I people watch, I don’t cruise, frankly that weird stare that involves cruising freaks me out and I can never maintain it. It breaks away before anything happens and I run. Then again that stare is mostly maintained by trolls; yes they have mastered the gay stare.
I also cruise; at least that’s what it appears like, when I’m thinking of a play, short story, novel or just generally daydreaming.
So this weekend I was on Christopher Street chilling on a stoop. Watching people go by wondering about they’re odd walks and the way they move and gesture with their hands. I’m trying to crack a play concept about body shapes, movements and how people interact. Something eludes me, the thing that will make the play pop. The only way inspiration will strike. Is if I continue to watch, so hence my need to stare and ponder cute boys.
Not that I don’t do that for sport, yet it’s odd, when I’m just chilling and someone I know, a former lover to be precise, one that I’ve only seen lately when I’m waiting for someone, or hanging back being the cool customer.
So he walks by with a cute Marc Jacobs bag and friend in tow. He casually mentions and notices, that he’s seen me around a lot. That’s code for you’re a loser cruising boys in the village. Then he mentions that I’m a party boy, that of course = you’re a slut. This banter went along for a bit. A look of pity washes over his face as I’m sucking on the straw in front of me, I’m drinking ice coffee. Holding onto the straw like it’s my only saving grace and the reason for saying very little.
He leaves; I try and play the scenarios in my mind, how I could have made a response, that wasn’t really feeble and shallow and reeked of desperation. Yet I couldn’t so I’m just blogging about it.
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