«SEX IS MORE EXCITING ON THE SCREEN AND BETWEEN THE PAGES THAN BETWEEN THE SHEETS»

DAY TWO
6 a.m.: A text from another young one. Late 20s with a peroxide blond faux-hawk, blue eyes, and the most perfect bubble butt possible on a white boy. Met him through CL. Our usual: He comes over, gets all coked up, and talks incessantly about Britney Spears. He eventually splays himself on the bed and serves up that perfect butt. I go down on him for what seemed like hours, lovin' every minute of it. (The coke always throws a wrench in the gears of sex.) He texts how much he misses our times together.
11 a.m.: At the Met. Enjoying the usual selection of hot-bodied, dickless Greek and Roman statuary.
11:35 a.m.: A security guard, an Italian Bear type, gives me a look and quick grab of his crotch. I stand there and let him go through the whole ceremony; stopping, looking back, eye contact, another series of crotch grabs — each more suggestive than the last. I give him a nod. He walks off. I know to follow.
11:45 a.m.: He has access to the employee elevator and we try a few men's rooms he knows of that are closed to the masses. We end up at urinals right off the Modern Art wing, stroking. He finally bends over and starts blowing me, but someone comes in and we have to go. I tell him I'm off to have lunch.
12:58 p.m.: Near the cafeteria, he finds me again. Tells me he has a fifteen-minute break and knows where we can go. Through the American wing and up to a floor of all offices. We find the men's room, and go into a stall. He crawls up on the seat and gives me some awesome head until he comes in his pants. It was good, but I needed longer to get off.

-New York Magazine
August 30 2010