what? Damn it. I kept my shirt on all week.

This last month has been the most fun I have had in the last two years. I would love to go on and on about what an incredibly fun Pride weekend I had but I won’t. I rather keep it short because honestly I just lack the energy/motivation to tell the story, which I hardly ever really tell without the mass editing all of the juicy stuff I believe people would rather have me omit to maintain the better of their two halves enshrouded or one eye closed.

What I will say is that I have been in NYC almost eleven full years now and due to one impossibly controlling situation after another I have only made it out to the festivities about three times. Mostly, I choose to do so out of a deep desire to not deal with the sea homo-negative energy but most likely to avoid any insecurity driven rants.

I managed to keep my word about getting any numbers or having sex of any kind, despite the all so many willing hotties that made advances. I just feel like Pride week is an open invitation to a new hybrid sting of Chlamydia. It is always better to wait a month or two after the Penicillin has been administered and bed sheets de-loused before partaking in any post pride sexual encounters. It’s all just a tad bit over dramatized, sexualized and not very inductive of any long term merits. It usually translates as a game where everyone tries their best to keep their score a secret from others. As a rule of thumb, I think that one who fucks during Pride remains just that, a fuck. Hopefully there were no expectations and they too were secretly keeping score.

It wasn’t surprising to see a lot of the faces that usually go on and on about how out of character such events are for them at said events, having just as good a time as all the lot, meanwhile desperately attempting to remind us how out of character the whole thing was for them. I didn’t necessarily feel out of character but I definitely felt out of practice. It was great and empowering in its own way, being able to go to such affairs without the need of permission and the lengthy I am a victim and you a faggot crap.

You know who you are…

It was sort of like coming out of a self imposed exile and choosing to not really worry about the endless stream of bullshit that half of the population in New York seems to always spew. Who needs enemies when you have “friends” right? I say fuck it. Find wholly genuine people in your life and replace the others, re-categorized the theory stricken ones as acquaintances and go on with your life.

Getting on with my life has been what this last month has mostly been about. Moving on, letting go, and getting on with it. Despite the past’s here-and-there need for you to re-penetrate it, with spit not lube and maybe Vaseline, so that it can remind you how much it actually passively loves you. Contradictions, false-promises, sex and omission is the stuff good history stories are made of. Don’t you think?

I guess that what I am saying is that I have been writing history boys and girls. And I have had a fucking blast doing so and learning from it these last thirty days. The music has been unbelievable and the party favorites aren’t called favorites for nothing. I don’t condone systematically losing touch with reality but recommended it every now and again. Besides the reality part is sometimes as unbelievable and odd as altered states of being. And lastly, as I said before it makes for great story telling, just be careful who you tell and remember to include contradictions, false-promises, sex and omission.

That’s all I am telling, for now.