after thirty three days on the road, i’ve enjoyed plenty of clichéd adventures:

wandering, wide-eyed through times square in new york while chewing on a hot dog. walking for miles and miles with my neck craned high at the skyscrapers, stopping into corner delis and hailing cabs with ease.

sitting out on a phat patio in the hollywood hills, splashing in the pool with tanned boys, glamorous women sipping on drinks and celebs mingling about. slurping on a jamba juice in the sunshine, and lots and lots of driving in la.

walking my dog down the street in small town indiana, with friendly smiles and waves from the old ladies watering their lawns, american flags flapping in the background, pickup trucks driving by. enjoying the simple life of barbeques and family.

cruising from casino to casino in the desert heat of las vegas. admiring the detail of the eiffel tower, the sistine chapel, the new york skyline, and all the neon. winning big, and losing quickly, and feeling very very american.

stumbling from bar to bar in san francisco, running into [and ditching] friends and ghosts of christmas past. slaloming between the rainbow flags and the bitchy queens adorning both sides of the streets. strolling up and down hills, stopping into friendly cafés and hippy boutiques.

realizing that the sun is still up at 2am, while on a tiny island near vastervijk, sweden. admiring the beauty of my new swedish friends after a day filled with insane but enjoyable traditions — lots of herring, drinks, songs and dancing around the giant fertility phallus.

tonight? taking the tube over to leicester square for some west-end fun. lager, fags, some glamo[u]r, namedropping and probably a pull.

clichés are the easy route.

i think i saw you here yesterday. who am i fooling? i *know* i saw you here yesterday. it wouldn’t matter anyway.

everything’s on display. i love your boyish face–your slightly parted lips, your just-muscular neck, your floppy blond hair. laying on your back, soaking in the rays through the chilly fog, you seem at peace, perhaps snoozing, but i know that you know i’m here.

your young, lanky, tanned body looks edible in those plain vanilla white speedos of yours–you exploit the contrast between your golden thighs and belly against the skimpy briefs. i love your firm chest and your glistening abs, rising and falling to your own mysterious rhythms. when the chill blows across the park, i see you tremble as i tremble.

everything’s on display, from the fluffy down at your armpit, to your happy trail perfectly groomed. the soles of your feet, your toned legs, and your arm lazily draped to your side leave me wanting. wanting to touch, wanting to lay down next to you.

wanting to tell you that i can’t respect someone who has everything on display.