nyc observation #1: the proof is in the pudding

having been raised completely in the south, it makes perfect sense that new yawk city would be a huge adjustment in culture and, more importantly, weather, but let me share a secret: it ain't that different. granted, heads snap back and the sides of mouths curl upwards into smirks when the word "y'all" slides out of my mouth, but i'm sure that would happen on say, the west coast or in a different country. what i don't understand are the people who make fun of me for saying "y'all", but then turn around and say "you's guys". at least my contraction makes grammatical sense.

but i digress..

my inspiration for writing this came to me while walking with my suitemate mj (pictured here with me, waiting outside magnolia bakery, which is another story for another day) and our friend, surrogate suitemate, my fellow new orleanian, ian (as pictured with my suitemate lindsay) along columbus ave. we passed many restaurants, but one in particular caught my eye because of the patrons sitting outside at a corner table enjoying the night air as they ate what looked like dessert. (i say "what looked like" because, honestly, it's not like i was going to stop and ask what they were eating.) it was a rather stylish, flamboyant, and obviously twenty-something black guy sitting across from an older white gentleman who was not stylish, absolutely devoid of flamoyance, and obviously nowhere near twenty-something. i'd heard whisperings about such relationships while still in the south. i moved to new york with preconceived scenarios. scenarios in which older white gentlemen who led perfectly respectable lives on wall street and the upper east side penthouses of manhattan during the day had illicit nighttime carrying-ons with barely legal, outlandishly gay black boys in the darkened corners of sidewalk cafés in hell's kitchen. just as my best friend keri and i had extensive conversations about how i should find an older rich man to date who was too old to function sexually who, in exchange for my company and witty banter at the swankiest restaurants around manhattan, would hand over his american express black card, which i would use for weekend sprees at neiman's and bloomingdales and spur-of-the-moment escapades with keri in st. tropez, i imagined groups of gay black boys sitting in trendy bar-and-grills across midtown, discussing their mounting visa bills and the need for a wealthy benefactor to come and sweep that debt away. the obvious answer would be older, successful, businessmen with secret lives they were dying to lead.

maybe i have an overactive imagination. maybe i'm confusing that one couple, that one streetwalk café in hell's kitchen with proof that the whisperings of bored southern housewives can be true. who knows? the fact remains, though, that for the rest of the walk home, while my friends chattered and laughed about the happenings of this past weekend, my mind was transfixed on that one couple, that one streetwalk café in hell's kitchen. to me, whether i'm giving too much credit to that scenario or not, it's real. and it's manhattan.


much love.