THE SEX MOTEL

For five nights, Evan and I stayed at the pricey, hip Ace Hotel just off Broadway in Manhattan’s NOMAD district. This is our fourth time together in NYC and we always stay at the Ace. We like its central location, the Stumptown café adjoining the hotel and I enjoy accessing the gym in the basement. Our visits begin with a sit-down session in the lobby’s photo booth for a half dozen tiny black-and-white photos. Our room typically has an unobstructed view of the Empire State Building. We’re close enough to walk to Times Square to catch a Broadway show but far enough away to have a healthy separation from the posing Elmos, the herds of people and the massive light displays that come from mammoth billboards. The Ace is our familiar haven to begin and end fully packed days in New York.

 

After yet another pleasant stay, we packed up last Tuesday and took a cab to LaGuardia to catch our Southwest flight back to Denver. Due to weather conditions, we taxied on the tarmac for almost four hours in an increasingly warm cabin until the pilot announced that we had to return to the terminal to refuel. 

 

At the gate, passengers were allowed off the plane to stretch their legs, keeping mindful about reboarding signage and announcements. An hour later, the inevitable happened: the flight crew timed out and the flight was cancelled. The LaGuardia departures board indicated a great many cancelled flights. Basically, no one was going anywhere Tuesday night.

 

Knowing that thousands of passengers were scrambling just like us to find accommodations, I hurriedly searched “hotels near me” while Evan called Southwest to rebook our flight which was not scheduled to depart until two days later. Flight and hotel booked, we headed out from baggage claim and grabbed a taxi. The hotel near me turned out to be nearly an hour away in The Bronx. 

 

When the cabbie finally pulled into the parking lot in the middle of nowhere around midnight, we knew we had left Ace standards far behind us. The two-story motel circled the lot, every room having a view of parked vehicles and red neon cherry tree installations. Pink, blue and white hexagonal lighting dotted the overhang on both floors and room doors were adorned with white and green vertical signage that alternated the words BLISS, MODERN, CHILL, RELAX, ENJOY, EXPLORE, REPEAT.  

 

My first impression was that the place was kitschy. Evan, however, through an oh-my-god-where-are-we laugh, managed to say, “We’re at a sex hotel.” 

 

I dismissed his comment as Evan being Evan and proceeded to roll my oversized suitcase to the lobby, a small room in which the reception counter was a fully sectioned off with protective glass. While I slide my ID and credit card through a metal slot, Evan told the man behind the counter, “We’d like a room for more than two hours.”

 

“Stop it!” I told him, tired from a long day of non-travel.

 

Grabbing the key card, we lugged our bags up a central flight of stairs and passed by the BLISS and EXPLORE signage to the end room. As I opened the door, Evan resumed his laughter while we surveyed the black-lit room that made the white pillows glow. A wall-sized mirror faced us from the far side of the room and, looking up, a giant mirror was mounted to the ceiling, fully capturing the king-sized bed which had a sheet but no blanket or duvet.  

 

“Sex room,” Evan repeated.

 

View from ceiling mirror

Even though the bed didn’t vibrate, the ginormous flatscreen didn’t play porn as a default offering and the vending machine sold soft drinks instead of condoms, I couldn’t argue. Yes, we’d checked into a sex motel.

 

Rather than think in terms of sexual things, we both thought about bed bugs and questioned how clean the room might be. Despite both of us being simultaneously amused and uncomfortable, we fell asleep in minutes, motorcycles and adjacent above ground subway trains rattling away throughout our two-night stay. 

 

In all likelihood, we’ll be back at the Ace next year but the sex motel will remain but a memory.

  

MY BIG GAY TRAVEL BOOSTER

I’ve spent the last week swarmed by people, my ears abuzz from horns honking at all hours, my nose hit by a range of odors, ranging from the sweetness of icing piped out of a cake shop door to a muggy sweat emanating from alleys (imagine what it’ll be like in August) and dog pee on concrete (it is from dogs, isn’t it?). If New York City is the city that never sleeps, well, there are so many reasons why. My white noise machine from back home would be useless here.

 

I’m not sure if I could make it here amid all this steroidal everything. I tell myself it’s my kind of place, but it would likely wear me down. On this trip, I’ve watched seniors navigate crowded sidewalks. I worried about a blind man this morning walking along Fifth Avenue near 42^nd Street. I tried to give a little more space to a woman with cerebral palsy as she stepped out of a bagel shop. They all seem to manage just fine and the throngs of people instinctively offer an occasional ebb to the flow at just the right times. Maybe this is what Barry Manilow meant by a “New York City Rhythm.”

 

I wonder even more about tourists from small towns and places that aren’t even towns. What do they make of all this? What do they tell their neighbors when they get back home? 

 

I’m glad they made the trip. Their itineraries may be much different than mine. There’s not a chance I’d go to a Hard Rock in any city and certainly not in NYC. I don’t want a photo in Times Square with two Elmos and a Minnie Mouse. I’ve seen the Statue of Liberty simply because it’s hard to miss, but it’s never been a destination of mine. Still, I think anyone who spends even an hour somewhere in Manhattan will be struck by the diversity of people here. It’s one of the things I absolutely love about New York and I believe that there’s great value to incidental exposure if not full immersion. The world is here. Let people take a bit of that perspective back to Antelope Hills, Wyoming and Montrose, Mississippi. Let a little Blue mix with Red. 

Most of all, let small town queers feel a sense they are not alone. While there are LGBTQ connections on Twitter and elsewhere on the internet, plenty of gay affirmations can be found In Real Life in The Big Apple. With only a tiny bit of effort, I got a potent gay booster shot during my stay. It wasn’t on account of Grindr or gay bars. I wasn’t involved in any of that. Gay things are just part of the rich fabric of this city.

To be clear, this wasn’t My Big Gay Trip to New York City. If I lived in Little Rock or Tallahassee or Missoula, I might feel an urgency to get double boosted in gayness, but spending my time in Vancouver and Seattle made any items on a gay agenda optional rather than required sightseeing. I passed by but didn’t take photos of Stonewall (there was some scaffolding obstructing the façade) and The New York City AIDS Memorial. I didn’t Google a gay-oriented show on Broadway. (I did see “Summer, 1976” with Laura Linney who will forever be Mary Ann Singleton from Tales of the City in my mind, but the play wasn’t overtly gay even if it co-starred Jessica Hecht who played Ross’s ex, Carol’s, lesbian lover, Susan, on “Friends.”) I just explored Manhattan, doing a gay thing or two, but mostly taking in familiar favorites that had more to do with food, art and exercise. 

But there was always a gay presence. I didn’t snap pictures of the young queer with eye makeup and long, shimmering fingernails, lined up behind me at Chelsea Market, waiting to order pizza. Nor did I get a shot of any of the older gay couples who dressed up to make an afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum of Art their own Instagram event, trying to out-Lagerfeld Karl Lagerfeld. There were plenty of other on-the-street gay-spotting moments, years and years more fodder for Bill Cunningham if he were still with us. Nonetheless, here are a few shots to document getting my Big Apple gay booster:

Painting by queer Chicano artist Joey Terrill at MOMA: "Making Tortillas in New York"

from his series Chicanos Invade New York. There's a delightful sense of humour in 

Terrill's work which made me linger. Note the Broadway poster on the wall. "Bent"

starred Richard Gere and premiered in 1979. The play was about the persecution of

homosexuals in Nazi Germany.

This photo at MOMA--"Las dos Fridas" (The Two Fridas).

Shame on me for making an Ellsworth Kelly painting background fodder for a selfie at MOMA.

Here it is without the photobombing: gay artist Ellsworth Kelly's "Spectrum IV."
I didn't realize Kelly was partnered with artist Robert Indiana from 1956-1964. 

A very popular exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 

Long lines meant more people-watching.

The mesh lower half of this dress reveals what resembles men's briefs according 

to my fashion-ignorant eye, giving the look a certain gay fetish appeal.

Karl's own iconic look.

This is the headquarters of TransPerfect, a company that specializes in translation services. 
I passed it many times since my hotel was a couple of blocks away. I don't care what the 
business is. For me, it was a daily affirmation that Trans Lives Matter.

Joseph Christian Leyendecker (1874-1951) was a gay commercial artist, best known for his drawings and paintings used to advertise Arrow shirts for men. His life partner, Canadian model Charles Beach, was frequently the subject of his illustrations. Leyendecker's work was the subject of a 

special exhibit at the New-York Historical Society Museum & Library.

The Strand is a fabulous bookstore at 13th & Broadway. I always go there when I visit.

This time, I noticed this prominently displayed poster for an author talk about Matt Baume's new book, "Hi Honey, I'm Homo! Sitcoms, Specials, and the Queering of American Culture."

Bookstores are a great place to find LGBTQ material, to validate queer lives and to instil greater understandings and connection to our identities. That's why some conservatives are aggressively trying to ban books. That's why we must read and promote these books and push back for a free press and free speech.

New titles I'll track down at home.

Yes, I went to the book talk! Came upon it by happenstance. I look forward 

to reading my signed copy of "Hi Honey, I'm Homo!"

Love this double-page spread from Gonçalo Viana's picture book, True Colors, 

which I discovered at the bookstore at New York Library's main branch, 

the stunning Stephen A. Schwarzman Building. 

Two boys, a dog and, yes, that's a green cloud.

A storefront. Can't remember where. Maybe a museum

gift shop? Rainbows will forevermore be gay in my mind.

(Perhaps a storm cloud--darkly grey, not green--symbolizes LGBTQ haters.)

 

 

  

WHAT HAPPENS IN NEW YORK CITY...

I don’t relate to my hair stylist. She’s twenty-four and it can be painful trying to carry on a conversation. When I first started going to her a year ago, I was firm about scissors only. No razors. (I’d had a traumatic experience not once but twice with a surfer/hair cutter twenty-five years ago. He took a razor to the whole back of my head when I’d gone in for a trim.) I’m starting to think a razor might be good. It would speed up the encounter. The problem is, whenever she says something, I’m at a loss for how to respond. “Uh-huh” is all that comes to mind.

Oh, my God! I so hate honey. My mom will try to slip it in a shake or something and I just know. I’ll say, “You put honey in this” and she knows she’s busted. Honey is just really so disgusting.

Uh-huh.

I don’t even have an entry point with her topics—Hipsters (they’re like honey), broken artificial fake nails (somehow they’re very painful), televisions in kitchens (Certain channels are okay, but I didn’t follow with the explanation.).

She goes to Cabo San Lucas every year and she knows all the really nice hotels, but she doesn’t stay there because the party hotel is way better. It’s where things happen.

Uh-huh. I could have said more. I could have said, “All I want is a decent night’s sleep.”

Uh-huh.

And that’s my problem. Okay, it’s not a problem, but it makes me feel different from not only my hair stylist but from most gay men. Not gay men my age—although quite a few of them, still—but gay men at some point in their lives. Younger. Nearer to the time they came out. I’ve heard the stories. The twink in Sydney. The threeway in New Orleans. The hors d’oeuvre, the main course and the late night snack in London.

When away from home, have at it. Hook up. Let a local show you his bedroom (or dark alley) hospitality. Bring someone back for hotel sex.

I don’t have a problem with it. Do what you want. My only qualifier is, if you’re in a relationship, you honor it and whatever agreements you and your partner have made before the trip. Have a good time. I want to be clear that I’m not a prude. (Maybe a little.) I entertain the fantasy of hotel sex or something else (probably not the alley though). Wouldn’t it be freeing?! No strings! Or maybe a same-time-next-year kind of arrangement.

When I’m single, I think about this possibility before every trip. And on my trip last week to New York City, I felt open to it. But the same thing happened that always happens. I arrive and I am absolutely certain that’s not what I want. I don’t even Google gay places anymore—clubs, baths, piano bars. I know I’m not going.

I’ve thought back on all my trips and I realize I haven’t had a What Happens in Vegas/Stockholm/Dublin/Peoria experience…ever. Where’s the possibility of a relationship? I get the sense that makes me an anomaly. Again, not a prude. (Can you detect the defensiveness?) The idea is exciting but I know myself too well. The experience would be empty. Good in the moment but then…nothing. I’d rather try for that decent night’s sleep so I can pack more things in during the next day, taking in art, green space, coffee culture and observing the similarities and differences in how people interact and get around in the place I’m visiting. Nowadays it’s easy enough to have a hookup at home. The ensuing emptiness seems more fitting to deal with there than messing with my mind and time on vacation.

Without any defensiveness whatsoever, I can say I thoroughly enjoyed my trip to The Big Apple. What happened in New York may bore the hell out of some gossip-hungry gays at a Vancouver gay bar but, no surprise, I’m not going there either. So, yes, I can entertain the thought of something random here on home turf, but, as you might imagine, I think I still would prefer trying for more sleep time.

Uh-huh.

TAKING A BITE OF THE FORBIDDEN BIG APPLE

I hear the stories. Gay guy goes on vacation, imbibes in a margarita or four, hooks up with a hot local guy and returns home with a scandalous story to tell for the next week.

How Steven got his groove back.

Apparently the chances are good. Barflies get tired of the same filler material. They keep their eyes open, waiting for the first “Say, you’re not from around here” guy to walk in the club. Well, maybe not the first. It takes a while for their own liquid relaxants to kick in.

New guy + barfly. It’s a potent combination. Two men with low/no expectations. One night. Maybe just one hour. It’s practically anonymous. Go in with a new name, the one you wish your parents had given you. Remember when “Dick” was acceptable? Try it on if you can say it with a straight face. If not, there are other studly names. Dirk. Gunnar. Just not Rolfe. (He turned out bad in “The Sound of Music”.)

Go wild. What happens in Vegas and all that. So what if your holiday is in Acapulco. Or Cleveland. Conjure up your own Vegas state of mind.

And, yes, I could stand to have a Vegas moment. I’m in New York City and there are so many attractive men. Men with a fashion sense. Men who clearly seem to be gay. Especially when I’m spending all my time in art galleries and in line for Broadway shows. Of course, the boys of Broadway march two by two. I wind up eavesdropping on two old Jewish women in front of me as they kvetch about all the stars of “Glee”. (They catch me nodding as one of them says Jonathan Groff and Darren Criss make a cuter couple than Kurt and Blaine.)

On my third night in Manhattan, I should be going to a gay bar. Perhaps even a bathhouse if I don’t feel like margaritas. But I get bored looking up gay bars on Yelp. I dash out with the clear intention of picking up Steve. I cruise the aisles of Whole Foods on 7^th Avenue until I spot him: a pint of Steve’s Mexican Chili Chocolate ice cream, the perfect way to end the night after a Broadway show. Yes, that’s the kind of Steve from Brooklyn that truly whets my appetite. I'm thinking I'd love another go at Steve. He’s my sure thing.

On my final day, I decide to walk through Greenwich Village and to check out the Stonewall Inn. For a Saturday afternoon, the streets seem quiet. I don’t get any sense of a Bohemian culture. Neither do I get a sense that this is a gay area. The Stonewall Inn appears to be a teeny establishment, a big surprise since everything in Manhattan seems so big. I had told myself I’d pop in for a beer but I see no one coming or going and, frankly, I have no desire for any kind of alcohol. I move on, stopping for a moment to gaze at a subpar all-white sculpture to commemorate the Stonewall Riots. The historical milestone deserves better.

If I’m going to stumble on a fling or at least a moment of flirtation, I figure my best chances are just off Christopher Street. I stroll into Big Gay Ice Cream.

Yes, this is my kind of cruising bar.

But, alas, the stereotypes must be true. Gays don’t do ice cream. Not in broad daylight, at least. There are twenty people in the shop. All families and straight couples. I no longer feel inspired to order the Bea Arthur. The camp factor would be fruitless. I settle on the Pumpkin Gobbler instead. I get it to-go.

Two days in a row of self-soothing with ice cream. I’m definitely staying in tonight. And I’ll be doing penance when I get back home—longer jogs, harder swims, heavier weights. It’s not the kind of penance I’d hoped for.