I was sitting in the kitchen of a one bedroom apartment across from Tompkins Square Park on a Thursday evening, drinking Tecate and listening to an artist twice my age who I both admired and respected. We spoke about the popularity of prescription drug abuse amongst my generation and the tradition of writers who took speed to be productive. His girlfriend, a video artist based out of New York, exchanged smiles with the both of us, happy that her boyfriend was from Los Angeles. I was the kid in the candy store hanging out with someone twice my age who had designed iconic punk rock record covers with no formal art training, only to wind up in the Met and the Whitney. It was gonna be a good night.
A cab ride across the Williamsburg
Bridge into Greenpoint later, we were soon inside a club, amidst band
members who called his name and yelled "Yo, we gon get fucked up
tonight, right??" I was offered an Adderall, which I declined,
my buzz having been up-graded to a shitface, and an eight-hour workday
lurking in the near distance.
It was at that point that someone said,
"Hey, friends of friends who just got out of art school are
here. They're putting together a porno magazine and are taking
pictures. Would you like to be in it?"
The word “No” didn’t exist. Of
course, my feet wouldn't move to the back porch until a woman finally
grabbed me by the arm and guided me to a group of girls giggling to
each other. One of them looked off in a way I couldn't quite put my
finger on, but I shrugged it off.
Soon, I was signing a release form. One
woman with a camera explained to me that they were simply taking
'cock shots" and that we would remain anonymous. After finally
photographing my drivers license, I unbuttoned my jeans fly and
flipped it out, half excited in my stupor for the attention. A few
quick shots amidst a crowd and I was back inside, a shit-eating grin
on my face.
"So, did they at least give you a
fluffer?" my buddy asked.
It was pushing midnight. I turned
around to find a RuPaul lookalike with a wig and a protruding Adams
Apple leering at me, who I had recognized from outside. She
immediately began hitting on me. Of course, her second question was:
"So, are you bi?"
Of course it was then that I realized
the situation.
"Nope! Sorry! But your friend over
there was pretty cute!"
The 'friend' was one of the
women hanging out with the photographer. We eyed each other, and I
decided to say hi.
Of course, by this time, that would
prove to be impossible, as I could no longer hold a steady
conversation with anyone. Wandering about, I passed her again, only
to clam up. In the dressing room of the bands, I said goodbye to my
friend and his girlfriend, only to walk home to the Bedford L train
to head back to Queens, stopping to spend $30 on food that would go
uneaten on my bed until the next day.
The next morning, I smiled as the
elevated train rolled over the bridge in Manhattan, somehow able to
recount the entire night's sequence of events. I emailed the tranny
in hopes of meeting the mystery woman .
"Hey, let me know when you and
your friends are hanging out again?"
But to no avail.
Some time later, I recounted the story
to an audience during a reading at Pete's Candy Store, relating it to
an incident at NYU Trinity Medical Center, where I also dropped my
drawers. For a rectal exam.
With my usual charm of a homeless man,
I cracked wise to the doctor.
“Just to warn you, I’ve never had a
Brazilian wax. Sorry.”
To which she replied, “I’ve seen
‘em all.”
The joke was on me though when she
shushed me after I screamed. It was still painful to sit on the
subway nearly an hour after I left her office.
The promoter of the event later told
me, "That's an actual magazine you know. Those girls are crazy."
To my surprise.
Another six months passed before I was
invited to a group brunch by a friend in Bushwick. We went to a new
cafe, and I was introduced to everyone, including a woman who looked
incredibly familiar. We talked and laughed for hours.
Upon leaving, she made a joke "Ha,
that could go in my magazine!"
I paused.
"Wait, you do a magazine? Like
what?"
I already knew where this was heading.
"I do a porn magazine for women."
"Holy shit! You took pictures of
my dick! At a show in Greenpoint last year!"
She laughed and my jaw dropped to the
ground, when she said,
"I remember! Guess what?! You're
in the next issue we're working on!"
Image: Rolling Stone's Sticky Fingers album cover
