LET ME SIT ON IT

The invite said go to the garden floor door, under the stoop, in a row house in eastern Brooklyn. I won't give away too much about the location, since it's a supposedly private sex party, and I'm still not clear if I was even supposed to be there. I've been getting the email invites every week for years, though. I have no idea how I got on the list since, well, it's definitely not supposed to be for me: It's explicitly a party for black men...  

As I've studied these emails, I've noticed that the "interracial" flyer rotates, changing the racial mix of guys in the montage of pics. And every once in a while, the "interracial" montage includes a pic of a white guy getting fucked by a black guy. That's the version of the flyer I saw when I opened my weekly email this past Friday morning. It announced a party on Saturday night in Brooklyn, doors open at 10p, reply for detailed instructions. I replied. 

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This fall, I had this freelance gig, where I had to go to their offices a couple times a week. If it wasn't freezing, I'd ride my bike there, which meant I'd have to go through a freight elevator to the bike room each time...and there was this guy who operates that elevator.  

Whenever I'd come in that way, this guy would pay me an odd amount of attention. He'd chat me up in this awkward way, like he was trying to find a reason to engage with me. I figured his work was probably pretty lonely--doing whatever he does in building maintenance and operating this freight elevator--so I'd make awkward small talk too. 

He’s a dark-skinned black guy with a Caribbean accent. Shaved head, with glasses and a goatee with grey flecks in it. I’d guess he’s in his fifties. Tall and lean, always in his uniform. He’s handsome I guess, but honestly I never, ever gave one second thought to him sexually. Not until the day he complimented my socks. 

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It began as a proper date--an arranged pairing, set up by my boyfriend, to celebrate the resumption of my diary. A blind date, just like the slutty old days of whoring me out regularly.

I was told to show up at Lincoln Center at 2:30, on a Sunday afternoon, and wait in front of the first door of Geffen Hall, where the New York Philharmonic plays. Fun fact: I was a marching band geek in my youth and I love brass bands, particularly at the holidays. And somehow, my boyfriend managed to connect with a guy who wanted to take me to the Philharmonic's annually Holiday Brass show. 

It was a cold, shitty, rainy day, but I arrived on time and dressed up in bowtie, cardigan, and tight chinos. It was a zoo at the place, so I stayed outside under the veranda and by the first door. Within a few minutes, a tall, middle-aged guy in a nice overcoat walked up to me. "Are you J.T.?" he asked, with a pronounced accent of some sort.

"That's me," I said, shaking his hand. I didn't ask his name, and he didn't offer it.

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Follow on Only Fans for free to get the full diary, private blog included. 

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"After a life of perfect safety, I’ve let two guys fuck me raw in the last couple of weeks, and that body builder did it twice. If I’m gonna be on a bareback kick, I wanted it to include this boy, dammit."