New Desires

A cultivation, inspired by The Sweetest Thing

I returned to the city last night, after another disorienting family visit in Texas. As dictated by some sadistic hex placed on me, my cab driver had to be a complete fucking maniac. He was checking his phone so attentively that he required reading glasses; whatever the digest was, it was so interesting that it caused him to veer into other lanes while driving at 40MPH on the highway. I was screaming at him to keep his eyes on the road, but he couldn’t hear me through that bulletproof plexiglass which all yellowcab fares simply adore.

Not to wheel us into a total ditch with this, but let’s celebrate the last few drivers: the Israeli who took me to the airport and showed me pictures of his trip with his wife to Las Vegas to see Jennifer Lopez live. When I asked him to put his phone away — considering we were driving on a bridge — he was offended and confused, as if I had asked to see the vacation rituals of heterosexuals. Upon landing at LAX, I got a total fucking lunatic who wouldn’t stop talking — even when I put on sunglasses, closed my eyes, and said that I was going to sleep. I realized, as I have in many relationships throughout my life, that my presence was incidental, and that this nutcase just needed an audience — willing, unwilling, conscious, unconscious — onto which they could project their endless, unbelievably boring musings.

And the pies de resistance, and then I swear I’ll start writing about literally anything more interesting than this, was when I went to meet Max at Century Spa, a cruisey Korean dump in Los Angeles. My driver arrived in a Tesla, and he was one of the hottest people I’ve ever seen. From my seat in the back, I could see his tits heaving. He played a medley of Destiny’s Child’s greatest hits, daring me to believe that love could happen, just like that. And then he started to drive. Not once, but twice, did we miss, by inches, full impact with 18-wheelers. I should have demanded that he let me out, but he was so hot that I resigned myself to dying at his hands. It was the natural order of things.

OK, anyway, last night, Melis and I went to Kiki’s, where we were terrorized by a sadistic J.A.P. who leapt for our Jewish stars like a vampire. She wanted to set me up with her gay friend and wouldn’t stop talking about how her mother looks like Natalie Wood. Is nowhere safe? Whatever: the dinner was spectacular and we followed it up with a walk through Chinatown, and a special viewing of The Sweetest Thing.

I won’t get too much into this, but suffice it to say: they don’t make ‘em like this anymore. My mother took me to see The Sweetest Thing when I was in sixth grade, assuming it would be a banal Cameron Diaz romantic comedy. Cue the fantasy sequence in which Thomas Jane (who looks like my friend Marky) is eating out Cameron, and my mother would never forgive herself. As it were, I, at 12, had no idea what was going on. All I knew was that I would worship Christina Applegate for the rest of my life, and that Selma Blair’s onscreen, oft-shirtless mate made me feel…excited…in ways I was only beginning to understand.

Actually, Selma Blair’s journey in The Sweetest Thing is at the core of this newsletter — imagine. Her character’s entire arc is that she gets dumped, goes out, meets a really hot sex idiot, and proceeds to fuck him over and over throughout the movie. High jinks ensue. On this viewing, I felt inspired. I think we can all agree that I’m not ready for love, intimacy or commitment. But what about really good sex, with the same person, over and over again? And what if I didn’t mind hanging out with that person in between goes? What if I found someone I was actually attracted to, and wanted to have around me?

With the Scorpio eclipse going down on Friday (you can read my NYLON piece here), followed Saturday with my 33rd birthday, I thought I’d take this moment to state and formulate my desires for the summer, and the year to come.

1. A MATE: As stated above. Not a soulmate, but a sex friend for the summer. I’m curious about what it’s like to be madly attracted to someone, and not just playing a role. A means of exploring joy in consistency, and not in some torrid flash. I’m praying to the Korybantes to send one my way, to share the beach with me.

2. COMPETITION: I realize that my approach to ambition has been to run towards the center of the action, then flee for cover. I’m grateful to have cultivated my voice out here on the fringes, but I wonder what it would be like to face off with a healthy other. I’ve never been in an audition room with peers, head-to-head at high stakes. I’m not saying this is what I want for my entire life, but at this moment, when I feel like I’m creatively ready to go 100 rounds, I’d like a challenge, to prove that I want to go for blood.

3. SPANISH IMMERSION: I don’t know what’s going on with me, but all I do now is watch mediocre, gay Spanish TV. I feel called to Spain, Chile, Peru, Columbia and Brazil. Of course, it’s humiliating that I grew up in Texas and am not fluent in Spanish, but I think those blocks have something to do with spiting my mother (what a profound insight…you’re all bent over in astonishment). Anyways, I know where I want to voyage, and that I want to be a stranger in these charged places.

4. TOTAL EMBRACE OF MY SENSITIVITY: Today, watching Drag Race España, I caught myself worrying about the judges — how did any one of them feel when nobody laughed at her joke? And then I realized that I was actively concerned about the feelings of a 52 year-old Spanish woman, on a pre-taped reality TV program, and that I was thinking of how I’d laugh out loud at her jokes to make her feel included. I can’t keep pretending that I can handle all of…this. My understanding of where I end and others begin is not very much. I’m afraid that by embracing authentic self-definition, by honoring my needs, I’ll end up betraying my relationships. Yikes. But there is no other option. I have to return to hermitage and draw new lines.

5. ABS: Why don’t I have them, is it genetic, and does it have anything to do with the Holocaust? Become a paid subscriber for more on this thrilling topic!

Listen, as a fatalist, I don’t really believe in choice. But as a Taurus and a homosexual, Desire is my almighty. These are but some of them, nods toward delight, currents of possibility which I hope to lean into. Join me in the water, if you dare.

May all your desires come to fruition, and all your dreams come true.

Love,

David Odyssey