A week has already passed and I feel as though I haven’t really recovered yet. I went to a party at a club in midtown last weekend that served drinks off an open bar. I’m sure I drank more vodka-cranberry cocktails than I could handle. But the drink-induced hangover had already been flushed out of my system the day after. I am alluding to still getting hung over what happened — or who I met.

I was talking to Andrew, a Jewish friend whom I had a brief flirtation with a long time ago, doing catch-up and some calculation as far as rekindling that flicker from way back when was a possibility that night. But he had his eye on this Latino boy in the corner and his attention became instantly divided and was already waning. I unbuttoned his shirt even further to reveal a sexy patch of chest hair and pushed him to talk to the guy. I continued to nurse the cocktail in my hand and scoped the scene for available cock.

Then, I saw Paul. Paul was another guy I had a brief flirtation with a long time ago. Or is that still continuing? Paul is my age, grew up in NJ (from a lineage that goes all the way back to England), went to Georgetown for his undergrad and now does public press relations. It was interesting how we had more in kin than our ages. We broke up with our then-long-term bfs at the same time last year. We both pursued grad school — he being more successful since he is on his way to finishing his MA in Communications at NYU. (I never finished my creative writing degree in the same school.) We are both out at work in atmospheres that are still very tense in a macho kind of way — defying the limits as defined by the pink ceiling. We work long hours and have very busy schedules. We went out on dates that had months lie in between one and the next. I guess it was reassuring that there seemed to be constancy behind the infrequency.

Paul and I started talking. I felt the heat in the exchange. He went to the party with Lana, his lesbian friend, who was also there with her friend, Tim.

Tim is a few years younger than Paul and I. He is Japanese-American, grew up in Long Island, went to Stanford for his undergrad and is now at NYU pursuing medicine. He has the cutest accent that is a mix of NY curtness and Cali twang. He also looked too straight, cool and unassuming in his loose jeans and grey sweatshirt which was a stark contrast to the crotch-huggers and nipple-showers in loud colors all around the club. Apparently, Tim is still in the closet. Oh my ! A gay bar virgin!

It must have been all that alcohol. Or the loud music. Or the sheer energy of hot sex that was made even more palpable by a gay club on a Saturday night. Whatever it was, I found myself on the dance floor with Paul and Tim. All three of us started dancing the night away with each and every other. I was dancing with Paul. Paul was dancing with Tim. Tim was dancing with me. We personified the luv train.

Tim, the grad student, was boozed up with whiskey. I was buzzed with vodka. Paul was holding all that beer up well at 3 AM. The inevitable question was — what then, or better yet, where then? Time was already a moot issue. The air was ripe with the smell of sex. When the answer to when is decidedly an hour or an hour and a half away, the issue of space springs up. Tim lived with his straight roomie all the way uptown. I lived in a studio in Brooklyn Heights. Paul had the biggest space in Queens so all three of us hopped on a cab and sped off to Astoria.

No, it did not end up to be a porn flick. (Unfortunately) Tim was too wasted so Paul graciously set him up on the couch to sleep. I shacked up with Paul in his bedroom. We woke up the following morning to jerking each other off and to Tim walking towards the bathroom.

The sun was out. It was a Sunday morning and all three of us found ourselves in the awkward position of balancing the breakdown of too much alcohol in our livers and the recollection in our heads of the sticky situation we found ourselves in. We were literally decked out like an irregular triangle in Paul’s room: Paul was on his bed in the center, Tim was on the couch on one end and I was on the lounge chair on the other corner. The cloud of sexual tension coupled with the haze of intoxicated stupor was already absent. We were all hung over but we were all thinking clearly. The first thought was not of sex — it was food. We decided on greasy brunch plates from a Greek diner before heading home that morning.

I saw Paul and Tim again yesterday as we drank coffee and chocolate from City Bakery while soaking up on the unseasonably warm and sunny Saturday at Union Square. Winter’s bite was dulled by spring’s sneaking. Even the Green Market on the Square was infused with a sprite spring air. It was nice to see them both again (although Tim came over Tuesday and sepnt the night at my apartment unknown to Paul) in such an atmosphere that had the air of refreshing beginnings. I don’t know where these dynamics fork into. But what I know is that I relish the possibilities they open. That realization hit me as Tim sat on the railing while biting into a cookie and Paul drank his mocha as he lay standing across from me in the midst of tourists passing and residents walking their dogs and couples running together in Union Square. I smiled and cherished that disticntly NY moment.

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