The Space

By Vincent Caruso

Tony Russo is a native Brooklynite whose world is about to explode. Tony’s life, which is deeply anchored in his cherished rent-stabilized Park Slope apartment, has been way too cushy for the past twenty years. His best kept secret of being a recent New York State lottery winner pulls him further into his comfort zone locking him into a destructive world of addictions.

What worked for many years is slowly becoming Tony’s most tragic nightmare. Conflicted with newly arrived obnoxious nosy upstairs neighbors, a knock on the door from his one time love of his life, and his best friend succumbing to alcohol, and a haunting past examining his relationship with the AIDS epidemic—Tony spirals deeper into compulsive behavior. As his days become a full-time circus, he is eventually forced to re-evaluate his life.

Tony’s hilarious yet sensitive narrative gives the reader an all-access pass into his secret world. In this decadent place of lifelong friendships, parties, sugar, booze, sex addicts, and drag queens, his only safe, quiet space is about to rumble. The Space swings with colorful characters who help provide an honest, heartwarming perspective on an Italian gay man struggling with a painful past and an out-of-control present.

The Space is based on Vincent Caruso’s first play which premiered at The New York City International Fringe festival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vincent Caruso
• Release date: Oct 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301183661

Vincent Caruso

Vincent Caruso’s book The Space, is based on his first full length play which premiered at the New York International Fringe Festival. His two other full length plays, Countdown, and Leftovers, was presented at the Midtown International Theater Festival. Countdown, critically acclaimed, "a remarkable screwball comedy with grit," is about an Italian family in Bensonhurst. Leftovers, an engrossing drama about the lives of three promiscuous men, mirrors a sort of Manhattan version of “Queer as Folk.” He has produced many short plays at the LGBT center in New York City. His short piece, Lemon Kisses, dealing with bullying and self-esteem was seen at the LGBT center, The Wings Theater, and aired on Brooklyn Cable Access Television. Sugar Bait was presented at the LGBT center, and the Samuel French Short Play-writing Contest. Vincent participated in the " Tip My Cup Quickie", a 24 hour play-writing festival (creative team given 24 hours to write, rehearse, and perform an original short play), presented at the Duplex Cabaret in the Village. Vincent Caruso’s hilarious one man show, staring himself, Sister-Mary Sister-Mary Sofa was seen at Dixon’s Place Hot Festival and also at East End Stables in the East Hamptons. Vincent is a graduate of William Esper Studios, having studied with Maggie Flanigan. Writer, actor, director

Book preview

Chapter 1

If the world knew my situation they would hate me. For three reasons:

1. I was a big winner of the New York State lottery.

2. I have a two-bedroom rent stabilized apartment in Brooklyn. I call it my castle, The Space.

3. I am too cheap to give it up.

Right now I am standing naked about to get into the shower. Only I am not in my bathroom. I am in my living room. I have positioned myself perfectly in the center of my apartment, staring into my full-length mirror. I have just come back from a long run in Prospect Park. Exercise always seems to set the endorphins of the day off to a good start. I am admiring my naked body—blessed with all the right parts.

Most people would give their right arm for this apartment. If I was not secure with my finances or my living arrangement, I would be highly disturbed. It might force me to do something. It might even inflict a purpose. This is not the case. Every aspect of my life is secure. Can a comfortable lifestyle be a curse? Too much ease and security can make a man feel very small. But what drives an Aries like myself—a leader—a fire sign—a young ram, settling for this cemeterylike existence when everyone else out there gets to connect to someone or something challenging? But then again—do they? Or when stripped to the bone are they really just candy coating a small bigness? Stupid as it sounds, standing naked in the center of my apartment gives me power. I start to imagine a world where we are all naked both inside and outside our domain. And in this domain, are minus the hang-ups that moral authorities and hypocritical church ladies planted into us a lifetime ago. And in my imagination I see sexual, vivacious beings respecting boundaries. Being naked always heightens my masculinity and virility. Ironically, it is when I’m fully clothed that my spirit is light-years away from this planet. Wearing clothes has always felt like attaching crazy glue to my privates. A psychic once told me that I was born at the wrong time. He said that I am like a product of the sixties: free love, peace, happiness, and all that jazz. When I asked him about my libido, he said very bluntly, Well…we all know you like variety. Bingo!

In minutes I will be on my next conquest. The arrangements have been confirmed. I know what to say and what not to say. I always lead the interview with the same questions to make sure I am not dealing with a serial killer. Go ahead—I give you permission to laugh. I give you permission to condescend. I’m not going to listen anyway; I just spent the first 40 years of my life listening to people who ended up missing the boat and graduating to being the biggest disappointments with mucho failures. Lecture me like a parent and say there is no such thing as safeness with a person whom you chatted to online just minutes ago. Maybe. But rarely am I ever fooled. You see I’m a pro, loaded with verbal ammunition. I can also pick up a red flag or a premonition about a stranger in a flash.

Getting older has helped me to settle nicely into my erogenous Mediterranean skin like a smooth and creamy moisturizer about to evaporate. I am a healthy, fit, Brooklyn-born and-raised Italian guy in my 40’s and nobody is comfortable fucking with that. Most people don’t get what’s inside of me anyway. Sometimes I feel most people don’t get me—period. Oh yeah, the elders are always saying, That Tony—he’s such a nice person. He comes from such a good family. He is so well spoken. That’s about it on a very superficial level. But those who are graced with my intimacy do get one thing, and that is the energy that spirals between my legs. Yeah I’m cocky. I’m cocky in the sense that I have no tolerance for bullshit. I am also street- smart and educated. This gives me an edge. I live with this adrenaline that rattles my insides. I thrive on this hungry sensation. Sex has been this ongoing life-giving force filling me up with countless thrills and worthless validations for decades.

It is now time for me to jump into the shower. I shave, moisturize, and cologne. I am squeaky clean. This particular person lives very far from my castle. Now that pisses me off. I’m spoiled. People living in their comfort zone generally are. We pretty much get what we want. And when we don’t, we act like spoiled children who consciously irritate the world. I want to be a king and be able to open my front door and grab the next passerby and live out my next sexual encounter. And then sweep that person out—gently of course. My friend Nick and I have a motto, and it goes like this: No breakfast and get the fuck out of my life. I find that very uplifting. Not kind—but uplifting, as it helps to stay detached. Although I’m not thrilled about the distance I am driven by the prize, that being the experience. I dare not jump on the train. What, and waste carfare on this? Do I sound cheap? This has nothing to do with me being cheap. It’s more about me being weird. Which I can be. Let’s talk shop. It’s about two animals in heat about to have a physical experience, but it’s not worth a dime of carfare. It’s always hot and it always goes nowhere.

I exit my apartment and continue to walk. I walk fast, and within minutes stop obsessing about the distance. It’s a terribly unusual hot, humid March afternoon. Global warming can be such a bitch. Most people are behind their desks masturbating to a routine. Most people are attending to something. That is what makes this even more exciting, but particularly, more dark. Think naughty. And if you’re in the game, this darkness is guaranteed to reward you with a raging hard-on. It can even trigger you to pre-cum, and this is way before body contact, foreplay, or any stupid preliminary Excel spreadsheet type of phone-sex conversation. It fascinates me how my imagination can provoke a hunger and soil my insides. I am convinced there are at least six different people breathing inside of me. These people are all stored in this metaphoric flash drive. I attach this drive to my groin—and wham! I can be goofy and obsess about nonsense for hours. I can reevaluate certain flavors and colors of sweets and ponder when new changes will be put on the market. I can be a sexually charged, knowledgeable animal calling all the shots. I can be tender, innocent, responsive, and warm. I can be passive and loose. I can be innocent and keep myself open. Or I can be a prick. I never know what will come up or who I will be in that moment. I take in what is given to me. And I love it. That is probably the least selfish thing about my character—working off someone else, not just waiting for someone to work off of me. This includes all kinds of men. I can easily walk into a room, feed off another guy’s energy, and be tuned in to their physical needs and give us both pleasure. Most guys can be oblivious to what I call sexual simplicity. Somewhere along the road they became stuck and stopped being creative, fun-loving sexual beings. Like a car that needs a routine oil change, they stopped lubricating their imaginations and their sexual insides began to dry up. They are unfortunately ingrained with issues, dated conversations, experiences, blockages, and mundane sexual routines they need to let go. Some never do.

Today the forbidden fruit is about to be handed to me again while the world is in a robot state, earning, in my eyes, a tedious, exhausting living. My libido continues to erupt and circulate like a glowing red hot lava lamp when I think of those first three seconds. That being the moment when we will first stare into each other’s eyes…and quickly my pants will drop to the floor. No exchange of resumes, no comparison of bank accounts—just piggy oink-oink primal sex. The long, tedious walk is firing up my nerves. I think I like that. Unfortunately it also forces me to think realistically about what I am doing with my life. After all, this encounter is taking up most of my day. It always does. It actually becomes the day. But my loaded, charged up libido kills those annoying analytical thoughts, upping my drive. And that libido is an army in itself which adds to the excitement. The adrenaline digs deeper. You may argue and tell me people would not die for this feeling. I believe everyone has some immediate gratification tapping on their shoulder offering a fast mood alteration. Yes everyone. If it’s not food—if it’s not alcohol—if it’s not gambling—and if it’s not drugs—chances are it’s sex. Babycakes, we’re all sinners cramped down with some addiction. There is always one weakness that makes us say fuck moderation. Fuck being a good boy. Fuck you for telling me not to eat three doughnuts for breakfast, or for smoking those deadly cigarettes, or for wanting to snort a line of coke to get my day started. You heard me correctly—FUCK YOU— all with capital letters. And that is the addiction. It’s like a pistol about to explode. It’s like a zone that puts you on a high—a high that will always break and haunt you. That is until you satisfy your appetite for the next time and for that next fix.

The pig

Okay. I’m here. Enough with this idle chatter. There are major obstacles getting into this apartment complex. This is unusual for Brooklyn. This building is broken down into sections with bell codes and other annoying roadblocks. From the outside I cannot decide whether it reminds me of the projects or a penitentiary. I always have a moment when I ask myself, What the fuck am I doing here? Looking now at the building, this is that moment. He buzzes me in. I finally make it inside his door. I look at him. I begin to feel those opening three seconds of contact, very similar to doing that first line of blow. The moment is hot and we both glorify this familiar, trashy stare into each other’s eyes. He’s an artist. Walking towards his bedroom, I can see the place is a mess. His bedroom is the size of my long-forgotten, broken, cheaply made, wooden jewelry box. He’s also a pig. Nothing ever gets cleaned here. His two other roommates are probably also artists, living out their tedious survival jobs. I can sense he’s a hardcore pothead which sort of justifies the mess. He’s got two bongs and weed and rolling paper all over the floor. Where’s the sweeper? The bed is unmade. Probably always is. I’m sure the sheets have not been changed since move-in day. If he gives me bedbugs, I promise I will come back with a machete. An outdated desktop computer to the side has enough dust to trigger a serious allergy attack. And if you have asthma, you better run—immediately! A couple of cheap autographed framed pictures of movie stars are hanging lopsided above the computer. I want so, so badly to straighten out those damn pictures. I look back at the dust again. Now that really annoys me. Dust pisses me off. Will someone please inform this young man we now have pretreated wipes that do not require elbow grease? He needs mommy cleaning lessons. Give me a joint and I could clean this entire apartment in less than four hours. But it’s not about that. It’s about me getting off. Plain and simple. It amazes me that three people could live in piles of dirt and debris every single day. I know you know these people. You see them on the train as if they are dressed to attend the Grammys at Radio City Music Hall. But if you ever set foot into their apartment, you would be amazed how disorganized, disgusting, and filthy their home is. This assessment confirms that no matter how hot we break and land on each other, I am never coming back. After all, when I invite my gentleman callers over—and yes I am being sarcastic—I make sure the place is clean and my bathroom is sparkling. I’m weird like that. I can’t have sex in my apartment if the place is a mess. I mean, what would my nosy neighbors say? Momma raised me better than that. The minute I’m done, I need to jump into the shower and scrub my body like they did to Meryl Streep in Silkwood. Let it go down the drain and disappear and make all those nasty germs go away.

He’s cute and very young. I would probably say middle 20s. It’s amazing how many young guys are into older men. My thesis on this would dig deep into the dysfunctional-or missing- daddy syndrome. This, unfortunately, is very common among gay men. I go for the kiss first. This is the test. If they cannot kiss then it’s a bust. A good kisser makes a hot lover. A bad kisser makes a cold lover who is moody with childish, whiney issues. My lips go straight for his. He passes the test. I can see his teeth are all stained from the pot and probably cigarettes and coffee. But I can tolerate this because of his age. His other parts are vibrant and clean from a lazy forced shower probably taken minutes ago. The clothes come off faster than high-speed internet. He could pass for a chubby younger version of Robert De Niro. He stands around 5’8" tall and is super hairy. The hair is tolerable except for his upper back. This is why a much-needed knowledgeable girl pal should introduce him to waxing. He’s also Italian and is a sexy 15 pounds overweight. I imagine the weight is from bingeing after his daily weed fix. We’ve all been there. He gets away with it, again, because of his age. Ten to twenty pounds of extra meat is highly tolerable, more for me to pounce around with. He focuses on my penis and immediately demands penetration. They all do. I tell him that’s a no-no. I will not penetrate on the first encounter. He’s insistent and finally I promise him the next time, as he continues to whine. This promise is the only thing that will shut him up. But we all know there will be no next time. Why? ’Cause he’s a pig. Maybe if he purchased a vacuum or picked up those wipes I mentioned earlier, I might reconsider.

So the connection is hot. Bing bing bing—imaginary turquoise-colored neon signs that say chemistry are flashing above the bed. Where did he get these Disney Hanna Montana−like signs? I’m impressed. As the endorphins are exploding out of my body I lose all sense of reality. I’m all too familiar with this ride. He’s worshiping the machine parts below my waist. Kiss. Touch. Caress. Warmth. Oral. I feel alive. I look into his eyes and I want to be with him every waking moment. I want to buy him the best Christmas present in the world. I want to go with him to Vermont and see the autumn foliage. I want to cook him breakfast and love him and make him a permanent fixture. I want to love him. I want to love him. I want to love him. Did I mention that I want to love him? I want to make us one. Rainbow colors are zigzagging and shooting out of my privates. I want this sensation to last forever. I climax. Pause. Game over. Everything changes. All the colors are gone. The heartbeat is back to regular. What is present is black and white. Mostly black. I am over it. I am over him. I need to get dressed, run home, take a shower and chow down some food. Because of my sensitive Mediterranean stomach, I never eat all day before sex. I fast. That is one of my rules. And for an Italian who loves to eat, that is a very hard rule to adhere to. I now want to be alone. If I stay an extra minute, we will begin to feel suffocated. Suffocation can lead to a buzz kill and that would defeat this entire mission. In my mind I say, Goodbye my friend. I wish you well. I wish you a successful artistic career. After all, underneath all this passionate but mechanical behavior, I truly am a wonderful, loving guy. But nobody—and I do mean nobody—ever wants to consider it or truly appreciate it. But the real question is, do I really want them to?

I exit the apartment complex. I am free. The long walk home will feel like seconds because I’m sliding off a sexual high. I feel like I’m all of 13 and listening to Julie Andrews singing The Sound of Music for the first time. Thank goodness we have separated and I have landed. But actually I’m still flying. Everything outside seems surreal. The people, the trees, the cars, the sidewalk are all featuring pretty colors—mostly shades of lavender and a deep orange. I’m imagining a festive sidewalk popping out sunflowers and yellow roses. Did the sex fairy order all this for me? Everything which is normally plain and annoying is welcoming. I am outside my body right now. I am smiling. I am alive. I imagine this is what being on LSD must feel like. The sex was satisfying and it has detached me from the ugliness of the world. It’s obvious; I’m getting stares of jealously from passersby. They are jealous because they didn’t get the prize. They weren’t handed the orgasm. They didn’t get to strip down naked two seconds after meeting a stranger. Everything came and ended quickly. I didn’t have to meet for a drink first, or sit through a fattening, agenda-generated, detached, boring dinner, or talk on the phone with time-consuming idiotic preliminary introductions. The outsiders sense this bigness in my eyes. My horny, playful energy is racing in the air and has a random devilish tone. They want that. They want to feel big and important and to be the talk of the town. It’s also obvious how selfish they are. I sense it. I don’t need them. I don’t need them to look at me. Where are they when I’m feeling small? How come they don’t stare or cuddle me when I feel broken? Where are they when I feel overwhelmed with loneliness? I’m in another dimension swimming above some very friendly and flirtatious invisible clouds with my penis dangling like a thirsty tongue anxiously grasping for water. My appetite kicks in even more and the idea of cooking a scrumptious meal excites me. Another human need. I think I’ll celebrate with grilled salmon, fresh avocado, black bean salad, and small white potatoes. For an appetizer I’ll put out some hummus with whole-grain chips. And afterwards I will probably binge on sugar for at least two hours. Maybe more. Yummy. The perfect day. A typical day. The best part is that I don’t have to deal with anyone when I get home. I am alone in the space and I love it. That’s a good thing. Right?

Chapter 2

There are 5 things the world does not know about me.

1. I have fallen in love only once.

2. I won the New York State lottery. I have kept this secret from everyone, with the exception of one person. This was an extremely hard thing to keep secret as I love sharing news and gossip. Being responsible with my finances and savings has led many people to ask me for loans throughout the years. I call them the vultures. I really don’t mean that, it just feels good to say that. Each and every one of these borrowers gave the same Academy Award performance. They were humble and tear-eyed, expressed deep discomfort and embarrassment, and promised they would give me back my money ASAP. When it came time for payback, they all had the same line: Ah—oh yeah—the money. What they were really trying to say politely was, Take a hike! I began to ask myself, Am I having a brain freeze? Maybe I borrowed the money from them? Are these the same individuals who were so cutesy and humble months ago? I’m not stupid. No one needs to know my situation.

3. I have probably slept with almost every man in the borough of Brooklyn. What? Don’t be so shocked. Even though Brooklyn is huge, remember now, we still have Staten Island, Manhattan, Queens, and the Bronx. Why are people so fascinated with other people’s sex lives? There are many who get to a point in their life where they say sex is so overrated. Sometimes I agree. But mostly when I am under the addictiveness, I take it to be my lifeline. Each of my encounters has a story. In the pages that follow you will meet some of them. Realistically speaking, 85 percent of the guys I have met are emotionally damaged. When we depart, I label them as damaged. I do so because it gives me back my power and self-worth. Most of them are just plain ridiculous and completely shallow. Except for me. I am perfect. If you believe that, please put this book down immediately.

4. I have a friend who does drag professionally and comes over to my apartment at least once a week. After months of persuasive debate he has convinced me to do a show with him. Yes, I do dress up. But I don’t live for it, like he does. My friend’s name is Michael. Michael does Cher. No, I take that back, Michael is Cher. In the very near future, when we perform together, he will be adding Tina Turner to his act. Michael has finally convinced me to do Madonna. Why did I agree to all this? Why not? Putting on trendy Betsey Johnson outfits, slamming down a few cocktails, taking a few hits off a joint, and pumping up the Bose speakers to Papa Don’t Preach isn’t exactly a struggle. It’s nice to get involved in physical activities without always having to take my clothes off. If I were to do drag, it would only be Madonna. I believe that the only time a gay man needs real therapy and meds is the day he admits to his friends and loved ones that Madonna is a complete bore. Divorcing yourself from the queen can be a serious transition. I love that I’m this masculine, confident, aggressive gay dude who takes total control in the bedroom. And then in a flash, I am able to get in touch with my feminine side, put on some heels and go oh-weeeey! Not too many people can do that. It’s playing a character. And it works. Michael lives Cher out 24 hours a day. The minute he leaves my apartment, drag is the furthest thing from my mind. But I must admit, putting on a wig and living out different personas is one of the most exciting things in the world. This has nothing to do with being gay, straight, bi, a freak, or having a fetish. It is simply motherfuckin’ fun.

5. Once I knocked out puberty, each Christmas in my stocking I discovered a new addiction. The year my stocking was stuffed with sugar I embraced the highest of all my addictions. I, Tony Mario Russo, am a hardcore sugar addict. We’re not talking simple, elementary, sweet tooth addicted. I am not one of those amateurs who say Oh, I need a little candy bar in the middle of the day to give me a lift, or those kiddies waiting for their second set of teeth to fall out, or those with freezers that always inventory a mere half-pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. I am an adult, fully committed to living out a life of candy overload. See formula: candy + good chocolate = best feel-good mood boost. I can sit on my couch and consume sweets without coming up for air for a good 2 to 4 hours. I know this is not normal. But isn’t normal boring? I have been known to watch a three-hour movie and never come up for air. Like a pendulum that swings back and forth inside a clock, my jaw can continue to go up and down, up and down, not once pausing or to stopping to give my mouth a rest. The only reason for my being in shape and not weighting 300 pounds is that I exercise. I’m too vain to allow myself to be looked upon as another American statistic struggling with obesity. If someone were to point a gun to me and say Tony—give up weed, cocaine, exercise, or even sex, I’d say to myself, Wow that’s gonna be tough. But okay. I’ll do it. If someone was to point a gun at me and say Tony—give up sugar completely, I’d say, very softly, Blow my Sicilian brains out as those last couple of Hershey Kisses are slowly melting down my throat.

The addiction never kicks in during the day, as I have other addictions and obsessive behaviors to address. If I know I am going to binge—which is more times yes than no—I’m determined to exercise enough to cancel those calories out. Two hours of sugar equals two hours plus of exercise. Like they say, you wanna play—you gotta pay. No addiction comes easy. I crave sugar just like an alcoholic craves alcohol. Walking into the candy section of any store is like shooting me up with heroin. My heart skips a beat, I fantasize, and I come to life. Most gay guys do bars or trendy cocktail lounges, obnoxiously holding up 15-dollar cocktails. Tony does candy stores. I know every single candy in the world. I have frequented hundreds and hundreds of stores, filling up my basket with every candy imaginable as people look on, assuming I’m throwing a big party. Yeah. It’s a big party. Only no one but Tony is invited. For the most part I consider myself a closet sugar addict, as people witnessing my addiction have found it highly disturbing and need to advise me to seek professional help. They never fail to attach psychiatric labels to me. You have an anxiety problem, that’s not normal, or the sugar fills an emotional void—you must be terribly lonely. These people are sugar buzz killers who need to take up knitting, go light a candle in a church, or take up some other lame hobby. People have been known to come up to me and grab my sugar drugs and take them away as I have been feeding off a sugar high. When I was younger I would let them and my face would flush with embarrassment. Now I just grab my sugar drugs right back and growl. In extreme cases I can become manly, with an ugly bark. People have told me it’s an anxiety problem that is deeply rooted. A long-distance relative once gasped as she watched one of my sugar episodes. She went on for 45 minutes about how the chemicals in my brain are similar to those of an alcoholic’s. She bored the hell out of me as I desperately felt the need to turn her into an olive or a chair or even a Britney Spears wannabe. Anything. She was convinced my behavior closely correlates to that of an alcoholic. When she finished ranting and raving, I had only one thing to say to her. God did not make chocolate to talk about how bad it is for you. It tastes too damn good. Now if you don’t shut the fuck up and pass me the M&M peanuts, I will go postal. And she did. This topic was never mentioned again—with anyone!

Here is one of my ongoing letters to connect to one of my sugar fairies.

Dear Heidi Corporation:

Hello. My name is Tony Russo. I am writing to inform you that I have been one of the biggest fans of your Jujyfruit candies since I was a little boy. I have wanted to write this letter for over 20 years. This may sound crazy but I am a man in my mid-40’s. That being the case, trust me, there is a very sexy adult side to my personality. I firmly believe your Jujyfruits have kept my spirit young at heart. I am simply a normal person who enjoys the thrill of sweets, particularly YOUR Jujyfruits! Are there others out there who have taken a similar Jujyfruit journey for decades? If so, I doubt they are as passionate as I am. I just may be worthy of a mention in the candy Guinness Book of Records. Decades have passed us by Mr. Heidi, and my taste buds are still alive and in awe of your taste. Wow to that! To this day your candy offers me a never-ending satisfaction. What is this power it holds over me? It certainly makes me a most loyal customer. Is it the colors, the crunchiness, or the taste? And let us not forget the genius who designed the yellow box it comes in. I think it is everything. Again—wow to that! I can’t imagine a day without Jujyfruits. I would like to be considered to do PR work for your product because I love, love, love my Jujyfruits. Have a great day.

Yours truly,

Tony Russo

P.S. If you could send over some samples that would be terrific.

No response. Maybe I shouldn’t have said there is a very sexy, passionate, adult side my personality. Did that sound perverted? I should have had someone proofread it first. Fuck.

The space… my space…the castle…my castle

The first time a friend or close acquaintance comes to my apartment I bring to their attention my art deco lamp, which I picked up while vacationing in Vermont with my friend Nick. My sexual encounters are not granted this entertainment. Clearly, impotence would result for both parties if I did. The tag attached to the lamp in the antique store said, art deco lamp in mint condition. I tease constantly with the line, So, do you absolutely adore my art deco lamp which happens to be in mint condition? No one has ever told me no. But then again would anyone dare? The first day I laid eyes on it, I was not sure if it was quite my taste. That day my friend Nick and I drove back to the rental house, which was about a 40-mile distance, without purchasing the lamp. The minute we got back to the house I became obsessed with the lamp. I said to Nick, What’s wrong with me? I should have purchased that lamp! I want that lamp! Nick—there is something about that lamp!

For hours I obsessed about the lamp. It was a steal of a price for only 50 bucks. I continued to obsess about the lamp for the remainder of the day, which I believe forced Nick to finish off an entire bottle of vodka. He needed a bloody excuse anyway. I wanted that lamp bad and I was kicking myself for not buying it. I woke up at two in the morning to pee and I could swear the lamp was staring at me in the toilet saying, Turn me on—turn me off —turn me on—turn me off. Welcome to the land of retro. The next morning I forced a very hung over Nick out of bed and we arrived when the store was opening. I was thrilled that the lamp was still there, waiting for me. But then again, why wouldn’t it be? It is documented that Vermont has the lowest population in the whole United States. I had them wrap it up securely, like a lost treasure, to prevent any damage. The lamp became my new baby. The lamp made it safely back to New York and put my obsessive-compulsiveness to rest.

So you must be thinking it’s just a silly old lamp. Please don’t think that. Because then you will be hurting my feelings, and I will cry and regress into an art deco coma. The lamp was probably designed in the late ‘40s or ‘50s and has two tiers. Yes, it’s gay and antiquey, but for me, when I look at it, it’s hypnotic. It takes me back to another world. The vintage world. Think Joan Crawford in Mildred Pierce. Think ‘60s beach movies. Think Lulu