gay doctors
that last entry looks like i was playing catch-up with the rest of the seasonal affective disorder blogger circuit. better late than never. last night i went to a gay doctor's party. these "professional" social events are always weird to me—i go to the digital media one regularly, and both events are always filled with handsome, middle-class, reasonably intelligent men. however, they also resemble the aftermath of a banana republic raid, and people cruise but don't talk to each other unless they're already acquainted. maybe the problem is that i'm not acquainted to people, but it's strange to me. the only guy that gave me his number was a really awkward dermatologist, and he passed his business cards around to everyone in my group of people. i later joked that i gave his card to someone else, forgetting that i'd actually done that.
then i lost my cell phone in a taxi; called, and someone picked up who'd found it, thankfully; then schlepped to her apartment at fucking 93rd and columbus to retrieve it; politely accepted her lecture about how to wear it so that it doesn't fall off; cabbed home.
then i hooked up with a cutie israeli whose aol profile said TOP all over it, but whose real-live, analog mouth muttered "fuck me" once we were in his bed. some people hate this, and i did for a second, and who knows, maybe he's always truly a bottom, but i'd rather think it's this good happening—that you can be with someone who, instantly, diametrically changes what you like for that moment.