there are no new stories. i sit on the train. i read. i meet a few guys a day. clam chowder, planning for my mother’s visit, 18.701.

yesterday, i was uncomfortably stoned on the corner of 74th and columbus, and i ran into one of the plastic twins who stopped to search my package of designer glasses and the pale russian hostess from the diner who on her way across the street, stopped to tell me that she had been fired. much to my great luck, i missed the opportunity to question the girl from work and ended up with angelina jolie beneath the scaffolding digging through my packages. “CHANEL!? WHY DON’T YOU HAVE ANY CHANEL,” she screamed exhaustively.

i failed to tell my store manager that i’ve accepted another job offer — waiting and bartending at a diner in the meatpacking district, aptly called ‘the diner’. it’s pretty much what you would expect from a placed named as such: barstools with bright red seats, a menu offering fried chicken, jumbo cheeseburgers, milkshakes in chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, and egg cream. the hostesses sashay around in their carefully-selected outfits each describing their roles: the sardonic russian in black and white stripes, the lascivious curly-haired brunette with hoop earrings bearing her unique name in the center, the bubbly head hostess in bright prints, vacuously reciting all the inscrutable details that the new hostess haven’t quite yet mastered.

waiting for my second interview, i point to the head’s tattoo and ask about its origin. “oh, that”, she sighs and traces her finger over the center blob which resembles a marshmallow peep, “that’s a heart, with some stuff around it — and that’s my name.” it probably would have been wise for me to remember her name with the vast account of A’s and modicum of consonants, it’s hard to come up with a fitting name with described sounds i still cannot properly mimic with my mouth. 

“it’s lovely”, i say, basking in the work’s illegibility. “i want it gone. i thought it was a good idea when i was sixteen, but ugh. i really need to have it removed.” we giggle about small talk and then the new manager pulls me aside for a second interview conducted by the old manager, sajiv, with whom i had a ninety second interview the previous evening.

“sajiv!” i continue with a slight bit of apprehension, “it’s so good to see you again.” perhaps i was worried by his terseness, but i was afraid that he did not quite like me. i flashback to the previous evening and my response to how my last job went. i told him i was still making coffee and was leaving because the compensation was insufficient and that — in addition — i was not challenged and needed to be stimulated with an environment with greater variety — drinks, tables, talking. in actuality, the desired tasks are almost identical to my present job; however, i was looking for any reason to mask the fact that i want a new job for more money. he asked about my ‘computer knowledge’ and after a brief pause i responded with ‘uhh…windows, linux, whatever. i went to mit, so no abject feelings with computer work.’ he looked confused and as he opened his mouth, i realized he was talking about point of sale programs used in almost all restaurants at which point my eyes grew wide and i interjected, “OH! you mean POS — yeah, it’s all touch-based, yeah?” he nodded in agreement and half-jokingly said that if he ever caught me using windows on the computer, i would be in trouble (or maybe it was more like ‘thrown in a deep bank with concrete blocks tied to my feet?)

my second interview was even shorter than the first, amounting to a satisfied “you pronounced my name perfectly” and cheerful “you look like a nice guy — i can trust you right?” i agreed that he could and after a handshake said that he would call me in for training soon.

i left the restaurant, gesturing to the head hostess that i would see her soon for training and after a quick squeal, she slapped me hard enough for me to recoil in slight pain, but light enough to justify her playful smile.

and then i fussed with my hair and stepped into the bright sunshine and groups of wealthy europeans visiting and dior- and balenciaga-sunglassed fashionistas of the meatpacking district.

p.s. i got the new david sedaris book and met really hot guy today. he was sooooo hot and nice and marc says he has really big cock — whaaaattttt.

another thursday another photoshoot.

the boy (boy as in seventeen-year old boy) was from dna modeling and the girl was ekat. i woke up at half past eight to a facebook message from the new fashion intern. “marcus, bernardo says you have to go to pringle of scotland and then to prada. be at pringle at ten…sharp. he said it was crucial you be there sharp.” her tone was wired and persistent and subtext shrieking ‘if you aren’t there at ten, i will make sure you never see another thick-boarded release invite.’ 

at ten twenty, i arrived at pringle, popped my head in, snatched the dress, and made my way to the other side of manhattan to prada. the smell of horse manure and the late morning heat amassed to a nauseating sensation, forcing me to hold my breath while i ran down fifty-second, desperately in search of the service entrance. cabs and busses and trains later, i made it to the studio.

“you saved the day”, bernardo said elatedly as he looked into my bags. the prada shoes, the heavy platters of fresh pineapple, chocolate cake, mushrooms, instructions to help our adonis-of-the-day into and out of the most simple of garments, smoking cigarettes with and getting compliments on my drawings from a russian supermodel, flirting with the straight receptionist, playing guitar hero, eating sesame candy and flirting with guys in chelsea: all good things about today.

actually i think i’m going to barf and pass out.

what’s going on.

what to talk about?

having spent the prior night candy flipping instead of flipping, i found myself bouncing around chelsea in rolled up houndstooth pants and a sailor jacket. applications were filled in the meatpacking district. vento trattoria is an italian restaurant that boasts coteries of tall homos with wraparounds and a strawberry lemonade, shaken with fresh diced strawberries from the only straight male on staff. ask about interviews and you will be delighted to get nothing more than a wry smile and curt “oh, we’re not interviewing today.”

walk across the street to the apple store and you will receive no advice on how to follow-up on your application other — what better way to put it — then “a phone number for applicants with mental and/or physical disabilities. to be fair, the ones were up front and didn’t know how to help me were kind enough to entertain me for a few moments. i talked to carmen about basketball and tennis, cute guys, and the dorks she works with. 

seven continuous hours of work later, i left work with an italian cream soda and my sailor outfit. digging through my bag, i came across: strawberry japanese candy, gummi bears, an eighth, a bag of reinier cherries, and lots of cologne. my plans to find my friend raffaella in times square fell through when i forgot my phone and which starbucks she was /working/. naturally i did what seemed fitting and headed towards chelsea.

on my way i thought about the advice my coworker tanisha gave me just a few hours earlier, “marcus, you’re never going to find a boyfriend if you don’t start acting more aggressive.” “i know”, i agreed and made another crack at her complaining that she hadn’t been fucked in three days. 

once i got to chelsea, i was delighted by the dozens of chelsea meatheads winding in and out of the eighth avenue bars. once i hit twenty-sixth, i began playing a game. ”six, five and a half, four, three, seven…”, he turned around to reveal his beautiful smile, “seven and a half”. a homeless man stumbled by and almost vomited on the sidewalk. “negative thirteen.”

i smoked a cigarette and was stopped by a man who asked for a cigarette and if he could do anything to return the favor. i smiled. “enjoy the cigarette.” 

i finished my cigarette outside of tasti-d-lite and went in to get an internet card and a small cup of apple pie on which to put my gummi bears. a cute guy and his friend walked into the store and were either stoned and happily drunk. “are you saying that i look black?” the guy asked. his friend responded with a weird chuckle and after a considerate amount of silence and without turning around i told him that he indeed looked very black. he blushed and laughed. in hand with his banana split, he left with his friend bidding adieu and thanks to the tasti-d-lite staff and a broken “thank you…too” for me.

two blocks south, i found myself sitting by the viceroy, having my tarot read by a woman who prized herself on her unique ability to target negative chakra energy and remove it with her spiritual bibulousness. for the most part, she did not say anything of real value: i’m transitioning, i’m torn between passions, i’m disconnected from my father, which i caught her on. though i wouldn’t say i have the best relationship with my father, i’ve come to terms that i still think is a fantastic person despite our vastly different personalities and values, i think is amiable and whole-hearted. 

she told me that guys are difficult to open up to me because i am too bold and trusting, which was probably ascertained by how polite and eager to discuss i originally was. 

she told me that i would hit a wall at thirty-four and would need to concentrate on flowers. weirdo.

like tanisha, she told me i need to be more aggressive, but from judging my laxity in this case, i had a feeling that reading wasn’t too hard to gather.

she told me that the guy that i have feelings for is not good enough for me and that i should just forget all about him. and then i knew it was time to leave. 

walking towards union square on fifteenth, looking for a place roll a spliff and light up, i played walk tag with a tall guy with a cute butt.

not finding an available stoop on fifteenth, i rolled it in union square, watching new york university students play spades badly. i told a lesbian that she could have probably gone nil if she avoided the queen of spades and then she ended up with three bags. i gave a cigarette to a cute homeless who offered to punch his not-as-cute friend for me. i smiled and let him go back to sleep. 

my day was resolved by the gorgeous six foot four polish guy who let me observe his astounding pulchritude — he was sooooo pretty. i wanted it but part of me wanted to leave him in the other car, his alabaster skin and piercing grey eyes pristine and glowing.

clifton lives at the university of virginia, two rows of houses lined with spheric topiaries segregating each four-plices. if you take the bus to seventy-first at five in the morning, you might have the lucky chance to encounter a small old woman who asks you your life story while keeping one eye on the northern side on the road looking for the bus that — if my luck is any indicator — is not coming any time soon. swipe your metrocard at the forest hills metro station and expect to be run over by burly construction workers whose only concerns are to steal your swipe, causing you to wait another ten minutes to get through and then another two eons for the next manhattan-bound E or F to arrive. however, everything (the excursion to and from queens, the disgruntled metro worker clicking her nails and eating her egg sandwich, and the fact that every other house can be so easily confused) was redeemed by the random assortment of fruit and plates and metallic toilet seat cover…oh and brazilian vogue.

“Hello.“

The inspiration-at-large, Riley Johndonnell is standing across the table from me in an Alexander McQueen suit and with his snarky look making it clear that I am staring at him while on the phone with a Lacoste rep. To be fair, I was looking at his outfit: the suit, stained jeans, and an uncomfortably large Gucci bag. Of course now I would have to think of something offensively sharp to say in response.

“Hello.”

Okay, so I was too busy picturing him throwing fistfuls of hundreds out of a red convertible, but I managed to pull myself together long enough to say it clearly and friendly. The rest of the day I spent upset with my editor and making all of SoHo take note of my loud and obnoxious shoes.

tom ford says i need to have more sex, so i have been going on more dates recently. foreplay experiences include but are not limited to:

1. being told that fritz lang’s metropolis gets my date hot

2. telling guys ‘no, i do not work out.’

3. talking about professional football

4. hinting about the diarrhetic affects of too much vitamin c

5. playing mario kart horrendously after smoking too much

6. discussing yoga practice for women in their seventies

hopefully tomorrow’s trip to the whitney with justin will prove that i can spend time with another gay guy in new york and not find the sudden urge to stab myself in the eye.

when you’re gorgeous, you must get a lot of dates. sitting and reading while simultaneously cruising in the union square starbucks, i can’t help but imagine the lives of these attractive men. at eleven is this guy who is wearing blinding aviators and wearing a scarf. he knows that you’re looking at him, so naturally, he feigns disinterest. “he looks like he could be from chelsea - maybe more soho. i want his scarf and to get in his pants. his rigidly crossed legs and familiar tight smirk make him look like a bitch. he’s probably a bitch”, i ramble to myself. at two is a couple on what is likely their first date. one is talking frantically. he’s flailing his arms and i can hear squealing through the music from my iPod. the other one is just sitting there, admiring him. he nods. his smile doesn’t seem to go away. i see myself in both of these guys. the first as myself on a first date, replacing awkward silences with incoherent and erratic topics. the other guy is me relaxed and joyous, like how i felt today, walking down fifth avenue with large bags from bergdorf goodman and smaller bags from wolford and dean & deluca. the sun was out and brought out the subtle gold in my jacket and brightened the sundry pinks i wore underneath. it was hot. plus, i played it up and swung my huge bags a lot.

i guess my life is pretty much what you would expect of it right now: flirting with guys everywhere, running between greenwich, the upper west side, midtown, and coney island. next week, i’ll be attending this jewelry show at van cleef & arpels. my editor says things like “marcus, take a note.” and “wait till you see my thong!” and “oh my god, i love this!”. the other interns are pretty great. there is a girl from cambridge university. her name is aisha, she wears daria glasses (from that episode where she breaks her glasses in trent’s van) and cute boleros and ponchos. another whose name is alexis. she’s perky artsy sweetheart. and chris. he wears circular-rimmed glasses and we talk about hot guys together. it’s pretty good.

saturday i move to the upper west side, finally. i’ve scouted the area. walk west one block and there is riverside, gorgeous as ever. the river, the stone monuments. walk one block east and there is broadway has everything you need. a greek restaurant with loud jewish women who love chocolate martinis and insist that friends new to the place try them. “you have to try one! MAKE SURE IT’S CHOCOLATE.” there are cute guys, families, girlfriends holding hands, spas and gym’s, zabar’s (probs one of the best features), the history museum - all tremendously inviting.

the change of environment has done me well and though my feelings have been relatively low, i have had a lot of time to think and subsequently appreciate what i have just done; here i have a whole year to build a collection inspired by the situations i will soon have to face with light-hearted humor: studious with magnifying lenses and countless shots of models from recent collections, exhausted from running around the city to do messenger work, disparagingly yelling at angry customers. i guess it’s not unlike what i have been doing for the past few months, but now there’s more glamour - and now i have to sell it.

yesterday, i talked to one of the managers at zara and after exchanging send-my-loves and polite pats on the back, picked up a hot sausage and walked through chelsea, making all of the playful insinuating gestures one moderately confident homosexual might attempt in passing another of equal or greater attraction. several blocks after my sausage, i stopped on twenty-third to find two cute guys making out with all intentions of slutting it up. the image left me jealous and angry, so naturally after the tall striking brunette turned to look at me for some expectation of lust, my face slowly grew disgusted and full of pity. the rest of the walk was pleasant. i glanced at the gorgeous men in the village and took the train back to brooklyn from washington square.

this morning, i woke up and after having a breakfast of beef gyro and peanut butter balls, i singed my hair while trying to light my cigarette on the stove. you can’t tell much. pull my bangs back and you will find a small patch of frayed hair resembling a barbie haircut accident both in distraught color and texture. let it fall, and it becomes hidden by everything else.

in between everything substantial, there are parties and supermodels. they are fabulous. life feels fabulous when i am there and introducing myself to them. the vodka open bars aren’t bad either, but recently my mind has only been on one thought, or more revealingly, one guy.

sometimes, i feel that i do not breathe deeply enough. this often comes to mind while i have no mind (feeling uninspired, blue, bleary).

today, jen told me either that she would be in a show during fashion week or at fashion week. she also said that she would not be able to do it if she knew i were there.

i like to envision myself under a tent disguised by a pair of aviators, peering at jen walking cautiously (but stunningly nonetheless) down the runway with makeup that brings out the subtle lines in her face and a dress that matches her fabulous brilliance.

my shower was short, but good. i forgot how lovely the smell of lavender is.

i shared a playful, breathy laugh with what is likely to be my new boss on the phone. his accent was rich, latin, and transuded a confident and satisfied air that i hope to find at the store.

i ate a brownie.

i was glad to see ana.

i have four tentative dates this week but unfortunately, i only want to see one of the guys and it happens to be the flakiest of the four.

and my life will change dramatically in about three days.