Just dropped into New York to shag someone

Hola y'all

You haven't heard from me for a while, because I have just been flying to New York, and had some peculiar experiences already! I've done the flight across the Pacific many times, and I hate it. The United Airlines food which - in business class - is no more edible than it was when I used to fly in economy class. I recall at one point, feeling starved between meals, and begging the hostess for an apple, or a biscuit, to which she replied: "Honey, we simply do not have the stock to be constantly feeding you." When the "food" finally does arrive, the portions of roast chicken are so small it is a wonder they do not simply dissolve in the sauce.

And don't you love going through customs when you land in LA - the fingerprinting, getting photograped, the questions (hint: when asked "what is the purpose of your visit?", do not answer "jihad business" - I did that once when I was young and stupid and was thrown in jail. Long story - I'll tell you sometime). Then when it's time to reboard the flight onwards to New York, you have to go through the metal detectors again, shoes off and your baggage gets x-rayed again. Fluids and liquids for carry-on must be less than 100mL and presented separately in clear plastic bags. All your carry-on luggage is spilt onto a counter, and every item is sniffed, shaken, smelt, inspected. (Miami Airport, I recall from last time I was there, was even worse. Every single person had to go into a futuristic one-person chamber. The automatic doors close around you and you feel a breeze blowing all over your body and through your clothes. An explosives detector apparently! ).

So now, in New York, I have been paid a reasonable amount of money to have sex with a rich young guy called Jack in a Central Park West apartment, not too far from where John Lennon was assassinated, and where Yoko Ono has prepared a beautiful memoral for him in Central Park. I was recommended by Felix, a hot university guy from the gorgeous city of Ithaca NY with whom I shared a short and stormy relationship, but it didn't last - apparently because, according to Felix, I am "unstable", "trashy" and a "piece of work". Actually, it was more to do with the fact that Felix was a jealous guy who was unable to discern the difference between physical and emotional fidelity. I would have stayed with him, but he wanted me to give up the only job I know how to do well.

Anyway, I had an appointment scheduled with Jack at 9pm. I was staying downtown at the Chelsea Hotel, which is only a couple of doors down from one of the finest gay nightclubs in the world, "Splash" (or "SBNY" as the signs at the door say, short for "South Beach New York"), and only a few blocks away from the most amazing clubbing experience every Sunday night at "Spirit" (and also not far from some of the crappiest clubs in the world, including the awful "Krash" where a bouncer once stuck his hands down my pants to try and find the drugs he thought I was attempting to smuggle into his club). I was getting ready at 7:30pm, trying to choose an appropriate jockstrap, but then I decided I was in a kinky mood and no underwear would be appropriate. New York is fucking cold at this time of year. I much prefer it in the Summer and Spring-time, as I don't do cold. It's hard to put lots of layers on and be sexy at the same time - I decided I'd wear a nice tight black AX shirt, jeans with a hole just below the butt, leather jacket and scarf which I knew would be bloody cold, but also fucking hot.

I decided not to take the subway to Central Park West, because the wind and the rain (and, maybe even snow) would conspire to fuck up my hair. It rains like a bastard in New York. I asked the concierge to phone for a cab (don't try and hail a cab in New York, because they'll always drive straight past you!).

I asked for the cab driver to drive me around the city a bit, because I wanted to check out the sights - they brought back so many memories of my previous times here. Gugenheim Museum (it's back to its old self again, and the scaffolding has gone!), United Nations Building, Chrysler, Empire State. I even went past "Bed", a restaurant I'd been to once full of queen size beds (you earn the right to have your meal in bed if you're willing to cough up for an exhorbitant bottle of vodka or gin!).

On our arrival at the Central Park West apartment, I tipped the cab driver generously (why is it New York cabbies don't talk much? They're so much more conversant down south in Miami and New Orleans!), and I went through the gates to a magnificent brownstone. Jack was in apartment 312 apparently. I pressed the button on the intercom and a gruff voice told me to come on up without even asking who I was.

The elevator was modern and smelt like a good hotel and was made of reflective metal so I could admire myself. I thought I looked pretty darn hot. When I buzzed the door to room 312, I was feeling a little apprehensive, aware that my mouth was dry, my heart beating a little harder. I always feel like this before I'm about to do a job.

The tall man who answered the door was neither ugly, nor especially attractive. Nor was he the type of guy I'd imagine Felix would associate with. The guy I was looking at was in his 30s, thinning hair, tufts of chest hair spilling out of a pale blue silk kimono. A stocky build - I'd call him a bear and, with a little more working out, he might even be a hot bear.

"I'm Trent," I breathed, "Shall we have some fun?"
"You're so very hot," he replied in an accent that was vaguely English.

He took me inside his amazing apartment. There was a lot of artwork on the walls, mostly naked males rendered in charcoals and paints, and an amazing life-size pewter male-torso sculpture that was silver and gold (I have to have one of those!). The lights were low. He led me to a bed with an extravagent over-sized leather bedhead. He poured me Bollinger in a tall champagne glass (had Felix told him my tastes?), and I was kissing him, and his hands were fumbling with my belt (I helped him out with this task, but come on, it's not as difficult as bra straps with which, I confess, I have had a little experience, though not much!). I pulled the cord on his kimono and peeled it off him. Nothing else mattered.

After I had sex with him (and it took me a while as a top because I wasn't all that into him), I left him my card and told him to call me at Chelsea Hotel if he wants more of the same, but please EFT the funds into my account. He gave me an extremely weird look and few minutes later I'd understand why.

Because, after dressing, I walked down the corridor and heard a phone ring from behind one of the doors, and then I heard a rather nice American voice answer "Aloha! This is Jack speaking!"
The voice was coming from behind a second door labelled 312! What the fuck??? Closer inspection revealed that the guy I had fucked was in room 312B, and this other guy was in room 312A, but the "A" was faded. So Jack was in room 312A and who the hell did I just have sex with?


More later ....


xTrent