Four years and three-hundred-sixty-two days ago today I was in New York. I was living here in New Orleans, but I was in New York visiting. And working. But mostly visiting. Anyway.
I was at a party that night. A dull party at a lackluster gay nightclub full of boring drag queens, shameless posers, and b-level pornstars. It probably wasn’t as bad as I make it out to be, but I worked at Lucky Cheng’s in New Orleans at the time, and in those days, working at Lucky Cheng’s was like attending an orgy coordinated by Tammy Faye Bakker and Pamela Anderson: loud-flashy-fabulous-sex-drugs-rock-and-roll! Fully naked strippers delivering cakes to bachelorettes. Fully intoxicated drag queens pulling customers into the bathroom for some blow and a blowjob. Fully insane backwaiters threatening each other with steak knives at table 33. You can’t imagine.
The bottom line is this: by the tender age of 28, this Mississippi boy had seen it all in New Orleans. Twice. Even the director’s cut. When it came to shock-chic, my standards were damn high, and those NYC children weren’t cutting it. They didn’t have a clue. I was embarrassed for them and I was bored and I was heading out the door.
Then, he walked in.
I’d seen him before, of course. Many times. Once we’d even met, made out, exchanged numbers. And after that, he ignored me.
But this time, years after our initial encounter, he was smiling. Smiling: not at the muscleboy over my right shoulder, not at his friend who was re-introducing us. At me.
He gave me his web address (it was the late-mid 90s); I went back to my hotel and skipped out on the trek to Twilo or Tunnel or wherever my buddies were going and spent five minutes typing out a quick email to this guy. Five: the length of a cigarette break. Funny how a such a slender moment can change everything… A couple of days later, we had our first date.
There’s nothing worse than having to listen to happy people talk about how happy they are so I’ll keep it brief: just know that I still wake up looking forward to spending another day with him.
I love you, Jonno. Happy anniversary.
sturtle [dot] com 