Armani jeans

I asked Chris what kind of jeans he was wearing, and he replied, almost ashamed, that they were Armani Jeans. They were amazing, very snug, and of course, Chris has a perfect ass, and they wouldn’t look that good on me, with my nonexistent ass. But I immediately wanted to run to the Armani store and buy a pair. Sadly, I had already bought my one article of clothing for the week (a pair of Cole Haan shoes, online from Bluefly). Still, though, Chris’ jeans took me back to a simpler time, when I used to hang out with that crowd just because a couple of them had wonderful asses.

I went out to brunch with George, Chris, Major, Al, and some new guy, and told them about how last week, I was wearing my own pair of Armani jeans (again, I had asked some guy with an amazing ass where he'd gotten his jeans, and hadn’t been able to stop myself that time, when he’d replied, ‘Armani,’ from running to the Armani store to buy a pair. But that was, like, seven years ago). I’d had brunch last week, too, in my fancy jeans, and then pranced about town, tending to my errands, and then arrived home and realized that there was an enormous tear on the backseat of the jeans, and my underwear and awful ass had probably been hanging out the whole day. I almost cried as I threw those jeans away, they were so evocative of my earlier, carefree NYC days. If I was handier, I would save fabric from all those disintegrating, formerly glorious outfits, and make them into a horrible quilt – a quilt which certainly wouldn’t keep me warm, but which would look good.

Speaking of earlier days, I am finally going to visit Philadelphia next week, to see Robert Taylor dance and some gauche regional Philadelphia dance, as well. It will be during the Pennsylvania primary, but don’t expect me to have any useful thoughts about politics. My political imagination can’t be adequately engaged by the American process – there is no viable Communist candidate, for instance. Still, if Hilary wins, I will feel that secret, giddy thrill I always do when idealists are disappointed. I am always disappointed – why shouldn’t everyone be?

I am only going to Philadelphia because ten years ago, some queen smiled at me there in a nightclub, and it sent me into that mindspace of, “See? The gays are friendlier in dumb little towns.” But they won’t be friendly on this trip, because I will arrive in my current, bitter glory, and they will see me coming from a mile away. I asked my online pal if he wanted to see Robert Taylor dance with me, but he hedged – I probably won’t even meet him on this trip, but I haven’t taken a vacation in a while, and certainly not a solo vacation, which I used to love, so I’m so looking forward to seeing you, Philadelphia! My old friend. Please alert your outlet mall, if you indeed have one, that Gee Henry will be breezing in, armed with a credit card, and he won’t be leaving without that one perfect piece.