Sweetlifeconfidential’s Weblog

Things change quickly in Philly. Cliques grow tired. New is out as soon as you blink your eyes. Infatuations fade. Friendships disintegrate. You must always adapt. Take the role as the chameleon.

In a city rich with so much history, I suspect nothing really exists that is real. Only artifacts kept precious under glass. You’re only something in this city if you’re a tourist attraction. So you set yourself on display on Rittenhouse Square. The blonde bombshell sitting neatly outside of Rouge. A crowd of hungry people searching for something to fill their empty souls. You’re only as good as the car you drive, the bars you drink in, the people you call your friends and the ones you know are your enemies.

The City of Brotherly Love. The City of our founding fathers. Pretty historic Society Hill. Beautiful green manicured lawns of main line mansions. The truth is, this city of love, is lacking it. I love and loathe this place and yet always nurture the uncomfortable suspicion that I have been here before, and that I will be here forever.

I wore a bright green dress on Friday, and felt bad that by 9pm I had drank so much wine at some shitty South Jersey restaurant with El Douche I forgot to call Noah. He sat alone in Miami alone, texted me occasionally – enough to make me feel wanted, enough to make me feel cruel. I snorted a bit of white powder I found at the bottom of my Prada wristlet and was surprised by the hit. I danced in my green dress around his house, out of it, home, and in B’s car downtown to Vango, where I danced some more, giddy and light and carefree in my Center City life so far removed from those times in North Philly, that shitty little pre-existence. I had been up since 6am, and by 3am was exhausted. The Latina came over.

“Can I stay over Dix?”

“Umm, yes.”

“OK. Yay! But now we have to watch ‘Entourage’.”

I crawled under my fluffy black and white paisley duvet, and the Latina crawled into bed with me and we snuggled drunkenly together for one episode, her arm around me, and slept. It was a gentle, kind sleep, a sleep like an embrace, her small, brown body carelessly pressed against mine in warmth and friendship, and I loved her for it, watched her face as she breathed softly. It was a sleep I didn’t want to end, but when we woke up in the morning she hugged me briefly and ran off to work, and I wandered around the city, fragile and aching for more. I can’t remember the day. I mean, I can’t remember what I did that day. Maybe I slept, maybe I watched a movie, maybe I read. I remember the night though. I always remember the night.

Max came over and we drank and it made us feel like we weren’t the only ones alone living a fucked-up dream of confused identity. We were outside on my balcony drinking cheap beer, rocking back on bar stools dragged out from inside. We talked listlessly and groggily while staring out fascinated at the stale rush hour traffic crawling across 676.

“I was going to see if maybe you wanted to hook up, but it seems like life has fucked you pretty hard in the ass lately.”

I laughed.

“Anal rapage, and I have this great city to thank!”

Max and I are comfortable together, after spending 2 years tucked in the corner of English classes we somehow serve each other as something. Perhaps stunt doubles for complex lovers. I hadn’t had sex for a while, and could barely remember what it was like, but my body was battered with drugs and overwhelmed with sensation, and while I was teetering on what might be called mild depression and neediness, a craving for touch and affection, sex was curiously absent from my mind. Not so with Max’s.

“I was thinking we could try out that Kama Sutra book you have in your bedroom.”

“Noah gave that to me.” Still, perched on the bar stools the night crept around us anonymously lurking. The lights on the billboard flickered on.

“What was the sex like?” he asked.

“Drug infused and dirty. We would gorge upon MDMA. It was filthy.”

“Like how?”

“Sometimes, he’d grab my throat and choke me right before I came. Other times he would just stop and look in my eyes, almost tender. Ya know? Then he would just spit in my mouth and look at me. Sometimes he’d jam his fingers down my throat and watch me choke. He loved it. He even loved when I pissed on him once.”

Max seemed pleased by this answer.

A wave of serotonin shot through me, a shudder of nostalgia for all the nights like this before, all the nights like this to come.

There are times, as a writer, I doubt anything I ever did. I feel guilt for lack of productivity. For lack of drive to d anything. El Douche hugged me and told me it would pass. I find myself staring at a computer trying to sort things out. Decide what to do.

“I worry about you.” said El Douche, concerned.

“Why?”

“Because I love you. And that’s what people do when they love someone. They care.”

I nodded blankly.

I need to get some fucking work.

Something I love. Maybe.