While thumbing threw a Metro NY during my morning commute, I spot a quote from a New York Critical Mass Rider regarding his decision to start biking it after the somewhat recent subway fare hike. “I was willing to pay $1.50 to go underground and ride in a hot, sweaty place with people who hate me,” he said, “but it wasn’t worth $2.00.” I immediately felt a rant coming on: actually, my cycling friend, not only are the subways expensive and hot — they’re dirty!

And, you know, it’s not just the subways … this whole city is really dirty. I mean dirty, as in, rats outnumber people by a 9-to-1 ratio dirty. Dirty, as in, you should spell the word with “U”s duuuurty. Dirty, as in, when you wash your hair after a full day out on the town, the shampoo lather turns a little brown dirty. Dirty, as in, milk expires faster here than in the rest of the region because there’s a greater chance that it fell off of a truck, a rat pissed it in or god knows what else happened to it before you poured it into your digestive tract dirty. Dirty, as in, I think Colin Farrell’s dick is cleaner than this place dirty.

Summer in Mississippi. I am nine years old and I’m playing outside with my older sister and my two younger cousins. It’s 102 F / 39 C and I smell musty air, cut grass, melting black asphalt and other oppressive smells of the Ol’ South. My aunt calls my sister and me inside and sits us both down on the bed. “Stolie,” she says in a rural southern drawl, “yaar grandfather daayead.” But, I’m only 9. I don’t understand death yet. It would be years before I would learn that Grandpa Tucker died of cirrhosis of the liver (a.k.a “he drank himself to death”). In the meantime, to attend the funeral in Illinois, we drive 645.16 miles / 1,038.28 kilometres over 11 hours and 32 minutes. It’s strange to me. This person—this human being, my grandfather—with whom I’ve danced, talked, laughed, smiled, and spoken is gone. All that remains is a cold, suit-donned, lifeless body lying still in the coffin before me. “He won’t open his eyes,” I remember thinking. “He won’t open them. He won’t speak. He won’t get up and walk away from that box.” This is how I come to understand Death. The concept shakes me to my core and, although I’m only 9, I vow to never go to a funeral again. I haven’t since. It’s a double-edged sword, my fear of death. It causes me to live life to the fullest.

Okay, remember when I posted that things are “going well” with Fernando? How quickly times change. Instead of gathering you here today to tell you all of the juicy details of a developing love life with a new Italian boy, I can only tell you that my crush on Fernando burned hot, heavy, hard, fast and out. No need to recite the Mourner’s Kaddish for my Love Life; I’ll be fine. I move on quickly. And, if I’m honest with myself, I don’t think that there was ever really any long-term potential for Fernando. I should have seen it coming: “What do you like about him?” asked Bro. My reply? “Okay, number #1 he’s ridiculously hot and #2, well, he’s Italian … need I say more?” Not really a solid basis for a relationship, it seems.

But, for whatever reason, all lessons on love are lost on me. It’s like I place my hand on the fire, get burned, and then think, “gee what a pretty orange flame,” the next time I see another fire. Fernando was just like all of the other boys that I’ve dated: hot, foreign, rich, 20/30-something, brown wind tossed hair, dark/hazel/chestnut eyes, a little taller than I am and more interested in the brand of product that he puts in his hair than he is in long-term relationships. He was the splitting image of Le Canadien. Speaking of the boy … Le Canadien is in town on business again, but we’ve made a pack to stop sleeping together so that we can try to be better “friends.” This will be interesting. He was geniuinely a nice guy who turned cold after a different ex broke his heart. He got burned and decided not to let anyone else in again. That, of course, broke my heart because I really liked him. REALLY liked him. I once told him, “I wish I’d met you before she got to you.” And, not to mention, I was ridiculously attracted to him. Just my type: a hot, foreign, 20-something-year-old man with brown wind tossed hair and dark/hazel/chestnut eyes. Well … that, plus I loved his incredible girth as well as his skill / eagerness to please. Which brings up the reoccurring question regarding Le Canadien: is it possible to go from couple to exes to occasional fucky buddies to friends?

Earlier this afternoon, only a few minutes to quitting time, everyone discusses their weekend plans. (By the way, blogging about interesting conversations that happen to take place at work doesn’t count as blogging about work.) The conversation turns to pop culture and I grow excited. I LOVE POP CULTURE. It’s America, you know. We don’t have Royalty. Hence, hooray for Hollywood!

The coworkers and I foray into low brow culture topics including Madonna’s broken collar bone, Jude Law and Sienna Miller’s ridiculous reunion(s), and Eminem’s rehab. One of the interns mentions that she is going to see 50 cent in concert. We talk about the things that 50 has been up to lately as well as his upcoming movie, Get Rich or Die Trying.

“Actually, the last concert that I saw was Eminem and Luda three years ago,” I say before adding,” and before that, it’d been a long time since I’d been to concert so it was Color Me Badd, pre-American Idol Paula Abdul, Milli Vanilli, and the MC Hammer 2 Legit 2 Quit tour.”

The intern’s eyes grow wide and I see an emotion that I can only describe as sheer terror. “OMG! MC Hammer? I was like 5!” she cries, “wow, you’re old!”

I love the gym. After a really intense workout I always feel invigorated, energized, pumped. Alive. And, the best part of it all? The Instructor. The instructor literally makes or breaks the class. Pepe is the instructor for my mid-week class and I love him. He’s got the body of a god and the sense of humor of a comedian. I was working out really hard one day and I accidentally hit him square in the eye with my elbow. He tells me that I have a boney ass elbow and dares me to kick his Puerto Rican ass. “We got any new people in here today?” he asks as enters the class the other day. (This is the beginning of the run down.) He continues but seems slightly annoyed that a man and a woman standing in the second row are having a conversation in another language. I don’t know the language, but it is from Eastern European and the conversation sounds like this:

“Aurnuljat njhm mjh ytijee?” asks the woman.

“Yeah, duurtjl downtown thyjwa lower east side beawodforwal eerteuij,” the man replies.

“Uguyda?” The woman’s eyebrows lower.

“Afdafalwal,” he says softly and then nods his head.

“Ohhhhh! AAIJFOELHLACYH e adjfa iaj eja,” she adds with a smile.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” And, then the pair smile at each other.

Pepe is annoyed. They are talking and he’s trying to start the class. He walks over to the pair. “Y’all talkin’ when I’m trying to start my class?!” he jokingly teases. “What the hell language is that anyway? This is America, dammit. Speak Spanish!”

To cut to the chase: I didn’t sleep with Fernando.

Going backwards from there, we meet up late Saturday afternoon / early evening and we preface our Thai food meal and cocktails with a visit to a photography exhibit in Midtown. We talk for hours. I enjoy hearing about his family, his friends, and his life as he experiences it — a European living in the US, in general, and New York City, in particular. He asks about my father, my childhood, and my experiences in the US. He listens to my answers.

The intense sexual chemistry between us is blatantly apparent and undeniable. “I wanna kiss you,” he says as his hands run under my shirt, along my abs, and rest on my belly button, “right there.” He’s such a handsome creature. His hazel-chesnut eyes are framed with jet black eyelashes that match the color of his hair. He’s tall; taller than I am, but not by much. Maybe 5 foot 10 inches? He places soft kisses on my collar bone, arms, hands, face, and eyelashes. The kisses to my lips are forceful and full of passion. “I don’t wanna stop kissing you,” he says as we part for the evening.

Our Saturday date lasts for 6 hours. He calls me at 11:08am Sunday morning to say that he had a great time and he wants to see me again. I want to see him, too. I already have plans on Wednesday and Thursday so we decide to meet on Monday, tomorrow, after work. I’ll go to sleep tonight with a smile on my face just thinking about it …