Skinny Jeans

You need to buy a suit for interviews. You don't own a suit?

No, I don't, I just purchased my first pair of skinny jeans this week. No one in my life has died or gotten married. I suppose I was raised business casual my entire life. The idea of owning a suit terrifies me, spending $600 dollars of this money I don't have. How does that happen? How can that happen?

I'm down to my last Ambien. The second to last is currently working its magic in my body. Prepare yourself from the insomnia to return in full force. I've been working on improving it. I still have melatonin, but that leaves me feeling so groggy in the mornings.

I have been reading about Stephen Sondheim non-stop this week. A biography on his life and his art. For the paper I plan to write for my 20th Century Theater Class. I have found a new Sondheim song, one that I've know existed for years, but ignored cause it wasn't big and flashy. Anyone Can Whistle though speaks to me terribly. So terribly.

What's hard is simple,
What's natural comes hard.
Maybe you could show me
How to let go, lower my guard, learn to be . . .
free.

I lack social graces that allows for this song to ring true. This week coming will be filled with midterms and wondering what is going to happen with my life. I guess I need to work on buying that suit. For without a suit, it seems you'll never get anywhere in the world.

I know the suggestion was to help, but it was said as if there was a balanced idea behind it. A rule that everyone knew, besides me. I know the good intentions that were behind it as well. Oh I do.

I feel off these days. As if I am existing just to be erased from memories. I can't seem to connect with people on levels that I wish I could connect with them on. I feel this longing to be loved and supported, but constantly encounter roadblocks. Each week goes by and draws closer to impending graduation.

Oddly enough, I feel these months may hold some change for better or worse. Against all will, the hands of fate will carry out their vile plans. I can try to deter the immediately consequences, but the gears that are turning, have been turning for far to long.

I was speaking with The Escort who is moving to CT into his John's house to live rent free and do school work. He also fixes the house and such. He'll be in the city taking classes, but I told him that I know so many homos our age who are leaving. He corrected me and told me he wasn't leaving.

IGUANA: Not all of us have a house in CT we can move into that is rent free.
ESCORT: You have your parent's house, don't you?

Now I was caught off guard with the notion that my parents are existentially my John. That a man who used to fuck this guy is graciously helping his life by letting him move into his house in CT and live for free. While if I moved home to upstate NY. I would not only be forced to get a job, I would have to pay rent for my room and I would ultimately throw myself in front of a truck!

That's the Ambien talking, I think.

No, my prostituted little friend. Our lives are not under the same category. It's fun to pretend, but they will never been.

A Country Ride With a Prostitute; or The Sun Also Sets in Connecticut

Connecticut. 24 Hours. The Escort. A Chihuahua. Myself.

How I got tied up into it all is really besides the point. I had just returned from Harring's place and planned on a long night of sitting in my apartment and playing video games. Cut to an hour later when I was traveling to the West Village and preparing for my departure to Connecticut.

IGUANA: So I'm going to the same place in the Village. Your boss's apartment?
ESCORT: You've been here? When?
IGUANA: Some time in July, I think. We fucked twice and watched Nashville.
ESCORT: I remember Nashville.
IGUANA: Ha!
ESCORT: Oh, wait I remember you too.
IGUANA: Yea, sure. Doesn't matter.

We traveled up and I kept him company. I brought up Harring and in a funny turn of events. The Escort and Harring were involved, apparently right before I met Harring. What is this small world in which we live?

I didn't realize the door I opened in that one. Harring had mentioned they had dated and it hadn't ended nicely. The Escort told me his side of the story, as only a bitchy prostitute can.

"I'm just saying. YOU are very mature for 23."

We arrived to the cabin. Yes, I was spending a night in Connecticut! It wasn't Fenwick, but it would do. This place is The Escort's business partner/lover/pimp/father. It's a wonderful and interesting relationship.

I have heard about Bob. Yes, his name is Bob! He owns the house and according to The Escort's time frame in the stories he tells, Bob is about 738-years-old. Though he looks about sixty in physical appearances. He has lived through decades of drugs, sex, happiness, sadness, AIDS and death. He has amassed an unknown fortune and decided that this boy be his heir.

We arrived to the house, this is the house that The Escort built. It seems Bob has grown weary of The Escort though. He has now demoted The Escort from working at his Magazine to keeping house.

I like The Escort, now that I've taken the time to get to know him. I see the humanity he possesses. It's hidden beneath a thick layer of indifference. It's nice to view that on occasion. He is just as lost as the rest and I don't necessarily feel comfortable in knowing that.

(Waking up in the morning, they shared a bed, but have kept to their sides.)
ESCORT: Morning.
IGUANA (Yawning): Morn--ing
ESCORT: I'm hard.
IGUANA: That's nice.
ESCORT: I'm gonna jerk-off.
IGUANA: Good to know.
ESCORT: Or you could just sit on it.
IGUANA: I'll keep that in mind. Good luck.
ESCORT: Oh, yes! You're with Harring!
IGUANA: Exactly. (Smirks.)
ESCORT: Well, we've all been with each other. You've been with Harring. I've been with you.
IGUANA: And you have been with Harring. I know! It's less weird when the two of you don't dislike each other. Sorry.

It was a humorous scene to be sure. We spent the day fixing up the house, that Bob pays him $1200- a month to do. He needs to pay for materials I assume, but still that's not a bad job.

The night was spent watching videos he took of his trip to Europe with Bob. That night, while we slept away from each other, I dreamt of slide shows about Escorts and their old Johns. He wanted the company, his life was getting to hectic. Bob didn't pay him enough and he felt lost. I was there to help him smile and forget life. It was an ironic role I was playing, but I think I did fine. He made me laugh in return and I enjoyed that he wasn't be insincere anymore.

We discussed the jobs he could get. Part time of course, so he could continue hooking. Apparently, the life of an escort is one that boarders on hospitality. They see so many hotels, they get a natural glow whenever they enter one. The Escort wants to work at a front desk of a hotel. That is his ambition for now, while he gets his degree in Interior Design.

Do you see the beauty and sadness of it all? He showed me the front elevations he did of his kitchen, on graph paper. I smile because he seems so determined and I like that!

It was an unwanted diversion, but my trip to Connecticut was a fun little surprise. One of those journey's that comes about rarely. You jump down the rabbit hole and find out a little more than you figured you would.