Three Memories 1. I’m 20. I’m bussing tables at that triangle on 14th and Hudson St. I break a glass in my hand and cut my index finger open. My boss pays another busser to take me to St. Vincent’s in a cab. It’s my first time inside. They bring me to a bed on the ground floor. I ask the busser to go grab me a glass of water, just so I can be alone with the nurse and tell her, “I’m HIV+ and I’m not sure if I need to tell you that but I am.” She says, “Okay. I was gonna wear gloves either way, but thanks for letting me know.” She sews my finger back together and I have no idea where I am really. 2. I’m 23. An older, wiser gay tells me they are tearing down St. Vincent’s. I clearly don’t understand the gravity of what he’s saying, so he takes about an hour explaining why it’s actually a huge fucking deal - the demographics of lower Manhattan that made St. Vincent’s the deathbed of so many during the initial wave of AIDS deaths. I tell him I was inside once and show him the scar on my finger. “And did you feel them?” he asks me. “The ghosts?” 3. I’m 24. They stop taking patients, but they leave all the lights on at night. Knowing it’s empty, I start looking up to the windows of the highest floors every time I pass, sure that I will see a face. macartney: jeffchat: Gone! #stvincents #vanishingnewyork #lgbt “Thy dead men shall live, together with my dead body shall they arise. Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust: for thy dew is as the dew of herbs, and the earth shall cast out the dead.”
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Three Memories

1.

I’m 20. I’m bussing tables at that triangle on 14th and Hudson St. I break a glass in my hand and cut my index finger open. My boss pays another busser to take me to St. Vincent’s in a cab.

It’s my first time inside. They bring me to a bed on the ground floor. I ask the busser to go grab me a glass of water, just so I can be alone with the nurse and tell her, “I’m HIV+ and I’m not sure if I need to tell you that but I am.” She says, “Okay. I was gonna wear gloves either way, but thanks for letting me know.”

She sews my finger back together and I have no idea where I am really.

2.

I’m 23. An older, wiser gay tells me they are tearing down St. Vincent’s.

I clearly don’t understand the gravity of what he’s saying, so he takes about an hour explaining why it’s actually a huge fucking deal - the demographics of lower Manhattan that made St. Vincent’s the deathbed of so many during the initial wave of AIDS deaths.

I tell him I was inside once and show him the scar on my finger.

“And did you feel them?” he asks me. “The ghosts?”

3.

I’m 24. They stop taking patients, but they leave all the lights on at night. Knowing it’s empty, I start looking up to the windows of the highest floors every time I pass, sure that I will see a face.

macartney:

jeffchat:

Gone! #stvincents #vanishingnewyork #lgbt

“Thy dead men shall live, together with my dead body shall they arise. Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust: for thy dew is as the dew of herbs, and the earth shall cast out the dead.”

(via jamesdeansawyer)

Source: jeffchat

Three Memories 1. I am stumbling up a staircase to my friend’s apartment on the seventh floor. We are drunk and I am sweating and she is talking and smiling like there are not way too many stairs. “I’m sorry, but how can you do this every day?” I ask. “I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “I guess I just think of it as part of my walk home.” It is a foreign concept to me and I like it. 2. I am having brunch-tails with my roommate in our apartment. Our other roommate, his boyfriend, is out of town and I’m asking him invasive questions about sex in a committed relationship. “Of course I jerk off!” he tells me. “All the time!” “But why do you need to?” I ask. “If you have sex right there next to you?” “I don’t know,” he says with a shrug. “I think it’s as important to turn myself on as it is to seek outside stimulation.” It is a foreign concept to me and I like it. 3. I am covering someone’s closing shift at my new restaurant job. No one has taught me what to do and the other busboys start shaking their heads and whispering like I’ve wandered into a den of lions. Someone actually calls the busboy who gave me the shift to tell him that it was “fucked up” to let me take it. I chase down my boss as he’s leaving. “Are you sure you don’t want to call someone else to come in?” I ask. “Why would I do that?” he asks. “In case I mess something up,” I answer. “I don’t know,” he says with a shrug. “It’s a tough close. But I doubt it will be the toughest thing you’ve ever done in your life.” It is a foreign concept to me and I like it.
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Three Memories

1.

I am stumbling up a staircase to my friend’s apartment on the seventh floor. We are drunk and I am sweating and she is talking and smiling like there are not way too many stairs.

“I’m sorry, but how can you do this every day?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “I guess I just think of it as part of my walk home.”

It is a foreign concept to me and I like it.

2.

I am having brunch-tails with my roommate in our apartment. Our other roommate, his boyfriend, is out of town and I’m asking him invasive questions about sex in a committed relationship.

“Of course I jerk off!” he tells me. “All the time!”

“But why do you need to?” I ask. “If you have sex right there next to you?”

“I don’t know,” he says with a shrug. “I think it’s as important to turn myself on as it is to seek outside stimulation.”

It is a foreign concept to me and I like it.

3.

I am covering someone’s closing shift at my new restaurant job. No one has taught me what to do and the other busboys start shaking their heads and whispering like I’ve wandered into a den of lions. Someone actually calls the busboy who gave me the shift to tell him that it was “fucked up” to let me take it.

I chase down my boss as he’s leaving.

“Are you sure you don’t want to call someone else to come in?” I ask.

“Why would I do that?” he asks.

“In case I mess something up,” I answer.

“I don’t know,” he says with a shrug. “It’s a tough close. But I doubt it will be the toughest thing you’ve ever done in your life.”

It is a foreign concept to me and I like it.

Three Memories 1. I am 5 or something. My mom is downstairs. I’m in my bedroom. I find this cassette tape my parents play when I tell them I can’t sleep: an odd folk group that sings in sparse harmony about nature, a melancholy to their voices that strikes me as religious and frightening. I take the tape, open my window, hoist myself into the frame, stand high on the balls of my feet, slip to the next knuckle of my little fingers and drop the tape into the gutter lipping the roof of my house. I’m back inside with a sigh of relief, when my mom starts banging on the door. A neighbor across the street saw my little body stretching out the window on tiptoe - like a jumper with nothing to lose - and called our house to tell my mom. I swear a bee flew into my room. I swear I was just trying to shoo it away. I’m not allowed to lock my door for months. 2. I am 12 or something. My dad and I are driving to the grocery store. He gets sputtery and awkward. He says he found “very inappropriate things” on the computer in our dining room - “some gay things” - and do I know anything about it? I have this friend that I don’t like anymore. I’ve called my dad several times to pick me up from sleepovers at his house in the middle of the night, so I know my dad doesn’t like him either. I tell my dad this friend sent me a link and when I clicked on it, all these windows started popping up with “really gross” porn sites. I tell my dad that it must be some sort of virus. 3. I am 17 or something. My dad has a 6-pack of Corona Light on the floor in the laundry room. I steal 3 and drink them in my bedroom, dancing in front of the mirror to Destiny’s Child. The next day, my dad asks me where the hell the beer is. I say that I don’t know. He says I’m the only person that lives in the house. I say that I don’t know. He asks me if I expect him to believe that someone broke into our house, took 3 beers and left. I pretend to be scared and ask him whether we should call the police to report the crime.
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Three Memories

1.

I am 5 or something. My mom is downstairs. I’m in my bedroom. I find this cassette tape my parents play when I tell them I can’t sleep: an odd folk group that sings in sparse harmony about nature, a melancholy to their voices that strikes me as religious and frightening.

I take the tape, open my window, hoist myself into the frame, stand high on the balls of my feet, slip to the next knuckle of my little fingers and drop the tape into the gutter lipping the roof of my house.

I’m back inside with a sigh of relief, when my mom starts banging on the door. A neighbor across the street saw my little body stretching out the window on tiptoe - like a jumper with nothing to lose - and called our house to tell my mom.

I swear a bee flew into my room. I swear I was just trying to shoo it away. I’m not allowed to lock my door for months.

2.

I am 12 or something. My dad and I are driving to the grocery store. He gets sputtery and awkward. He says he found “very inappropriate things” on the computer in our dining room - “some gay things” - and do I know anything about it?

I have this friend that I don’t like anymore. I’ve called my dad several times to pick me up from sleepovers at his house in the middle of the night, so I know my dad doesn’t like him either.

I tell my dad this friend sent me a link and when I clicked on it, all these windows started popping up with “really gross” porn sites. I tell my dad that it must be some sort of virus.

3.

I am 17 or something. My dad has a 6-pack of Corona Light on the floor in the laundry room. I steal 3 and drink them in my bedroom, dancing in front of the mirror to Destiny’s Child.

The next day, my dad asks me where the hell the beer is. I say that I don’t know. He says I’m the only person that lives in the house. I say that I don’t know.

He asks me if I expect him to believe that someone broke into our house, took 3 beers and left. I pretend to be scared and ask him whether we should call the police to report the crime.

Three Memories 1) I get promoted from busboy to counterboy at my restaurant. Kate is training me on how to work a closing shift. She is tougher, smarter and funnier than I will ever be. She is the type of woman that I need to be my friend. It is getting toward the end of the night and I am scrambling to get everything clean. Sweat is running down my face and I’m cleaning things that have never been cleaned before and getting dehydrated. She says that it is impossible for our boss to check everything on his own checklist. She says that part of the job is leaving on-time. She says it is more important to do the important stuff well than to do everything in a panic. She says to pick one thing to do each shift that no one has done in weeks and everyone will think I’m a superhero. 2. I decide to see a doctor about my HIV, after a few months of procrastinating with drugs and Manhunt. I cry for 20 minutes at the reception desk trying to fill out my paperwork, before they move me to a room with a nurse to get blood drawn. Her name is Phyllis. She is wearing baggy jeans and a baggy flannel shirt. She pushes her dreads back from her eyes like James Dean and stomps around the tiny room like a little boy. The room gets quiet and she catches me staring at my own blood in the tube like it is toxic waste. She says that HIV is not about hospital beds anymore. She says it is about sleepless nights and regretting things you can’t take back. She says that stress is the killer and truth is the cure and that if I promise to handle the stress, she promises to handle my blood. 3. I am sitting in Sheridan Square eating lunch. An older, homeless queen slinks up to the bench beside me. He is dressed like a thug, wife-beater and jeans, but his hair is still pulled back to fit under a wig and he has not yet found a sink to wash off last night’s eyeliner. He starts talking about all these new young men on Christopher Street every night, taking the trains in from the Bronx and Bensonhurst, so they can strut around in heels and kiss other boys on the pier. He says these new young men aren’t doing enough to watch out for the old coots like him that want to gobble these boys up, like bugs in a spiderweb. He says everyone on this earth has to decide if they are going to be a bug or a spider. He says I look like a spider and he knows a bug when he sees one and he asks if he can finish the rest of my soup.
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Three Memories

1)

I get promoted from busboy to counterboy at my restaurant. Kate is training me on how to work a closing shift. She is tougher, smarter and funnier than I will ever be. She is the type of woman that I need to be my friend.

It is getting toward the end of the night and I am scrambling to get everything clean. Sweat is running down my face and I’m cleaning things that have never been cleaned before and getting dehydrated.

She says that it is impossible for our boss to check everything on his own checklist. She says that part of the job is leaving on-time. She says it is more important to do the important stuff well than to do everything in a panic. She says to pick one thing to do each shift that no one has done in weeks and everyone will think I’m a superhero.

2.

I decide to see a doctor about my HIV, after a few months of procrastinating with drugs and Manhunt. I cry for 20 minutes at the reception desk trying to fill out my paperwork, before they move me to a room with a nurse to get blood drawn.

Her name is Phyllis. She is wearing baggy jeans and a baggy flannel shirt. She pushes her dreads back from her eyes like James Dean and stomps around the tiny room like a little boy. The room gets quiet and she catches me staring at my own blood in the tube like it is toxic waste.

She says that HIV is not about hospital beds anymore. She says it is about sleepless nights and regretting things you can’t take back. She says that stress is the killer and truth is the cure and that if I promise to handle the stress, she promises to handle my blood.

3.

I am sitting in Sheridan Square eating lunch. An older, homeless queen slinks up to the bench beside me. He is dressed like a thug, wife-beater and jeans, but his hair is still pulled back to fit under a wig and he has not yet found a sink to wash off last night’s eyeliner.

He starts talking about all these new young men on Christopher Street every night, taking the trains in from the Bronx and Bensonhurst, so they can strut around in heels and kiss other boys on the pier. He says these new young men aren’t doing enough to watch out for the old coots like him that want to gobble these boys up, like bugs in a spiderweb.

He says everyone on this earth has to decide if they are going to be a bug or a spider. He says I look like a spider and he knows a bug when he sees one and he asks if he can finish the rest of my soup.

Three Memories 1. I go to an open call for background actors for “The Avengers.” I’m smoking on the street before I go in and this little gay thing walks into the building where I’m supposed to be. He looks like he has never grown any hair below his eyebrows and his face looks Photoshopped with bronzer. He looks like an actor.  In the reflection of the building’s doors, I catch a glimpse of myself. I don’t know what I look like, but I know I’m not going into the audition. 2. I’m in an acting class. Our homework was to come up with the name of an actor that we’d like to model our career after. I choose Edward Norton. My teacher’s face scrunches. He says, “I might see that. But honestly, Steve - you’ve grown your hair so long, after we’ve all asked you to keep it short. You don’t bring in the monologues we recommend. I don’t think I know what to do with you anymore. You seem to be resisting any help from us.” The girl next to me chooses Daniel Day-Lewis. 3. I go to this guy’s house for sex. It’s an I’ll-be-waiting-for-you-in-bed-I’ll-leave-the-door-open kind of thing. No one is supposed to say a word. I get there and he’s really hot, but I can’t get hard. I don’t know why and the more I try to undo what is happening, the more it feels like a permanent condition. I hear him sigh and I know it’s over. But then he pulls me under the covers with him and holds me.  He says, “You’re gonna give me a complex.” I say, “How do you think I feel?” I spend the night there. I sleep with my shoes on. We never meet up again. But we see each other in the street sometimes and we wave and it isn’t awkward.
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Three Memories

1.

I go to an open call for background actors for “The Avengers.” I’m smoking on the street before I go in and this little gay thing walks into the building where I’m supposed to be.

He looks like he has never grown any hair below his eyebrows and his face looks Photoshopped with bronzer. He looks like an actor. 

In the reflection of the building’s doors, I catch a glimpse of myself. I don’t know what I look like, but I know I’m not going into the audition.

2.

I’m in an acting class. Our homework was to come up with the name of an actor that we’d like to model our career after. I choose Edward Norton.

My teacher’s face scrunches. He says, “I might see that. But honestly, Steve - you’ve grown your hair so long, after we’ve all asked you to keep it short. You don’t bring in the monologues we recommend. I don’t think I know what to do with you anymore. You seem to be resisting any help from us.”

The girl next to me chooses Daniel Day-Lewis.

3.

I go to this guy’s house for sex. It’s an I’ll-be-waiting-for-you-in-bed-I’ll-leave-the-door-open kind of thing. No one is supposed to say a word.

I get there and he’s really hot, but I can’t get hard. I don’t know why and the more I try to undo what is happening, the more it feels like a permanent condition.

I hear him sigh and I know it’s over. But then he pulls me under the covers with him and holds me. 

He says, “You’re gonna give me a complex.” I say, “How do you think I feel?”

I spend the night there. I sleep with my shoes on. We never meet up again. But we see each other in the street sometimes and we wave and it isn’t awkward.

Three Memories (of Three Memories fame) 1. It is New Year’s Eve, 2006. This guy I’ve been dating for a few months brings me to the city where he used to live. We go to a party hosted by some “old friends” of his. As the night wears on, everyone becomes increasingly antagonistic towards the guy I’m dating and I realize that the guy I’m dating might be the antagonist. Everyone in the room resents him for some reason that they won’t discuss with me in the room and everyone starts looking at me with pity, which I think is very kind of them. 2. It is New Year’s Eve, 2007. This guy I am falling in love with hasn’t answered his phone in days. He has been arrested, but I don’t know that yet. I think he has tired of me. I post some sad note on craigslist about not being alone at midnight. My ad strikes me as fairly romantic, but every response is for sex. Someone answers after midnight and I meet him at his hotel. He is Irish and I never figure out how to pronounce his name. He keeps asking me what is the matter. He seems very nice, so I keep pressing “the matter” into a small and manageable response that won’t make the hotel room feel sad and heavy.  3. It is New Year’s Eve, 2008. I have recently left 12 Step and moved in with friends from school. I smoke a lot of weed, but I stay away from craigslist and hard drugs and weird sex and older guys and I tell myself the change is the “less Catholic” decision. The girls I live with go to a big party on the Upper West Side, some rich kid’s parents’ house. He spends too much money on liquor and invites too many people and gives everyone the okay to destroy the house. At midnight, I am in the father’s office, smoking weed with a quiet girl. When I want to go home, my friends are throwing up or making out in various closets or bedrooms. One roommate has lost her purse and another has vanished completely and all the messes feel like the kind of messes that I have been missing out on.
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Three Memories (of Three Memories fame)

1.

It is New Year’s Eve, 2006. This guy I’ve been dating for a few months brings me to the city where he used to live. We go to a party hosted by some “old friends” of his.

As the night wears on, everyone becomes increasingly antagonistic towards the guy I’m dating and I realize that the guy I’m dating might be the antagonist.

Everyone in the room resents him for some reason that they won’t discuss with me in the room and everyone starts looking at me with pity, which I think is very kind of them.

2.

It is New Year’s Eve, 2007. This guy I am falling in love with hasn’t answered his phone in days. He has been arrested, but I don’t know that yet. I think he has tired of me.

I post some sad note on craigslist about not being alone at midnight. My ad strikes me as fairly romantic, but every response is for sex. Someone answers after midnight and I meet him at his hotel. He is Irish and I never figure out how to pronounce his name.

He keeps asking me what is the matter. He seems very nice, so I keep pressing “the matter” into a small and manageable response that won’t make the hotel room feel sad and heavy. 

3.

It is New Year’s Eve, 2008. I have recently left 12 Step and moved in with friends from school. I smoke a lot of weed, but I stay away from craigslist and hard drugs and weird sex and older guys and I tell myself the change is the “less Catholic” decision.

The girls I live with go to a big party on the Upper West Side, some rich kid’s parents’ house. He spends too much money on liquor and invites too many people and gives everyone the okay to destroy the house.

At midnight, I am in the father’s office, smoking weed with a quiet girl. When I want to go home, my friends are throwing up or making out in various closets or bedrooms. One roommate has lost her purse and another has vanished completely and all the messes feel like the kind of messes that I have been missing out on.

Three Memories (of Three Memories fame) 1. I’m walking through the West Village. This guy smiles at me from across the street. He is a salt-and-pepper bear in a sweater vest. I say that he looks “familiar” and “sometimes people look familiar when they are attractive. So I’ll just say that you look very familiar.” I realize that I have been having these interactions online for a reason. 2. I’m walking through Chelsea. My sister is visiting and we’re seeing a movie at the Clearview. This guy smiles at me underneath the marquee. He is an overgrown hipster with Buddy Holly glasses and a movie-poster smile. I walk away from my sister to say hello. I tell him that I like his boots and he says that he picked them out himself. He tells me that he likes my hair. I say that I “grew it myself.” I hear my sister groan. I realize that I have been having these interactions online for a reason. 3. I’m walking through a club on the Lower East Side. I’ve just rented out a bedroom from two gays on Craigslist and they’ve invited me to some fancy party as a show of solidarity. There is an open bar and the event is sponsored by some shitty vodka company and my roommates are the only people there that I know and I don’t even know them. I do big laps around the space and by the time I see anyone for the second time, I am wasted. My roommates warn me to steer clear of one guy. They call him “Dangerboy” and make faces like they are drinking shitty vodka whenever they say his name.  My roommates disappear. I feel it happening in slow-motion and I can’t tell if I am making it happen or if it is happening to me. Dangerboy and I are dancing. Dangerboy and I are making out on the dance floor. Dangerboy is asking me to walk back to his apartment. I say, “Yes.” I realize that I have been having these interactions online for a reason.
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Three Memories (of Three Memories fame)

1.

I’m walking through the West Village. This guy smiles at me from across the street. He is a salt-and-pepper bear in a sweater vest.

I say that he looks “familiar” and “sometimes people look familiar when they are attractive. So I’ll just say that you look very familiar.”

I realize that I have been having these interactions online for a reason.

2.

I’m walking through Chelsea. My sister is visiting and we’re seeing a movie at the Clearview. This guy smiles at me underneath the marquee. He is an overgrown hipster with Buddy Holly glasses and a movie-poster smile.

I walk away from my sister to say hello. I tell him that I like his boots and he says that he picked them out himself. He tells me that he likes my hair.

I say that I “grew it myself.”

I hear my sister groan.

I realize that I have been having these interactions online for a reason.

3.

I’m walking through a club on the Lower East Side. I’ve just rented out a bedroom from two gays on Craigslist and they’ve invited me to some fancy party as a show of solidarity.

There is an open bar and the event is sponsored by some shitty vodka company and my roommates are the only people there that I know and I don’t even know them. I do big laps around the space and by the time I see anyone for the second time, I am wasted.

My roommates warn me to steer clear of one guy. They call him “Dangerboy” and make faces like they are drinking shitty vodka whenever they say his name. 

My roommates disappear. I feel it happening in slow-motion and I can’t tell if I am making it happen or if it is happening to me. Dangerboy and I are dancing. Dangerboy and I are making out on the dance floor. Dangerboy is asking me to walk back to his apartment.

I say, “Yes.”

I realize that I have been having these interactions online for a reason.

Three Memories (of Three Memories fame) 1. I’m 19. I am recently dumped and taking out my emotions on the Craigslist m4m page. Lots of pointless, back-and-forth messages from my school email address, with no intention of leaving my dorm. The sun comes up. I send some maybe-next-time apologies and go to sleep. The next day in class, I receive texts from a random assortment of former bedfellows: “u ok?” “have you been on CL lately?” “im emailing u something u should probably see.” I go back to my dorm and check my mail. There is a link to a capslock Craigslist post with my first and last name in the headline: “HAS AIDS, LIES, SPREADS DISEASE! BEWARE THIS WHORE!” I spend the afternoon on the phone with a representative from Craigslist to get the post removed. I open a Yahoo email account under the name “John Doe” that I use for the remainder of my Craigslist career. 2. I’m 20. I’m on Manhunt and it is getting too late to close any deals. I start searching for screen names of people I have hooked up with before. I find one who’s online. He was funny. He had bristly blond hair across his chest and talked a lot during sex about what he was going to do next and why I would like it and he was usually right. A few days later, he asked me to leave him alone in a text message. I login with an old account, delete any photos of my face from my profile and ask him to come over. He responds with enthusiastic approval. I give him the address of my ex-boyfriend and an apartment number that doesn’t exist in the building. I shut off my phone and go to sleep. 3. I’m 21. I post an ad for sex on Craigslist. While I’m waiting for a response, I respond to another ad for sex. He writes back and says he really just wants to talk. He is also 21 and has recently tested positive. His writing is very candid and articulate. He is scared to tell his family and scared to see a doctor and scared to have sex. I write a long note back about testing positive myself and how I still haven’t told my family and how I still haven’t readjusted to sex after two years. He sends a picture of his smiling face: “you seem nice.” Then he responds to the ad for sex that I’ve posted with a picture of his dick, reflected in a bathroom mirror. I write back to his face and tell him that he seems nice too.
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Three Memories (of Three Memories fame)

1.

I’m 19. I am recently dumped and taking out my emotions on the Craigslist m4m page. Lots of pointless, back-and-forth messages from my school email address, with no intention of leaving my dorm. The sun comes up. I send some maybe-next-time apologies and go to sleep.

The next day in class, I receive texts from a random assortment of former bedfellows: “u ok?” “have you been on CL lately?” “im emailing u something u should probably see.”

I go back to my dorm and check my mail. There is a link to a capslock Craigslist post with my first and last name in the headline: “HAS AIDS, LIES, SPREADS DISEASE! BEWARE THIS WHORE!”

I spend the afternoon on the phone with a representative from Craigslist to get the post removed. I open a Yahoo email account under the name “John Doe” that I use for the remainder of my Craigslist career.

2.

I’m 20. I’m on Manhunt and it is getting too late to close any deals. I start searching for screen names of people I have hooked up with before.

I find one who’s online. He was funny. He had bristly blond hair across his chest and talked a lot during sex about what he was going to do next and why I would like it and he was usually right. A few days later, he asked me to leave him alone in a text message.

I login with an old account, delete any photos of my face from my profile and ask him to come over. He responds with enthusiastic approval. I give him the address of my ex-boyfriend and an apartment number that doesn’t exist in the building. I shut off my phone and go to sleep.

3.

I’m 21. I post an ad for sex on Craigslist. While I’m waiting for a response, I respond to another ad for sex. He writes back and says he really just wants to talk.

He is also 21 and has recently tested positive. His writing is very candid and articulate. He is scared to tell his family and scared to see a doctor and scared to have sex. I write a long note back about testing positive myself and how I still haven’t told my family and how I still haven’t readjusted to sex after two years.

He sends a picture of his smiling face: “you seem nice.” Then he responds to the ad for sex that I’ve posted with a picture of his dick, reflected in a bathroom mirror.

I write back to his face and tell him that he seems nice too.

Three Memories 1.  I’m 18. I just found out that I got into acting school at NYU. I’m performing in my high school production of “Footloose.” They cast me as the priest who bans dancing. I’m disappointed because I want to learn choreography. But the role feels serious and substantial and I tell myself that I am the show’s emotional center. Opening night, I’m singing my climactic solo number, where I reveal to the audience that I’m only a villain because I’ve experienced great tragedy. My mind starts to wander during the first verse: I start to think about how strange it is that I’m 18 and pretending to be 40, that I’m a gay high school kid pretending to be a man of the cloth, that everyone can see me and I can’t see anyone. I start to think about how strange it is that my mind has been wandering for almost a minute and I haven’t missed a beat of the song; that I’ve passed through every gesture and facial expression of sadness that I’ve rehearsed; that I’ve committed to doing this for the rest of my life. My voice cracks. I forget a few of the words. I’m horrified. After the show, my dad says he didn’t notice anything. My mom says she noticed, but that she thought I was just overwhelmed with the emotion of the song. 2. I’m 19. I’m in a movement class at NYU. My teacher turns on music and has us close our eyes and move through the space, focusing on energy in different body parts that she’s calling out. “Right elbow! Chin! Belly! Knees!” I’m into it. I feel sleepy and fluid and each body part feels like a new character or emotion or story. Then I hear a loud bang on the wall beside me. Then another. Then a scream. I open one eye and this one girl is banging her fists against the classroom door. I’ve been suspicious of her all quarter. She is humorless and cries too easily and exaggerates her facial expressions, like she’s playing a death scene to the back row, even when we’re just waiting in line for the water fountain. There is a violence and intensity about her, even when we’re just doing vocal exercises, that always keeps me from eating where she eats on our lunch break. Even when she’s supposed to be acting, it always feels too cruel to watch, like she might explode or start bleeding or give birth. And now she is red-faced and sobbing and screaming and beating her fists against the door, like a beast in a cage, while we’re supposed to be focusing on the energy in our feet. When the exercise is over, someone raises their hand to “thank” her. For always being so “brave.”  I suddenly hate everyone in the room and feel like we’re all culpable for calling whatever this girl is doing or going through “acting.” 3. I’m 19. I’m playing a priest (again) in a scene for a class. I’ve been getting yelled at by my teachers lately, for not knowing what my “actions” are in each moment of my scenes and monologues. Determined to please my teacher, I break the scene down into meticulous beats. After memorizing my lines, I ascribe a different verb to each emotional shift - coaxing, grieving, seducing, sympathizing, threatening. I never use the same word twice. I spend hours scoring the exact moment of each action - sometimes placing a new action in the middle of a word, so it always looks like I’m changing my tactics. I perform the scene with my partner in class. I feel like an emotional machine, like a robot and not a human. When we’re done, my teacher is crying. She says that my performance was “gorgeous.”
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Three Memories


1. 

I’m 18. I just found out that I got into acting school at NYU. I’m performing in my high school production of “Footloose.” They cast me as the priest who bans dancing. I’m disappointed because I want to learn choreography. But the role feels serious and substantial and I tell myself that I am the show’s emotional center.

Opening night, I’m singing my climactic solo number, where I reveal to the audience that I’m only a villain because I’ve experienced great tragedy.

My mind starts to wander during the first verse: I start to think about how strange it is that I’m 18 and pretending to be 40, that I’m a gay high school kid pretending to be a man of the cloth, that everyone can see me and I can’t see anyone.

I start to think about how strange it is that my mind has been wandering for almost a minute and I haven’t missed a beat of the song; that I’ve passed through every gesture and facial expression of sadness that I’ve rehearsed; that I’ve committed to doing this for the rest of my life.

My voice cracks. I forget a few of the words. I’m horrified.

After the show, my dad says he didn’t notice anything. My mom says she noticed, but that she thought I was just overwhelmed with the emotion of the song.

2.

I’m 19. I’m in a movement class at NYU. My teacher turns on music and has us close our eyes and move through the space, focusing on energy in different body parts that she’s calling out.

“Right elbow! Chin! Belly! Knees!”

I’m into it. I feel sleepy and fluid and each body part feels like a new character or emotion or story.

Then I hear a loud bang on the wall beside me. Then another. Then a scream. I open one eye and this one girl is banging her fists against the classroom door.

I’ve been suspicious of her all quarter. She is humorless and cries too easily and exaggerates her facial expressions, like she’s playing a death scene to the back row, even when we’re just waiting in line for the water fountain. There is a violence and intensity about her, even when we’re just doing vocal exercises, that always keeps me from eating where she eats on our lunch break.

Even when she’s supposed to be acting, it always feels too cruel to watch, like she might explode or start bleeding or give birth.

And now she is red-faced and sobbing and screaming and beating her fists against the door, like a beast in a cage, while we’re supposed to be focusing on the energy in our feet.

When the exercise is over, someone raises their hand to “thank” her. For always being so “brave.” 

I suddenly hate everyone in the room and feel like we’re all culpable for calling whatever this girl is doing or going through “acting.”

3.

I’m 19. I’m playing a priest (again) in a scene for a class.

I’ve been getting yelled at by my teachers lately, for not knowing what my “actions” are in each moment of my scenes and monologues.

Determined to please my teacher, I break the scene down into meticulous beats. After memorizing my lines, I ascribe a different verb to each emotional shift - coaxing, grieving, seducing, sympathizing, threatening. I never use the same word twice. I spend hours scoring the exact moment of each action - sometimes placing a new action in the middle of a word, so it always looks like I’m changing my tactics.

I perform the scene with my partner in class. I feel like an emotional machine, like a robot and not a human.

When we’re done, my teacher is crying. She says that my performance was “gorgeous.”

Three Memories 1. I’m probably like 10. I’m in my dad’s basement with my best friend from down the street, David, who is also really skinny and bad at sports.  I’m playing my sister’s Janet Jackson tape over and over again and making David learn the choreography from the “If” music video. David is the male dancer, on his knees at my feet. I am Janet, tossing his head from side to side between my legs and rubbing my hands across my white bamboo vest. Finally, David pretends he has to go home. He’s been surprisingly good-natured about the whole thing and held down his end of the dance moves with a conviction I really wasn’t expecting. But I realize once he’s gone that what I’ve done is weird and potentially dangerous to my social future and maybe I ought to tone it down. 2. I’m probably like 13. I’ve started to pull away from my guy friends in my neighborhood, never answering the door or the phone when I’m home alone. I’ve taken to smoking pot in my bedroom and listening to Destiny’s Child on headphones and closing my eyes and picturing rose petals twirling around me in slow-motion and my body writhing like a girl in a music video. My guy friends accost me in my driveway one day and suggest we hang out at my house that night and smoke pot in my bedroom. In a panic, I take Mariah Carey’s “Butterfly,” the soundtrack to Titanic, a cassette single of Nicki French’s cover of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” and a shopping bag full of other CDs and tapes I’ve asked my father to buy me for Christmas or stolen from my sister and throw them in the big garbage can in my garage. They don’t come over. I leave the bag in the garbage can and smoke pot by myself. I draw a picture in my journal of a girl in a long flowing dress. Around her head, I write “Spread your wings and fly, near, far, wherever you are.” Underneath her feet, I write, “The Gay Purge.” 3. I’m 20. I’ve grown my hair out long, past my shoulders and started wearing oversized dress shirts and velvet vests, like some 19th century dandy. I’m paying my bill at the Dish on 8th Avenue after eating with a bunch of gays from 12 Step. The cashier is running my credit card and I look in the reflection of the mirror behind her. I see this guy that everyone in 12 Step fawns all over for his wisdom and kindness and generosity, sitting at a table in the corner of the restaurant, surrounded by a group of gays that he sponsors in the program. I’ve never spoken to him, but always fought with judging him for looking like douchey, tribal tattoo, Abercrombie-at-fifty gay cheese. The men around him are laughing. He’s pointing at me and pretending to flip long hair over his shoulders and mincing his wrists around in the air like butterflies. I turn around and give him a look, like “Caught ya, bitch.” He looks sufficiently embarrassed. But I still feel like I’m the one that needs to change and I start toning down my costumes when I go to meetings in Chelsea.
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Three Memories

1.

I’m probably like 10. I’m in my dad’s basement with my best friend from down the street, David, who is also really skinny and bad at sports. 

I’m playing my sister’s Janet Jackson tape over and over again and making David learn the choreography from the “If” music video. David is the male dancer, on his knees at my feet. I am Janet, tossing his head from side to side between my legs and rubbing my hands across my white bamboo vest.

Finally, David pretends he has to go home. He’s been surprisingly good-natured about the whole thing and held down his end of the dance moves with a conviction I really wasn’t expecting. But I realize once he’s gone that what I’ve done is weird and potentially dangerous to my social future and maybe I ought to tone it down.

2.

I’m probably like 13. I’ve started to pull away from my guy friends in my neighborhood, never answering the door or the phone when I’m home alone. I’ve taken to smoking pot in my bedroom and listening to Destiny’s Child on headphones and closing my eyes and picturing rose petals twirling around me in slow-motion and my body writhing like a girl in a music video.

My guy friends accost me in my driveway one day and suggest we hang out at my house that night and smoke pot in my bedroom. In a panic, I take Mariah Carey’s “Butterfly,” the soundtrack to Titanic, a cassette single of Nicki French’s cover of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” and a shopping bag full of other CDs and tapes I’ve asked my father to buy me for Christmas or stolen from my sister and throw them in the big garbage can in my garage.

They don’t come over. I leave the bag in the garbage can and smoke pot by myself. I draw a picture in my journal of a girl in a long flowing dress.

Around her head, I write “Spread your wings and fly, near, far, wherever you are.” Underneath her feet, I write, “The Gay Purge.”

3.

I’m 20. I’ve grown my hair out long, past my shoulders and started wearing oversized dress shirts and velvet vests, like some 19th century dandy. I’m paying my bill at the Dish on 8th Avenue after eating with a bunch of gays from 12 Step.

The cashier is running my credit card and I look in the reflection of the mirror behind her. I see this guy that everyone in 12 Step fawns all over for his wisdom and kindness and generosity, sitting at a table in the corner of the restaurant, surrounded by a group of gays that he sponsors in the program. I’ve never spoken to him, but always fought with judging him for looking like douchey, tribal tattoo, Abercrombie-at-fifty gay cheese.

The men around him are laughing. He’s pointing at me and pretending to flip long hair over his shoulders and mincing his wrists around in the air like butterflies. I turn around and give him a look, like “Caught ya, bitch.”

He looks sufficiently embarrassed. But I still feel like I’m the one that needs to change and I start toning down my costumes when I go to meetings in Chelsea.

Three Memories (ripped from an old journal - last time, I swear) 1. When I worked at the the Italian place on 9th, one of my many managers was this real pretty boy named David. Very quick-witted, sharply dressed. Sassy, but personable enough to navigate just about any social situation that could come up as a manager of a fancy restaurant without getting everyone mad at him. I just saw him walking down 7th Avenue looking a strung. Out. Mess. Big bookbag (the “any-nighter,” I’ve started to call it) filled with lord-knows-what. Dirty/baggy jeans and a dirty hoodie. Sores checked across his face. Holding a phone to his ear. Not saying a word. It was him. 2. He was the second man to call me a whore. They were both right. 3.  Lava Point. Zion National Park. Only the sounds of car doors and birds. Couples work side-by-side for hours, grunting only what is necessary. People sit and stare. Pretense waits for us, like mistletoe beneath the exit sign. Maybe we’ll be happy to put those clothes back on, when we are back at a cocktail party of strangers.
View Separately

Three Memories

(ripped from an old journal - last time, I swear)

1.

When I worked at the the Italian place on 9th, one of my many managers was this real pretty boy named David.

Very quick-witted, sharply dressed. Sassy, but personable enough to navigate just about any social situation that could come up as a manager of a fancy restaurant without getting everyone mad at him.

I just saw him walking down 7th Avenue looking a strung. Out. Mess. Big bookbag (the “any-nighter,” I’ve started to call it) filled with lord-knows-what. Dirty/baggy jeans and a dirty hoodie. Sores checked across his face. Holding a phone to his ear. Not saying a word.

It was him.

2.

He was the second man to call me a whore. They were both right.

3. 

Lava Point. Zion National Park.

Only the sounds of car doors and birds. Couples work side-by-side for hours, grunting only what is necessary. People sit and stare.

Pretense waits for us, like mistletoe beneath the exit sign. Maybe we’ll be happy to put those clothes back on, when we are back at a cocktail party of strangers.

Three Memories (pulled from an old folder on my laptop of undergraduate papers) 1.  “Jung’s complication of this theory seems to speak directly to Bjork’s process.” 2. “Sally Kellerman does exactly what she should with the complex task she’s been assigned.” 3. “They’ve been together for over ten years. They cannot deny the connection they feel for each other. But the relationship is victim to an all-too-common fate: they are both tops.” 
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Three Memories

(pulled from an old folder on my laptop of undergraduate papers)

1. 

“Jung’s complication of this theory seems to speak directly to Bjork’s process.”

2.

“Sally Kellerman does exactly what she should with the complex task she’s been assigned.”

3.

“They’ve been together for over ten years. They cannot deny the connection they feel for each other. But the relationship is victim to an all-too-common fate: they are both tops.” 

(via jamesdeansawyer)

Source: mrgolightly

Three Memories (ripped from an old journal) 1. In the Starbucks on 8th. Sitting by this Chelsea figurine: “The Starbucks Guy.” He’s handsome, probably 45, shaved head, these really interesting glasses that make him look all interesting. Detailed, tasteful tattoos on his forearms that make him look well-read. Two years ago, we find each other on Manhunt. He looks pretty interesting naked too. I am all about it. He asks me if I’m “into partying.” I am 100%, four-feet-in-the-door in 12 Step at this point. I tell him that, sorry, I’m not. And if I remember correctly, he’s like, “Well, I’m gonna be partying tonight, but maybe another time.” Or something.  And the whole serious-turtleneck mystique just started looking like a really silly costume. I’m sitting at a table behind him and can see the reflection of his laptop screen in the window. Perez Hilton and Facebook. Lookin’ all serious. 2. “Taking a phone call.” Generally after having been all but kicked out of whatever man’s apartment I’d been in for the last 4 to 24 hours. And no matter what part of town I was in, I would walk the entire way home. And I would pull out my phone and just start talking. You don’t know! Maybe it’s on vibrate. Usually clunky for the first minute or so, but then I would find a groove - really expanding on some imagined situation or character in my imaginary life. And I’ll be damned if I didn’t make some brilliant imagined points sometimes too! And when I’d come up with something really shiny, I’d make sure to repeat it, PROJECTING MY VOICE and timing it to hit the ears of innocent civilians, so the world would know what a fascinating character I really was(n’t).  3. Coral and I went to that bookstore on Prince to get some homework done and David Bowie came in. And it wasn’t one one of those awkward, giggly celebrity sightings. We got really calm and just watched him in silence, like there was much to be observed from the way David Bowie asks an employee if a book is in stock.
View Separately

Three Memories

(ripped from an old journal)

1.

In the Starbucks on 8th. Sitting by this Chelsea figurine: “The Starbucks Guy.” He’s handsome, probably 45, shaved head, these really interesting glasses that make him look all interesting. Detailed, tasteful tattoos on his forearms that make him look well-read.

Two years ago, we find each other on Manhunt. He looks pretty interesting naked too. I am all about it.

He asks me if I’m “into partying.” I am 100%, four-feet-in-the-door in 12 Step at this point. I tell him that, sorry, I’m not. And if I remember correctly, he’s like, “Well, I’m gonna be partying tonight, but maybe another time.” Or something. 

And the whole serious-turtleneck mystique just started looking like a really silly costume.

I’m sitting at a table behind him and can see the reflection of his laptop screen in the window. Perez Hilton and Facebook. Lookin’ all serious.

2.

“Taking a phone call.” Generally after having been all but kicked out of whatever man’s apartment I’d been in for the last 4 to 24 hours. And no matter what part of town I was in, I would walk the entire way home.

And I would pull out my phone and just start talking. You don’t know! Maybe it’s on vibrate. Usually clunky for the first minute or so, but then I would find a groove - really expanding on some imagined situation or character in my imaginary life.

And I’ll be damned if I didn’t make some brilliant imagined points sometimes too! And when I’d come up with something really shiny, I’d make sure to repeat it, PROJECTING MY VOICE and timing it to hit the ears of innocent civilians, so the world would know what a fascinating character I really was(n’t). 

3.

Coral and I went to that bookstore on Prince to get some homework done and David Bowie came in.

And it wasn’t one one of those awkward, giggly celebrity sightings.

We got really calm and just watched him in silence, like there was much to be observed from the way David Bowie asks an employee if a book is in stock.

Three Memories (ripped from an old journal) 1. Hi my name is Steve and I’m an addict. I have 59 days sober, I’ve slept with 3 guys in 3 days. I have $6.29 in my checking account. I have 750,000+ units of HIV per mL of my blood. I have 3 hours and 24 minutes until I need to wake up for a 12 Step meeting and the last day of my second year of college. I am 19 years old. These are my numbers. 2. Sitting in the Starbucks on Washington Square. This kid I hooked up with at a party freshman year just sat on the sofa across from me, clearly not realizing what he was doing until it was happening. We hooked up-ish, drunk-ish, then I gave him the ice. Big time. Okay, he just said hi. Anyways. Holy shit, he just picked up and walked out. Oof. 3.  In a little park on Mercer and Bleecker with an egg sandwich. Laundry in the dryer across the street. A homeless man is “building” something and everyone is watching because he’s making so much fucking noise. He has a shopping cart full of pieces of metal and cardboard that he is bending very carefully, as if for some greater purpose, then simply throwing them all into a pile. There are like…kids around. To his credit, he seems a little self-conscious, like even if he doesn’t know what he’s building, he knows that he’s performing. He is scrunching up his face to look really pensive and productive. He is watching himself and playing to the audience around him. I could go on and on about his depth of character, but I’ve already grown bored with him. He is a crazy man playing with scraps of metal. All I sat down to write was that I think it’s over with Tom. By which I mean: he totally dumped me yesterday.
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Three Memories

(ripped from an old journal)

1.

Hi my name is Steve and I’m an addict.

I have 59 days sober, I’ve slept with 3 guys in 3 days. I have $6.29 in my checking account. I have 750,000+ units of HIV per mL of my blood. I have 3 hours and 24 minutes until I need to wake up for a 12 Step meeting and the last day of my second year of college. I am 19 years old.

These are my numbers.

2.

Sitting in the Starbucks on Washington Square. This kid I hooked up with at a party freshman year just sat on the sofa across from me, clearly not realizing what he was doing until it was happening.

We hooked up-ish, drunk-ish, then I gave him the ice. Big time.

Okay, he just said hi. Anyways.

Holy shit, he just picked up and walked out. Oof.

3. 

In a little park on Mercer and Bleecker with an egg sandwich. Laundry in the dryer across the street.

A homeless man is “building” something and everyone is watching because he’s making so much fucking noise. He has a shopping cart full of pieces of metal and cardboard that he is bending very carefully, as if for some greater purpose, then simply throwing them all into a pile.

There are like…kids around.

To his credit, he seems a little self-conscious, like even if he doesn’t know what he’s building, he knows that he’s performing. He is scrunching up his face to look really pensive and productive. He is watching himself and playing to the audience around him.

I could go on and on about his depth of character, but I’ve already grown bored with him. He is a crazy man playing with scraps of metal.

All I sat down to write was that I think it’s over with Tom. By which I mean: he totally dumped me yesterday.

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