Whenever the news hits the innernets that I’m coming to New York, the requests for an audience commence.
I’m not being conceited; it kind of boggles my mind that I have a full dance card and invitations that i have to turn down in order to remain semi-sane and spend enough time with my boyfriend. It’s totally bizarre and I like it, for the most part. Because, for the most part, my NYC friends are cool about giving me space when I’m in town.
I was all over the damn place last weekend, from Jefferson’s apartment to Viviane’s, concerts in Central Park and barbecue in Madison Square Park, double-team flogging by Lolita and the blond, followed by a little knife play, holy ass. We walked through the Puerto Rican Day Parade and stopped by a Shortbus-esque sex (?) party in Brooklyn, running into people wherever we went.
I enjoyed a hardcore show in the East Village, kissing my favorite queer butch top in an elevator, shopping for floggers and lunching in Chelsea, shopping for pretty shoes and discovering the Organic section of Jefferson’s supermarket which is much, much nicer and mellower than the big, scary section for the masses. I would happily pay 50 cents more for a bell pepper up there if it means I get to keep my sanity. Seriously.
The weekend culminated in Monday evening’s Naked on the Internet book panel at the Museum of Sex, where I joined Ellen Friedrichs, Lux Nightmare and Marie Lyn Bernard in a discussion about women and the Internet, moderated by the fierce and very lovely Audacia Ray. Photos were snapped. Feels were copped. I didn’t wear underwear, and the whole lot of us went to Shilla in Koreatown for a late dinner.
My new shoes were complimented upon by a group of women walking past. That was worth the price of the footwear. Seriously, when a woman walks by, points and says, “Those shoes are fanTAStic!”, one’s buyer’s remorse suddenly vanishes.
So much to do, and not enough time, plus my nerves were a bit frayed in preparation for the panel, which was the first time I’ve appeared in public as Madeline. I didn’t wear a disguise, brilliant or otherwise, and it was actually kind of awesome. The other women were amazing and funny and smart and there were many familiar faces in the sold out audience. I could have/should have talked more about myself as a woman who blogs about sex, and what that’s like, but I’m not that adept at the personal promotion. Working on that.
Also, marcus and his boyfriend Seamus came up and stayed with us and it was a little weird. With marcus. Not with Seamus, who is so cool and beautiful I would like to lick his teeth and put him in my pocket. I think marcus and I’ve got the weirdness sorted through, though, so that’s good.
I brought a gift of makeup to Lillie, we painted our nails and made ourselves up like Terri Nunn on the cover of Berlin’s Pleasure Victim. Also, Miss Mary Mack is the best clapping game ever.
Also, Audacia and I exchanged gifts: I gave her a wide black headband with white Jolly Rogers on it and she gave me a big purple dildo.
All in all, a banner visit.
My friend Sasha gave me her copy of Diane di Prima’s Memoirs of a Beatnik for my birthday. I think she bought it at a secondhand store during her freshman year in college. There are marks in the margins, which I completely adore, even though they’re not Sasha’s. She’s a relatively new friend who’s recently learned about my little writing projects and it touched me that she came up with, really, the perfect gift for me.
I’m sort of in love with di Prima, having read her poetry since I was very young. I’m not much for memoirs (now called blogs, by the way), as such, with exceptions being made for Katharine Hepburn and Boutros Boutros-Ghali, because duh, they didn’t have blogs and they actually had something interesting to say. And yes, a lifelong love affair with Spencer Tracy is interesting.
But seriously, stuff like A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers can kiss my ass. (ooh, snap.) Whatever; the kids seem to like it. Of course I like di Prima because she writes amazingly lyrical and lovely things (do your beat poet research), is smart and real and her attitudes about sex and love in this work have a very familiar ring.
leg slung across pale softness
i will never move.
You know the feeling when you’re skin to skin with someone and you’re not close enough? The feeling that you want to forge your bodies together like steel, strong and impervious against the elements? You know that feeling?
I’m not talking about fucking.
I’m talking about lying together kissing, touching, hands traveling, breath catching, lips sucking, noses tracing making out. And you have this feeling that you want to be one person together. And you hold tightly to them and you will this thought–this wish–to be granted by the universe.
You can’t verbalize it. So you shut your eyes tightly and you wish it.
Sometimes you’re lucky. Sometimes you’re with that person and they’re making the same wish.
And sometimes you’re already the same person. You just inhabit two earthly bodies.
I’ve been awake since 5:45. I lay in bed, wrapped up, trying to sleep, relax, breathe, let go but I couldn’t get my thoughts to stop.
My stomach feels sick. Like there’s a hollow place that needs to be filled and not with food or drink. I take deep breaths and blink my eyes.
My mouth has that sick-in-bed-all-day funky taste that doesn’t go away even after you brush your teeth.
And my damn heart hurts. I think of tearing it out and leaving it behind. Just give it away. Because there must be some way to say goodbye that doesn’t hurt like this.