The End of an Era

My friend Richard just sent me this link about the closing of The Big Cup café in Chelsea.

This was my home-away-from-home when I lived in New York City. Not only was it open late, and had rice krispie treats, and those horrible clown paintings, it was a low-key place to hang out on those lumpy sofas, working on one's own or chatting with one's sofa-mates should the inclination strike.

It was where I twice had Famous Author moments (being recognized by absolute strangers, one of whom was a Russian boy who'd bought one of my books in SPANISH via the internet who I met one night when I was back in town on a visit) and it shows up a few times in various stories of mine (in both HIS TONGUE and TWO BOYS IN LOVE). Actually, my own personal essay in BOY MEETS BOY is mostly set there, too, come to think of it (it's about one of the aforementioned Famous Author moments, among other things).

I'll miss it.

And this is another indication of the general decline of the charm and personal warmth of NYC. (For me, at any rate.)

Sigh.

:-(

excerpt from "Tom, Dick, or Harry" in BOY MEETS BOY

One sweltering night I was at the Big Cup--an oh-so-trendy fag coffeeshop in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan--because it has airconditioning and I don't. I was on deadline, and when I'm trying to work in my small studio (New York rents, writer's salary), it's so easy to procrastinate by calling friends or washing dirty dishes or what-have-you...

Despite my relocation, I wasn't getting any work done--I was too busy staring lustfully at the Latino guy at the table next to mine. His unattractive blond friend was leering at me with the same intensity with which I was leering at his tablemate (a configuration of frustratingly misdirected lust that practically defines modern gay life). At least they weren't a couple; this gave me some hope of bagging Señor Sexy. If I could ever work up the nerve to talk to him.

"Are you a writer or something?" Blondie asks out of the blue, indicating the sheaf of papers spread out before me.

"Yeah," I said, and smiled at Señor Sexy, ready for him to swoon over my celebrity status. Before he had a chance to even return my smile, however, Blondie broke our connection.

"So, have you published anything?"

I hate this question, although it's better than "Have I read anything you're written?" (as if I'm supposed to know what anyone else has read). I was stumped for a moment--wondering how to convey that I've published more than a dozen books, and hundreds of stories, articles, and poems, how to make my body of work sound important enough while not appearing to be, myself, too immodest. If I make myself out to be too famous, they'll wonder why they haven't heard of me before.

"I've written for a number of magazines and I've published a few books," I admitted.

I clearly didn't strike the right balance with that response. It stymied Blondie into silence (not that I minded), but the dead air didn't lend itself to drawing Señor Sexy into the conversation.

I was mentally scrolling through my possible next lines when, as if on cue, a stranger came up and asked me, "Didn't you write The Drag Queen of Elfland?"

I looked him over, trying to figure out if he was a fan, a groupie, or a stalker. He wasn't cute enough for me to want him to be a groupie, thus reducing the options considerably right away. With a glance at Latino Sex Stud, who was indeed now paying close attention to our conversation, I intimated that I was indeed the responsible party.

"I can't believe this!" the Fortuitous Stranger exclaimed. "I've read that book three times, and as I was standing over there on line, I couldn't help thinking you looked just like your author's photo. Well, actually, I was thinking you look much younger and cuter than the photo, with this new haircut."

I am not making this up. I wouldn't have the nerve to try to pull something like this in my fiction--no one would believe it.

I smiled, made some appreciative murmurs for his praise of my work, and the Stranger, again as if on cue, giddily got back on line and then left with his latte or whatever.

Hooked by this exchange, Señor Sexy gracefully ditched his friend and set about the admittedly not very difficult task of picking me up. I didn't get much work done that night, despite my deadline, though I did sleep, contentedly exhausted, in Latino Loverboy's blissfully airconditioned apartment.

Unfortunately, all too often (i.e., every single other time in my entire life), the Fortuitous Stranger misses his cue, the Sexpot I am cruising goes away without noticing me, and I am left with yet another story of The One Who Got Away. And sometimes the Stranger himself, unaware that he has been cast as a walk-on, causes a rather sticky situation...

Another Big Cup excerpt

( This time from 'Past Tense' in my collection HIS TONGUE )

WARNING: explicit gay sex behind the cut.