January 26th, 1981
First day on the new job. My instincts tell me that his will be a good place to work for some time. Bright professionalism. My position is good; Creative Production Manager. Procuring freelance copywriters and approving copy before it is submitted is part of my responsibility. The wayward writer gets a chance to play editor. I will enjoy that. The job demands a nice blend of many of the talents I’ve developed professionally. Traffic management, supervising production, coordinating projects. Actually, I think this may be the best possible job for me now. I have a chance to be a big fish in a medium sized pond. Better, I think, than being swallowed up by a huge corporation like J. Walter Thompson and spend a career as a minor cog in a big machine. Creative Production Manager for a very successful hot new agency on Fashion Avenue is a fine part to play for awhile. SO: another piece of this mosaic falls into place. Hot hunky avant-garde Greenwich Faggot, semi-glamorous Seventh Avenue career.
And tonight I crash out on all the rigid discipline of my recent days and sit in my underwear and type and smoke cigarettes and drink white wine and eat three pieces of my mother’s wonderful fudge. Ok: so you’ve got this scenario built nicely; the studio apartment at 95 Christopher Street, the semi-glamorous job. The only missing piece is the lover.
The missing element, my dear, is the hot hunky avant-garde faggot.
I went to Ty’s and George, Tom’s roommate, caught me as I walked in. He was at the bar drinking martinis and immediately asked me to go with him for dinner. I ordered white wine and declined. I am looking for a man, honey. As it was, I stood at the bar and got drunk and cried at a story of love that George told me. Soon, I knew I was drunk and should go home. I did come home and get my dog and went to Taco Rico for tacos and lasagna and then went to La Parisienne Deli for dog food and beer. Now I drink beer and eat fudge and burb tacos and wish I had gotten my cock sucked tonight. There IS the backroom down the street; and, I chide myself, actually, at not having been there yet. Oh, who knows.
Diane calls me and we carry on like girlfriend artists on the phone. She talks about F. Scott, I talk about Tennessee as if we were close friends. Liza Minnelli on television singing New York New York for some TV guide special.
All I want is good sex tonight. Oh honey, you’re too drunk to jack off.