Cruised on Christopher

The only plan I had for the evening was to hang out with Kirsten. Dinner at Mexicana Mama in the West Village and drinks somewhere after that. But that would change, unbeknownst to me of course, when she called and said she'd be a half hour late.  Such changes of plans don't bother me. I figured I'd be able to take my time navigating through the Village, with map in tow (I hate that).

The Village streets don't adhere to logic, and I inevitably lose track of which direction I'm heading once I reach 7th Ave. After walking a bit, I realized I had about 45 minutes to kill. About that time, I happened upon a small park situation.

It's not a park in the "normal" sense of the word, but it's a park, nonetheless, carved out as it is in a space on the corner of 7th Avenue South, West 4th, Christopher Street, and probably a couple of others that I failed to notice. (As I mentioned, this area lacks logic.) The park is lined with benches and trees, and there are four sculptures that are both frightening and soothing. I say frightening, because they're a little too animated; it was also dark, and Halloween is next week, and, well, that's that. I say soothing, because the four sculptures are actually two same-sex couples. The men are standing; the women are sitting.

This was the view I had, but I didn't take this picture. She did.

Sitting in parks like this, with time to kill and much flowing, as always, through my head, is one of my favorite things to do. There's something about the passing of time that fascinates me. Making an effort to do so without getting caught up in having to be somewhere makes it that much sweeter. And this is what I was doing.

I whipped out a clove, turned my music up, and watched the people. There was a group of about four men sitting on the other side engaged in some kind of energetic conversation. Each appeared to have been in different stages of homelessness, but neither this, nor the chilling weather, prevented them from enjoying this time lapse. Across from them and four benches to my left was another man sitting by himself. Probably doing the same thing I was, I thought to myself.

Directly across from me, and sitting quite close to the benched sculpture, was a woman on the phone. A few minutes later, two men walked through in very good moods and sat next to her. It was shaping up to be a happy little Christopher St. party. A few minutes into a little Otis Redding trying a little tenderness, a man sauntered through. "Sauntered" is an understatement. I recognized him immediately.I saw him just the other night while waiting for the train at West 4th with Julie and Amy. I noticed the way he sauntered then; I thought he had a leg problem. He was definitely gay, and he appeared to care little about what people thought of him. He wasn't particularly well-dressed, but who am I to make such criticisms? I watched him the other night until he was no longer in my sight. An interesting being. As he walked in front of me, I remembered all of this. And then all of a sudden I realized that I was sitting in a cruising hotspot. But I immediately questioned that assessment, because of the woman sitting across from me. Maybe she just didn't know. Or maybe I was just wrong. The new addition to our cozy group found his way finally to a bench about 10 feet away from me. At that point, I took my attention off him and returned to the bloody map I was holding. Simon and Garfunkle was on now, and I was getting down to "Feeling Groovy." Everything about the evening was perfect so far. And then he started talking to me, beginning with a question. But because I had my headphones on, I was only able to make out the word "time." I turned to him to confirm. "It's 10 to seven," I said, half-removing my headphones.  "A quarter till?" he asked.  "Ten," I said more emphatically and turned back around to stare into space. I kept my headphones off for whatever reason; perhaps not to be rude. For some reason, I felt I needed to concern myself with the sauntering man's feelings. I watched the men sitting across me for a minute or so. They're cute, I thought to myself. If I had to guess, I would say they met only a little bit ago. Or maybe I was wrong. Maybe they've been together for years and have managed to do the unfathomable: keep the love alive. Or maybe they---  "What's your name?" I was taken away from my scenario by the sauntering man. Did he just ask me for my name, I thought to myself. Maybe not. I'll confirm.  "What's that?" I asked turning toward him. "Your name," he repeated as he walked over to me.  Let me think here. I've just realized this is an outdoor cruising joint; he saunters; and now he's sitting next to me. I believe I'm being picked up on. Now, how do I break this to him? I could just say "I'm a dyke"; that would certainly repel him, although this was not my intention. He seemed nice enough, and I imagined at this point that I could have a decent 10-minute conversation with him before I went in search of my dinner. Or do I tell him my name? If I chose the former, I would be presuming that he was after a piece of my ass. And I don't usually fare well with such presumptions, so I chose the latter. "Oh my god," he exclaimed, while putting his hand over his mouth and letting his body take him where his surprise would. I smiled. It was funny. "Yup," I said, feeling bad for any embarrassment he might be enduring (there I go again). "I'm a dyke."  "I'm sorry," he said with his hand still over his mouth. "You had me going. You are looking good, honey. You even fooled me." This light-hearted exchange continued in this manner for the next 15 minutes or so. Most of that time, though, was him, Roxanne is the name he gave me, talking about my energy.  "What sign are you?" was the next direction we took.  "Leo."  "I knew it."  "You knew I was gonna say that? I should have told you to guess then, huh?"  "Yeah. I would have gotten it. I knew you were a leo. You have a really strong aura about you," he continued in his new-agey spiel, which I am all for. "I felt it immediately. Definitely. You have a very strong energy. I knew you were a leo. You're very," he paused for a minute, adding a touch of drama to the situation, "loving."  I unleashed "thank you" after "thank you" as this complete stranger, Roxanne, assessed me. He even told me he saw right through me. We talked about gender, my masculinity. "You pass!" he said excitedly. And he told me with a smile on his face what he would want to do to me if I had a dick. I laughed. He could have been trying to cover up his embarrassment. A guy as gay as this one mistaking a dyke for a cruising fag -- there's not much that can be pleasant about this. But it was pleasant. He was feeding the leo in me and being quite genuine about it. "I'm gonna give you my phone number. We should talk some more." I wrote it down in and out of our conversation, which kept returning to this aura of mine, this strong energy that even attracted him. But somehow, all I could think about for some time was the fact that I was picked up on by a gay man. That's funny stuff right there. We parted with a hug and I was on my way to the restaurant, stupid map in my hands. I found it with no problem and Kirsten and I began our evening. After dinner, we had a brief stint (way too long) at a dyke bar next door. It was fascinating to me from a sociological standpoint. The dykes patronizing the spot looked like they came right out of 1983. And I saw the sweetest mullet on this woman, complete with the spiked hair on top. It was awesome. As was her tough Brooklyn accent. My guess was she was trying to impress the woman sitting next to her who was seemingly sucked in. It's not a place I'll be back at anytime soon.  It was a very good night. I ended up by Columbia at Kirsten's house. Her boyfriend is an English professor at Columbia and a cool guy, so I'm glad I finally met him. We drank, smoked, talked and I was on my way. I had a book, so I was prepared for the long subway ride home. I was looking forward to it, in fact. One train. A relatively painless wait for another -- the F at 14th St. I got on and was quickly frustrated, because there was nowhere for me to sit. So I stood in front of the doors and looked for a new playlist to listen to. As the train pulled away, a black man holding a bunch of daisies sitting to my left started talking loudly. He had a friend with him across the aisle, so I thought he was talking to him. Until he stood up. He went for the door that was directly across from me, shouting things like "you're sick" and "freak" and "it's you people that give us a bad name" and "oh, this world is ending." He pounded the door with his right fist as he said these things. As the train continued, I spotted the target of this drunk man's rage. A black transgendered woman had just left the train. And it seems she had gotten under this man's skin. She was beautiful, walking with her head up, no doubt knowing the pounding words were directed at her. She kept walking. The train picked up speed. He staggered back his seat. "Sick fuck." And then, "I have to give these flowers to my mama."  I stood there quite aware of my big leather jacket. As much as I wanted to say something, I knew there was nothing I could. And as much as I wanted to say something, I knew I really didn't want to. He was less than one foot away from me. If only he knew who was standing just to his right. His masculinity had just been threatened. His sexuality challenged. And here I was, holding my copy of Invisible Man wanting to push him up against the same door he beat only minutes before, grab him by his throat and make him look in my eyes. But of course I wouldn't do that. As we sped through the tunnel, though, my thoughts suddenly turned to his target. My leather jacket protects me. My physical stature protects me. Who would protect her? It was well after midnight. She was about to step out onto deserted streets where she would, no doubt, encounter others like this man. Others who would perhaps have no witnesses around them. It takes no strength to be me. No courage. Yes, I'm a target. Many of us are, no matter what our race, sex, gender, or class is. But we're not targets like this woman. Like countless others who are murdered because they have courage. Those same victims whose stories go untold. The man got off the train at the next stop. I could no longer read. It's 5:40 a.m. now. I hope that woman is sleeping peacefully.