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original meat-hooks. You can hang your coat on them, car keys, balls, whatever. It’s a slightly more upscale sex pit than The Manhole, which is just a few blocks over on Tranny Way. Ninth Avenue, I mean.
    Sneakerful of meat juice.
    Joe’s Steakhouse, Lambs Unlimited, Prada. A perfect trinity on every block. If I told you the name “Hogs and Heifers,” I bet you couldn’t guess what they do.
    I soccer-kick a sheep’s eyeball into the sewer.
    I find it no coincidence that the first night I walk through New York feeling reasonably empowered is the same night the streets are washed slick with animal blood, warm and feverish.
    Things are looking up for me. I’ve managed to start a new story that I can’t talk about yet because it might interfere with the creative process, but I can tell you that it’s freaking intestinal. And I’ve found someone. Derek is stabilizing my life, though I don’t trust our relationship completely yet. It’s too perfect. It’s hard to let go of a history of failure that likes to repeat itself.
    Jackie 60 is the club that nobody knows about but everybody goes to.

    I walk in wearing a T-shirt I bummed from Derek that says “Rape the Twinks.” The Columbia art school hipsters are giving me dirty looks for being more ironic than they are.
    The upstairs bores me immediately. It’s this over-glamorized holding room lined with faux Louis XIV divans and aging queers holding martinis. Blah. They rot while Blondie videos run on a constant loop.
    In the basement, I descend into the pure thump of Eurythmics, courtesy of DJ Johnny Dynell.
    The eighties are the new nineties, they say.
    The drunken dancers know it and they’re doing the barley mash. There are the usual hardened lumps of sex and other reminders that we’re young and free and we own the universe (well, most of us).
    I order a vodka cranberry, I don’t pay for it, and I don’t ask questions.
    There seems to be some confusion that I’m a dancer and not doing my job, and the crowd kind of pushes me onstage with collective indignation.
    Shit. I’m thrust into this BDSM church scene, turns out I’m an altar boy fucking a priest while a nun hung on a giant fiberglass cross is whipping her clit. I don’t know how I inhabited this role so easily—it’s like I’ve been fucking priests all my life.
    Now I’m making a mess because I’m rocking Father doggy-style while spilling a Long Island Iced Tea that somehow replaced my vodka cranberry.
    The song ends, the nun cums on her rosary, and somebody unhooks her from the cross. The priest falls face down and about twenty guys stick singles in my waistband. Some of them fondle my bulge. What the fuck. Then one guy slips me a twenty and buries his face in my jeans. The others get their cue to scatter.

    â€œCare for a drink?”
    His politesse sounds fake because he’s gawking at me from the inside of a beer glass. I don’t officially work here, so I can “turn down business” without getting thrown out by the tranny bouncers, but something about the idea of taking advantage of this jerk appeals to me.
    I own this city. I can feel it somewhere deep in my gut, that feeling of ownership that comes with being the master of desire for so many rich, pathetic, whinging American men.
    Historically, they’ve been the ones in charge, but little revolutions happen every day.
    It’s time to take control.
    It’s time my freaking balls dropped.
    But I’m not really paying attention to him anymore. There’s a goth boy staring at me from across the dance floor. He’s darkly beautiful. Twenty, twenty-one. A heavy Neanderthal brow inched over long, wet lashes. Eyes that are impervious to the strobe lights, where thoughts pool, drain, and refill. His gelled hair is bed-sexy—every spike is exactly where it shouldn’t be.
    I like the message he’s sending me.
    â€œI