Even poor folks in New York benefit from the boom economy. There are so many rich people here, thousands of companies have sprung up to satisfy their every need, and now they've got to fight to survive. Every day P. R. firms throw ten or twelve parties designed to show off the new clubs, the latest alcoholic beverages, the up-and-coming bands. They don't care if you're rich or poor -- they just cross their fingers and hope you'll help build their buzz. Thank you for coming, have another free drink, and hey, here's a gift bag to take home.

Pissed Jeans and Children -- that's two different bands -- played Glasslands on Saturday night. Glasslands is a grungy new gallery/performance space, and Pissed Jeans is a grungy new band. Throw in an open bar and it's a recipe I can't resist.

I grabbed a seat on a vinyl couch and watched movie clips projected on a giant screen. The stage was set up, but after four vodka tonics neither band had appeared and the movie clips were repeating. "Didn't we just see this one?" the guy next to me said.

Michael was terrific looking, with dark good looks that turned out to be Italian. He wrote about music for European magazines. He almost laughed at me when I proudly described my vacation a few years ago, and asked if he'd ever driven through Tuscany. "Only tourists do that shit," he said, and that's when I decided he was going to be mine.

We made small talk about the various movies as the clips came up again, and before either band hit the stage we hit the road. The open bar's effects couldn't hide our desire: though we could barely put one foot in front of the other, we had them moving at a staggering speed. We literally raced to his place, though barely able to stand upright, and the second the door closed behind us we clutched each other and sucked face so hard light couldn't escape. We made out until our excitement was clearly visible, then knew we had a choice to make.

"You know what I'd really like to do?" Michael slurred, rubbing his groin against mine.

I gazed deep into his black eyes, shining like moonlight off a dark lake. I tried to think but it was like trying to start up an old Fiero. He leaned over and scratched his chin across my chest, the stubble scouring the skin red. Between the vodka and his muscular, sweat-scented form I was in a world of pure desire, with every intelligent thought erased and replaced by primal drive.

Yeah, buddy, I know what you want. And, God help me, I fuckin' want it too.

He reared back and laughed the laugh of the devil as my face reddened with the last vestige of conscience. Sometimes you control yourself for too long, I belatedly realized, so when you finally let go it's like a dam bursting. You yank back on that desire like a dog on a leash, but the second it tastes freedom it's gone. History. Everything you've learned flies out the window as you fling yourself into that deadly, comforting decadence you haven't felt in years. To hell with all the doctors, all the lectures, all the medical research that tells us what we can do and what we can't. Hell, I thought in my drunken stupor, this world is crumbling like a day-old donut anyway, and we should congratulate ourselves on having survived this long.

Michael grabbed my nipples through my shirt and squeezed tight, the heady mix of pain and pleasure sealing the deal. For tonight, that dark place in the back of my head said to the voice of reason, keep all those little lectures to yourself.

He got sausage and mushroom, I got pepperoni. Then we went back to his place and jerked off.

It was good, I'll give you that. But I haven't been able to look at myself in the mirror ever since.