1st warm Saturday. From the inbound platform of the LIRR at Flushing-Main Street. I am also carrying a cactus.
NYC
The Cactus Knows You’re an Introvert
All plants need to see the world.
I got a cactus last weekend. You probably already know this because I won’t shut up about it. It came in a sand art planter that screams 70s so much, I have named the plant Jonathan Livingston Cactus. I just checked my phone, and it contains fourteen pics of Jon. Fourteen. More pictures exist of this cactus than of my baptism. I cleared out a space of honor on the plant shelf in my kitchen window then ran downstairs to see if passersby on 9th Street could see him. They could. I IM’d my buddy Damian, who is some sort of plant whisperer, about care and feeding. A little bit of water every other week and plenty of sun. Then I went to bed, content in knowing I had given a cactus a good home. If I remembered dreams, I would say I dreamt about pushing Jon in a swing garlanded with gerbera daisies.
Upon waking up Sunday morning, I got my customary swig of Diet Coke out of the fridge, and he was there on his shelf being all cactus-y. I imagined myself telling people things like “Oh, that’s so Jon!” I wondered whom I could call that morning to tell about the cactus but decided that maybe 8am on Sunday wasn’t the best time for breathless cactus news.
Then the wheels started turning: What was I doing up at 8am on a Sunday? Don’t I have a life? Has my life shrunk down to the point where purchasing a cactus becomes a life event? Remember when you had dreams? You don’t deserve a cactus like Jon!
Tatiana’s Restaurant. Brighton Beach, BK. February 2nd.
It WILL get warm again.
An Open Letter to the Guy Who Has His Tongue Down My Throat Right Now
Dear Ryan or Bryce or something else with a “y” in it,
First of all, thanks. I know you have a lot of choices when it comes to mouth raping. I’m honored. I really am. It’s a crowded Saturday night at the Eagle, and New York’s premier leather-themed bar is certainly chock full with tight-panted, shirtless, and mustachioed mouths just yearning for tongue. My Relaxed Fit Gap and Izod ensemble has clearly singled me out as someone looking for a hot time. You saw right through my little charade of “I just had a little too much wine at a birthday dinner and wound up in a cab here. I really don’t like this place.” That you zeroed in on my mouth fills me with the same wonder and awe that virgins being readied for the volcano must feel. Yes, I know the wonder and awe is probably coming across more as dissociation right now, but rest assured I only dissociate when I’m really into it.
And kudos to you, sir, for not misinterpreting when I said, “Excuse me. I should probably check on my friends,” and walked over to stand by the Trivia Whiz machine. You correctly assumed that I wanted to be in a warm fluorescent glow so you could more easily find my mouth. And when I pretended to play a round, you astutely saw that as playful frolicking; I was but a nymph in a dewy field.
I would be remiss if I did not congratulate you on the technique behind the actual kiss itself. Rank amateurs may insist on starting with a soft peck or a lingering hug, but not you. You’re treating my mouth the way a hamster treats its water bottle, and I applaud you. You know what works for you. Why should you stoop to varying your speed or intensity?
I am now noticing that your hand is down my pants. And why not? Cleary I’m sending out a vibe. No slave to consent are you. Go ahead, keep tugging. It likes that, especially when you take a little pubic hair along for the ride. I, for one, cannot wait to experience the heights to which my flaccidity can take us.
This night will be magical. How can it not be? We are so in sync. The planets will align themselves just so they can get a better look at our lovemaking.
Now if you will excuse me, I need to use the restroom. I promise to be right back.
Ornamental Illnesses 