Brightest Young Things

"Do you like Animal Collective?" asked a bright young thing leaning against the bathroom door. He wore his hair in a fohawk, a torn Cyndi Lauper T-shirt, fashion-forward leather pants, and, even in the darkness of Manhattan's exclusive Cake Shop where I had performed earlier that evening, enormous sunglasses that lent his bony face undeniable chemotherapy-chic.

I sat behind the merch table, twiddling my thumbs as I minded my assorted LPs, CDs, T-shirts, and mp3 downloads. It was a slow night in the Big Apple - no merchandise was moving. "Hmmm, Animal Collective," I replied. I blinked my long eyelashes at the beefcake, my eyes falling to the rough trade's bulging fly. "I may have read about Animal Collective on the popular HTML site www.pitchformedia.com. But I am intimately familiar with the Animals Collective - that is, that grand buffet we call Humanity that lives here in New York City in glorious, sweaty proximity, its various urging bodies thrusting against each other in the service of their own primal lust."

The young stud beckoned to me. I abandoned my wares. I strutted to his side. I placed my hand on the exclamation point of his hip.

"Do you like AIDS Wolf?" this indie macho man quoth. He breathed a sticky-sweet, PBR-perfumed into my face. I became dizzy. I swooned. I wrapped my arms around his waist and pulled him closer.

"AIDS Wolf?" I said. We kissed. His lips were rough and un-Chapsticked. I ran my tongue across his gloriously crooked teeth. "Hmmm. I may have read about AIDS Wolf on the popular HTML site www.spin.com. But I am intimately familiar with the wolf inside every man - that snarling wolf who, wielding enormous genitals, lunges towards his potential mate with testosterone-fueled lust. The wolf may howl - that wolf may bite - but that wolf always knows what he wants."

My hands fell to the fly of my anonymous lover's slacks. What I found there was not inconsiderable. The young Lothario gasped the gasp of a man who has waited oh-so long for the touch of of a drag-punk diva with a handlebar moustache. We made our way to the bathroom, opened a stall door, and began to grope each other under a naked light bulb.

"Do you like MIA?" my names partner asked, gasping for breath as he tore his mouth from mine.

"MIA?" I said as I laid a delicate love-bite on the point of his delicious chin. "I may have read about MIA under Sasha Frere-Jones' byline in the unapologetically bourgeois New Yorker magazine. But I myself am missing-in-action - that is, I am unreachable my cell-phone, email, Facebook, MySpace, or Twitter whenever I run my tongue over a well-defined six-pack and move down, down - ever, always down." My beau's pants were now a mere puddle of leather on the bathroom floor. Power surged through New York City's grid. The naked light bulb flashed and burned out - but we did not need light anymore.

Previously on...

Previously in Tangents:

• 12/28: Terrible Boyfriend/ Girlfriend Generator.
• 11/2: PHOTOS: TAXLO Halloween (feat. Chain Gang of 1974)
• 10/10: #OccupyWallStreet
• 8/10: PHOTOS: Lawn Mover Racing, Eastern Seaboard Regionals @ Bowles Farm
• 7/26: Special List: Things the BYGays Want Now That We Can Marry In DC (and NY!)
• 7/20: PHOTOS: Artscape
• 7/19: Miho Hatori's Guide to New York City
• 4/11: Cirque Du Soleil: Totem (A Review)
• 12/29: War, Reenacted
• 12/29: What in Hell is Slaughterama?!?