Okay, so I made it to New York City. Finally. As I sit in an Airbnb on a rainy afternoon, the train cluttering along outside my window, I realize it’s possible to do this. I, a lifelong Arkansan, can make this happen.
Sure, the subway system is more complicated than some may be led to believe (I’ve already had a late-night adventure in which the MTA placed my fate in the hands of God and new friends). And sometimes it feels like one has to pay for simple privileges such as walking across the street.
But there’s something invigorating about living here. As I sauntered along Fifth Avenue yesterday, with its myriad buildings — the Plaza Hotel, Tiffany and Co., and fashion giants Bulgari, Coach, Louis Vuitton, and others — I was dumbfounded. Their height and largeness of life was a testament to the endless possibilities that await me within the next few months of life.
I was inspired. The thing about New York City, though, is that one doesn’t have to be in Manhattan to feel that way. I felt it in the subway station as well, watching countless people — earphones included — push for the promise of tomorrow. I wondered what each of them did to bring them to this outlandish place, with its countless Starbuck’s cafes, Halal restaurants, and gorgeous, half-naked men, running along the street in their newly-bought Lululemon shorts.
I was also inspired by the smaller borough of Queens. Though it doesn’t sport multi-floor skyscrapers or extravagant townhouses, it has grit, a sort of small-town escapism that is refreshing for this Southern boy. As I rode into Astoria last night, I was surprised to see well-lit garages, inside of which were yellow taxis, the same ones for which NYC has become synonymous. These garages, removed from the trappings of the city, were serving as the backbone through which the taxis, and my extension NYC, function. I felt as if I was seeing behind the scenes of the magnificent New York operation, something city-dwellers were never supposed to see. Otherwise, it could ruin the illusion, the spell the Big Apple places on all who wander into its sphere.
I would be kidding if I said being in NYC during Pride Month wasn’t all that. Besides the many businesses sporting rainbow colors in their window displays, gay men in New York just do “it” differently. By “it”, I mean existing. Almost every man in Manhattan (straight ones included) had a perfectly-chiseled ass. It’s as if every man spends an allotted time in the gym every day, working solely on that one body part. There must be some initiation I’m unaware of, some New York policy that states, “If you are a man (but especially a gay man), you must have a chiseled buttocks, for the sake of tourism and aesthetics. You understand.” Maybe I’ll receive my policy booklet in the mail within the month. Who knows?
All this to say that the men here are gorgeous, but did I ever expect anything less? Of course not. On top of that, there’s gay history less than an hour away. I’ve already had the privilege of traipsing down Christopher Street to see Stonewall Inn, at which one of the most consequential riots served as a catalyst for the gay rights movement. And now I can go there for a drink and a drag show on weekends! What a beautiful thing.
I think that’s enough for now. I could literally write an entire series on the men in this city, but I’ll save that for another time. For now, I’m glad to simply be where I am in life — me, a boy from Leachville, Arkansas, living in one of the most iconic cities in the world. It’s been a challenge, but I’ve already grown so much just in the last couple of days. I can’t wait for what is to come. Until next time. Kisses.
