July 14, 1996

Maureen invited me over for my birthday. She baked a cake, bought the new Ramones CD for me [Note: Greatest Hits Live] and gave me a card. Then she took me out to dinner, which is very sweet when you consider she doesn’t have a pot to piss in. Then she took me to her friend Stephanie’s party, where I met Eve. Eve is pretty and aggressive. Pretty aggressive. Very charming. Petite with a bright smile. Have I mentioned she’s pretty? I didn’t ignore her but I didn’t overtly flirt with her, either. It was a tiny, packed apartment and at one point, Eve brushed past me and I felt her hand slide into my pocket. I thought she took something out but she didn’t. She put something in. A slip of paper with her phone number on it.

Let me think for a minute and try to recall how many times I’ve been to a crowded party where a pretty girl jammed her phone number into my pocket.

…   …   …   …

Okay, NONE. Zero. Nil. Never. The empty set. So I called her on Monday and arranged to meet for drinks on Friday, to which she promptly and happily agreed. By Wednesday, this had somehow gotten back to Maureen. She called and beat the shit out of me with the old ‘How can you do this to me?’ one-two combination to the kidneys and solar plexus. Then she gave me the ‘I’m humiliated’ upper-cut haymaker and I was down for the long count. After I got up off the canvas, I immediately went into begging mode which, let’s face it, is the only thing in life I’ve perfected. It’s a shame I can’t monetize begging.

I was tripping all over my words with apologies for my transgression. The next day, as part of my penance, I called Eve and cancelled our date. When she asked why, I couldn’t come up with a sensible reason. I forgot to rehearse one. I said, “Well, because Maureen is quite upset,” which makes me sound like a fucking noodle since Maureen is NOT MY GIRLFRIEND. Eve said that Maureen is just jealous, which sounds logical to me.

I subsequently wrote a befuddled letter of apology/explanation to Eve which she should get either today or tomorrow. We’ll see what kind of response I get, if any. [Note: This is how it was done before the internet was invented, kids.] It seems that fate tosses a potential date in my path about every six months. If Eve counts as this cycle’s allocation, I won’t meet another girl until well into 1997.

Pouring over these journals reminded me of this post. It’s a bit crass but I love it.

* * *

When I think back, the breadth of my cluelessness regarding the sweet science of love is almost too astonishing to be believed. I was awful at it. I knew nothing. The group of guys I hung out with weren’t popular with the ladies, so there were never any discussions about seduction or technique. It was a slow, painful, embarrassing learning curve.

For a good long while, I thought you got a girl to sleep with you through insistent pleading. I thought the game of love was to wear down her resolve until she finally capitulated. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that haranguing was not considered a legitimate aspect of a foreplay. I remained in my clueless state for a number of years. I failed to recognize a lot of green lights and opportunities. I was unaware of how many women were willing to sleep with me. But I realize it now.

* * *

The first time I had sex, she said, “Go ahead. You can do it.” But the DIRTY DEED had already been DONE. Admittedly, an inauspicious debut.

The first girl I slept with had the temperament of a sea monster.

* * *

With my first regular love, I used condoms that were about as thick as a garden hose. I didn’t know anything about lamb skins or sensitivity. I was mortified that I had to buy them at all. I just wanted to get in and out of the drugstore as quickly as possible without asking (or being asked) any questions.

The condoms robbed me of all sensation. So much so, that I often couldn’t finish. I would occasionally pull the damn thing off and toss it across the room just so I could finally complete my mission. In retrospect, a terrible idea. When I think of all the unprotected sex I had, it’s a miracle I never had to deal with an unwanted pregnancy. Or worse.

* * *

I read an article by a woman who said her boyfriend was so emotionally overwhelmed by sex that he routinely wept afterwards. She found this romantic and touching. So the next time I slept with my girlfriend, I tried to cry but my heart just wasn’t in it. It sounded like fake, ridiculous, insincere blubbering. My girlfriend asked if I was having some kind of breakdown.

* * *

Once upon a time, I was making out with a girl. I got up and put a Kenny G album on. I didn’t like the guy’s music but I thought it would be romantic. That’s what I’d read somewhere. About two songs in, she stopped kissing me, sat up and yelled, “My God! Would you PLEASE turn that OFF!”

* * *

I faked an orgasm once. The sex was tedious and went on far longer than it should have, so I decided to end it by faking an orgasm. I believe she was equally relieved it was over.

* * *

They weren’t all bad experiences. Many years ago, on a warm summer night, I made beautiful amour in a rooftop garden atop a downtown Brooklyn brownstone with the twinkling nighttime Manhattan skyline at our feet. It looked like a magical movie backdrop.

It’s time to bid a fond farewell to the holiday season. Only 11 months until Christmas!

Harry Winston on 5th Avenue all gussied-up for the holidays

Another from the journal bin. Here’s what happens when a fella gets a little long in the tooth but hasn’t married yet. Also, here’s what goes on at those fancy benefit dinners.

March 22, 1995

I got uncharacteristically drunk after the theater with Bob last Friday night. Not fun drunk. Drunk enough to be sick the next day. We started bar hopping at 11:00. After 2:30 we couldn’t find any more open bars. City that never sleeps, my ass. We got a bag of McDonald’s cheeseburgers and sat in Times Square and ate them. That’s on top of a belly full of scotch. No wonder I was so sick. I got home at 3:30.

He told me his friends think I’m gay. I’ve noticed that gay people like to do that. They like to say that you (or so-and-so) are gay, but you/they don’t realize it yet. I think they do it to swell their ranks. I’m not the least bit insulted and kind of suspected they thought as much for a while. Believe me…if I were gay, I’d be gay with a mad vengeance. There’s no shame and I wouldn’t hide from it. But it’s not my thing. I’ve had plenty of opportunities to experiment over the years but it’s not something I’m curious about. Kissing someone with whiskers sounds about as erotic as swallowing my own vomit.

I spoke at length about this to Velma [Note: a therapist I was seeing at that time]. I asked what would make someone think that. She suggests I have a chameleon-like tendency to emulate the people around me and that I could subconsciously pick up gay mannerisms in an effort to fit in. Makes sense, I suppose. I do have a lot of gay friends. She said I should make hay with it and take a few acting classes. The only thing I’m upset about is that fact that there might be women out there who think, “Gee…what a great guy. Too bad he’s gay.” Do you think that’s possible?

Ann took me to a benefit dinner for the Institute of Asian Studies. It was formal. I clean up pretty good for trash. It was a seven course banquet with entertainment that cost $200 per plate but we didn’t pay for the tickets. Her boss gave them to her. He’s a curator of Asian art and owns a gallery on the Upper East Side. It was a cash bar but I didn’t mind.

I was the youngest person there by several generations. Think about it. Who goes to these types of benefits? People who have a lot of money and free time. And who, generally, has money to burn and time to kill? Old people. Towards the end of the evening I looked around the room and about half the audience had nodded off. I’m sure that people who saw Ann walk in with me on her arm understood right away what the deal is. She certainly isn’t as old as they are, but she ain’t exactly my contemporary, either.

It was an elegant restaurant next to the United Nations. I met some very, very wealthy Asians. They support their own. They served four courses and broke for entertainment. A beautiful Japanese girl in a kimono performed on a koto. Another girl in a kimono played a bamboo flute. Then the girl playing flute did a beautiful dance while the koto player sang. There’s something about the way their hair catches the light—the color and texture of it—that goes right through me.  It fed my every Asian fantasy. I might insist that Ann dye her hair jet black.

We were assigned to a geriatric table. I quickly eyeballed the guy who looked like he could sustain a conversation and not die before desert and grabbed the seat next to him. His wife looked barely alive. I shouldn’t judge because that’ll be me one day, but since that’s a long way off I’ll have a proper laugh.

He was an interesting dude. He grew up in Williamsburg but bailed out for Long Island decades ago. I waited for, and finally got, the stories about how New York used to be a great town but not anymore. It’s all relative. [Note: I’ll say it is.] He knows all about my neighborhood and told me about the Yiddish theaters that used to be on Houston and up 2nd Avenue.

While I was talking to him about the good old days, Ann slid her hand up my leg under the table and was playing around. What an uninhibited little minx she is. If she had mistakenly done that to the old codger sitting next to her instead of me, she would’ve been brought up on murder charges. At least he’d have died with a smile on his face. By the time we got back to her apartment I was out of my mind. We never made it past the living room. I assaulted her against the baby grand piano. Neither one of us can play a note but we finally found a use for that thing.­­­

I’m worried about [my sister’s] impending visit. What’s going to happen when she sees my street is lined, not with flower pots and bunting, but drug dealers and junkies?