Ne'Yak, Ne'Yak.

New York City. December. Eight thirty in the evening, according to the position of two mechanical hands on an arbitrary dial. Mars was in the House of Virgo, Jupiter was in the House of Values, and Venus was in the House of Pancakes. The weather: hot hokey sewage gas with billows of industrial paranoia blanketed in twinkling snowfall. Manhattan smelt like the litter box for the Kitty of the world. It had twisted its body into the dog shit asana. Close by, but far away, in a world beyond odors, ghosts of the original inhabitants were laughing their feathers off, remembering how they stuck the white devils with this doomed piece of real estate for some very chic beads and a box of Dutch Masters. The Big Apple, polished by Trump spit and shined with the baggy pants of a multitude of Puerto Ricans, was ready for the chomps and nibbles of Party Monsters from everywhere. Junkies were stirring in their warrens, pizzas were stirring in their ovens, Wall Street was resting its bloody asshole, and the Statue of Liberty wearing a frown that would not quit.

Here we were, among these teeming masses, in the greatest city in the world...and I was scared. I was paranoid that Dan's sugar daddy would be jealous of me and not want me in his house. This John Bourne had asked Dan several times via cell phone if Dan and I were lovers. Dan assured me that it would be all right. But, I know how evil queers can be, especially old bitter queers.

I stared wide-eyed out the window of the plane as Manhattan appeared out of the darkness like the Emerald City. It was awesome...breathless...ominous. After we landed and departed from the jet, we grabbed our luggage and hailed a taxi. As we whisked through the city, I found that metropolis very intimidating. The sidewalks were teeming with thousands of people and the buildings towered above you so high that at times I suffered from vertigo. The taxi drove across the Brooklyn Bridge into the neighborhood of Park Slope in Brooklyn Heights. This was a historical district of old brownstone apartments dating back to the 1800's. Dan and I got out, paid the cab, and up the stairs to the main door of John Bourne's house. A small old man answered the door drunk off of his ass. It was John Bourne. He looked a lot like Yoda in an Argyle sweater. We dropped our gear in the hall and were led upstairs to the parlor. John was having a little cocktail party with a couple of friends. John was all gaga over Dan smooching and hugging him for about ten minutes.

"Sit down, dear, do sit down. Take a load off of those lovely tootsies. Yes, sit right there. Would you fancy some sherry?" The decanter John lifted was dusty on the outside, sticky empty on the inside; a stiff fly lay feet up on its lip. "Shit oh goodness, I'm all out of sherry...how about some ripple?" He reached into the midget refrigerator beside his desk and removed a bottle of pop wine. After a shameful amount of effort, he tore loose its cap and filled two sherry glasses.

"You know what ripple is, don't you? It's Kool-Aid with a hard-on! Hee hee!" Though he was a proper old queen, the fussy mannerisms were broken by that grating accent of Ne'Yak.

The other two socialites that were there was Jim, a middle-aged hippie who looked like the sixties were really good to him. He worked for an advertising agency in upper Manhattan. He said he was leaving soon for Tampa, Florida to do some photo shoots on the beach. The other was Marty, a seventy-eight-year-old Jew whom I can't recall ever seeing sober. He took a liking to me but I was so cold to him. The man was thin and grey with pinpoint eyes, the prison shadows in them like something dead.

Dan was right about John's house. He referred to it as the Bourne Museum. A three-story brownstone, the house was a collection of old, tattered dusty antiques. I saw them as junk, Dan accused me of being uncultured. I just know junk when I see it.

The night progressed. The elders got drunk as John pawed on Dan. As I tried to be pleasant, John would scowl and give me sour looks. Refer to me as 'The Surfer Boy'. Marty would breathe rotten gin and halitosis into my appalled face; staring blankly at my crotch when he spoke mostly incoherently to me.

Eventually around three in the morning, I was shown to my room where I unpacked and went to sleep. It was an okay little room with a single bed, an armoire, and a little window that overlooked the snow-covered garden. At least it has a small table and chair to put my laptop on so I can work.

A ver.