7 hours with a man I met in Seattle who looked like a pug. And my aunt, who had just lost the husband she had spent nearly 50 years with.
Is it okay to build a partner into the infrastructure of your life?
My new essay, “The Problem with Good Meat,” is out now.
https://t.co/9by05xk52j
A solo picnic in the park. Right in front of me, a young gay couple is sprawled on the grass, kissing passionately without a care for prying eyes. I watch them and smile, letting out a small chuckle. We just happen to be there, inside their little world for two. Go for it. Full steam ahead.
A grown man, playing video games in the middle of a weekday. This is what he’s doing. Then again, here I am, in the middle of a weekday, showing up to give a blowjob. The priority I assign to blowjobs in my daily life is disturbingly high. I’d probably still show up even if it overlapped with my parents’ funeral. People really should just live however they want. That’s what New York taught me.
Read the full essay here 😗
“New York, the safest city in the world”
https://t.co/HIAe1gJB4R
New Essay “New York, the safest place in the world “
My life was built on other people’s eyes. Literally. It was life or death.
In middle school, “Taka, your hair’s so frizzy and wavy, it looks weird,” so I got a straight perm. Then it was, “You walk kinda gay,” so I fixed my walk. Every reflective surface became routine maintenance, and that got me labeled a narcissist. Apparently I couldn’t win. What exactly was I supposed to do?
Fine. If checking itself was the problem, I just needed to make sure there was nothing left to fix. So: an hour every morning with a straightening iron, enough hairspray to turn my head into a helmet, and a walk tightened just enough not to look feminine. All the way to school. Every day. Everyone felt like the enemy. I had to look good. I had to be perfect.
And yet, somehow, I ended up becoming a model. A job built entirely on looks. That was never the plan, but I guess whatever messes you up as a kid just follows you for the rest of your life.
This industry is full of people who are just absurdly beautiful. When I meet a naturally good-looking guy—the kind that just grew that way—I almost want to press my palms together and bow at the purity of his soul. They’re kind, no chip on their shoulder, and most of all, there’s not a trace of tension in the way they’re being looked at.
Me, I’m more like a farm-raised version of handsome. I’m just grateful if I can even pass as good-looking, but the moment I loosen up even a little, I feel like I’ll snap back into that old, disgusting version of myself. The higher the expectations, the worse the crash, and I’m the one raising them.
It’s like having a weak stomach but eating a mountain of fried food anyway, then walking around clenching, praying you don’t shit yourself. Please don’t let me shit myself. Please don’t let me shit myself. That’s me, smiling in front of the camera.
Over time, I learned how to make my face behave in photographs. It was nothing like before. The intensity of my smile, the angle of my body, how much to soften my mouth, eyes just approachable enough. This time, I was the one in control of how I was seen.
The gaze that had once terrified me no longer had the power to wound me on its own. If I prepared properly and got the light on my side, it was no longer a weapon. It became a product. And honestly, once it became a product, it felt a little good. The version of me they were looking at was a direct-to-consumer item, manufactured, processed, and quality-controlled entirely by me. The kind with the producer’s face on the label. When someone looked at me and seemed to receive me without resistance, I felt like I had carefully wrapped only the presentable parts of myself and completed the delivery without incident. There was a private thrill in that.
But that pleasure was conditional. The only version of me I could present in public was the one I had neatly wrapped. A slack face was out. Weird bangs were out. The moment I cut corners, the gaze would turn on me again.
So I kept moving through the world the same way I always had: asshole clenched tight, praying I wouldn’t shit myself.
And then I came to New York.
https://t.co/HIAe1gJB4R