I love the rich country, Hudson-chic gay men in their forties and beyond. And it feels so right to be treated to a sweet light lunch on an amazing terrace with red cherries, orchard tuna salads on French baguettes, and the fine red wine I can never afford. The disposable incomes numb things a bit and the mortgages in Aspen, Florida, the Bronx, and Claverack NY are just too much to juggle sometimes I can imagine. I'm so far form owning a place it's unreal. I am a renter to the core. Good taste is key and the row of high end antique stores owned by gay guys and successful lesbians lines Waren street where we get lost for hours and hours, each store making you feel more poor than the one before it. It's an interior designer's wet dream but an unemployed budget does come into play pour moi. I'm more of a window shopper and a dreamer when it comes to 4,500 dollar artsy wooden cutlery (one set!) and tufted sued headboards that cost 18,000 dollars for a full sized bed, not even a queen. Who can afford this shit? Only the childless, college tuition free gays that's who. These sexy electric floating fire places and Grecian pillars are way way out of my financial reach.
My finances are unsteady and about as solid as one of those old air conditioners, improperly installed, dangling and teetering from the shaky windows over our New York heads all day and night, perhaps propped up with tea cups or blue and white china. I looked into air conditioner related deaths and injuries on the web and they are few and far between, but nonetheless the occasional falling AC incident is always a serious event of epic proportions that I'll leave to the imagination. Homos with money to burn and half a million dollar log cabins that are tucked away deep in the woods of Pennsylvania (with a jacuzzi and the priceless original Dorothy blue dress from the Wizard of OZ movie - encased behind protective glass) make me realize how far from a cash flow enterprise I really am. I thought twenty-seven would be something altogether different financially...much less thirty-two. I mean I have my little victories here and there but I'll be damned if these men aren't living the god damned dream with their HGTV show room worthy third and fourth homes and spotless BMW convertibles that they drive all over the country side of Ghent spilling their lattes everywhere.
Who can I marry? Who can I #@%$! to ease the burden that is my New York overhead? "Head for Overhead?" my Craig's List ad might read. At the risk of sounding horribly sexist, I have to wonder how many soccer moms out there aren't in love with their husbands at all and are stuck in a sexless, loveless, stale marriage that plateaued five minutes after the I-Dos were said and the champeign buzz wore off? And the only reason these country concubines continue to stay is for the stability and familiarity of it all right? Probably more ladies than you might think are slave to the norm and are basically nothing more than non paid, kid popping, rural hookers under the ruse of PTA power moms jacked up on five hour super energy shots and Xanax. The tight skirts, six-pack stomachs, and occasional STDs are replaced with extra large stretch discount mom jeans from Target and alternating car-pooling days with Billy's mom. I'm sure when a man promises himself for life to his high school sweetheart he never really foresees the post third-child body that's in store! And when Mindy (we shall call her) starts to let it all hang out while shopping bulk in the Piggly Wiggly the ugly truth is revealed and that's when the seed to daddy's porn addiction begins to take root. I mean there is a type for everyone. Every single person alive is someone else's type, be it size...ethnicity....bank account. Someone out there is touching it right now thinking about an extra large, bulbous body bouncing in action and a stomach and ass that test the very limits of the Spandex he/she so loves wearing. We've all seen her. The woman standing in line a Walmart with a hundred ratty kids in tow (some actually tied together like livestock) that takes fashion to new lows with tights so strained that they could never girdle the tsunami of a gunt (gut/cunt) that spillith over towards the floor. The statistics must be staggering. I never want to find myself in a relationship where I don't feel the need to impress my significant other anymore with a good body, flattering clothes, and a proper date now and then. A rockin Saturday night in bum-fuck Wisconsin probably feels shockingly no different than my boring Tuesday in the city. I'm truly happy to fall into the other category altogether. I'd happily trade a night casually walking through the West Village or SOHO eating pomegranate Pinkberry over a family mini-van schlep to the Lowe's Cinema to see Toy Story 30 followed by an appetizer platter from the local Applebee's. I love New York.................................sometimes.
No comments:
Post a Comment