Fucking in Manhattan still feels more natural to me than Brooklyn.
I've lived here for more than eight years now, and I've had plenty of sex in Brooklyn. But somehow, when I think of parks, bar bathrooms, fire escapes, and a dozen other places I've fucked, that big island always comes to mind.
But I'm going to dig into Brooklyn's bones and find a glimmer of something desperate to be played with. Maybe it's a quiet spot in Prospect Park (let's face it, it's less busy than Central Park), or possibly it's a bar I haven't yet discovered that gives off that 'we don't care if you mess around in here,' vibe that I'm missing.
If it's blood we want, I can tell you a quick story.
The details don't matter all that much, but I was at her place (in Brooklyn, of course), and she was showing me videos of the sex she just had. She knelt on her living room floor and sucked my cock while I watched her get fucked on camera by a cock so pretty it should have a flower named after it.
"He came in me six times in two days," she whispered before climbing onto my lap. We still had our clothes on, and while we had fucked before, that wasn't what we were doing then. I got a hand in her jeans though, and I pushed two fingers inside her as she told me how hard they fucked, and we kissed and moaned and confessed more sins to one another in her empty apartment, free of prying eyes.
Only when we collected ourselves did I realize I had blood on my pants. All that unprotected weekend sex was a result of good timing when it came to her period, and our filthy finger fucking, tongue-kissing, cock-sucking, dirty-talking evening resulted in my linen pants needing a good scrub.
We laughed, and I promised it didn't matter (later that night, my wife and her girlfriend helped me scrub off the blood). We drank more wine before I left, and if anything, the memory is sweet and silly more than anything else.
But a touch of blood doesn't make me sink into Brooklyn the way I need to. It doesn't crack open the city streets and let me drop through the layers of subway tunnels, aqueducts, and power lines until I find its grotesque beating heart.
There have been other times and other nights. I’ve been to sex parties, spanking parties, and full-blown orgies that are more interesting to look back on than they were to walk through. Some stand out beautifully and erotically, and I grasp onto them with joy and surrender.
But still, I have yet to find my way home.
It doesn't help that half the Manhattan bars where I used to make out have been replaced by burger joints or upscale grocery stores. Just because the parks have too lights too bright to get away with sinning doesn't make me less inclined to remember it the way it was.
The other night, however, I met a bartender with lips so full I wanted to kiss him rather than sip my drink, and as spring comes around, there are hints of thighs and tummies on every city block. Maybe the buildings are closer to the ground and the sidewalks less choked with tourists, but Brooklyn is home, and one of these days, I'll start to drag it into my world rather than the other way around.
I'll turn a street corner or walk into a dim barroom, and it will hit me all at once. Sex, fire, and whiskey will blend into something more potent than nostalgia, and I'll lift my head up and smile.
I'm Guy Fucking New York, and this borough, too, is my playground.
And God knows I'm gonna play
.