September 9, 2009
I was exhausted. And I was really exhausted, not the fake exhaustion I sometimes feign to be dramatic. I barely kept my eyes open.
He worked late. Such is loving a robot or a banker. And after I spent the day moving and unpacking and unsettling and shopping (picture mounting hardware at Container Store, blue baby snow-globe from France at Paul Smith) I was tired. My brief time in the West Village was over. I was back on 6th Avenue, at 15th Street, a mere block away from my 1st NYC apartment (if you don't count the FIT dorms), an apartment I moved in with my then boyfriend Louis Alfieri. I was such a kid then. It is amazing that this city did not devour me. Then again, maybe it did. It threw me all the way to San Francisco.
And he came home late. And I waited up, barely, and he made me get up. I was not feeling it and got a little nasty. He insisted and told me I had to and he took me by the hand into the kitchen and opened a bottle of Veuve and said that we had to toast our new home. Our first night together. Our future. And I did not want to. I wanted to sleep. I don't even care for champagne much these days (my taste long ago veered toward shaken vodka and deep red wines). Champagne is what I drank when I was younger and fabulous and ran around Mecca in SF on Sunday afternoons getting sloshed with people like Eric Lee and Marc Gallagher and Jimmy Markee. Tasting the champagne made me think of friends in SF and though drinking it was the last thing I wanted to do this night I, of course, obliged. He was happy. Really happy. And that makes me happy. And it made me awake.
And now a few weeks after moving in together here we are settled. Bright, bold, graphic posters from Communist Bulgaria hang above my Blu Dot Sofa. A flag I created with Tommy Coggia hangs above his wooden platform bed. His green dishes sit stacked next to my orange ones. His Eames Aluminum Management chairs sits at a pink lacquered console table made to be a desk. On the Saarinen table sits two sandstone hearts colored royal, and teal, blues. I bought him one when our love was draped in secrecy. I kept the other and told him that they would one day be together. They are now. (On a side table sits Sandra's heart).
Summer was about to end. So we took one last trip to the island where gay men lip synch in videos to Miley Cyrus and drinking heavily and casual sex are expected and encouraged. A place where cars do not roam and holding your lover's hand never comes with second guessing. Where walking along the beach brings one in contact with friends from past lives and where meeting new people comes easily and often.
And to celebrate summer's end my housemates and I decided to throw a party. We acquired booze and bartenders and decked the decks in gold floral sheeting, metallic and textured. I spray painted their costumes and shoes and painted their faces gold. They, and I, and Georgi shimmered in the sun. Lina played beats from above the pool. I ran around like a kid with attention deficit disorder who'd gotten in a fight with Cher's make-up artist. Needless to say, the party was a hit. We ended the summer with a bang. The pictures are major. The glitter remains on eye lids and weekend bags and toiletries. Reminders of this last hurrah.
And the next day we were supposed to relax and hit other parties and dine with Michael Lucas and stay the night. But we opted to escape early. A day early. To return home. Fire Island is fun. But it's work and not for everyone. And if I am being honest, it is not my scene. I enjoy it, like I do San Francisco, and Baltimore, in sporadic trips. Brief encounters. Not regularly scheduled visits. I don't think we'll be sharing there next summer. That's not to say I don't adore it. And from this summer I have great memories with new friends and I really got to know some of my housemates who, though they sometimes drove me mad, I adored and cherished moments shared with. But, we needed to go.
We returned to the city to work on the apartment. We hung those Bulgarian posters and some Simboli posters and ran 6 miles and had brunch and invited Alireza and Richard Pulik over for some wine. And the heat subsided and NYC had a crispness in the air. And just like that summer moved on. And the way it goes you can't tag along. Seasons can't last. But memories can.
Golden. Blurry. Done.
