Hot Wet American Summer, pt. 2

So it's not often you'll hear me complain about not having enough bad weather, but I was really hoping for more rain this past weekend. Not only would it have spared me having to water several times but it also would have made it easier to stay in and do the laundry. As it was, I found myself last night trying to split my time between the downstairs, the front lawn, and the back porch and was a bit hectic.

I also screwed myself by, once abed, making the mistake of calling a potential trick. It was his idea; he asked me to talk him through while he wanked. But it ended up being an awkward mix of sexual fantasy and interview for a job I wasn't particularly interested in. Then I compounded the mistake by reaching out to Pepperoni right afterwards to talk through my discomfort only to have him tell me rather bluntly that he didn't want to hear it.

His attempts to backpedal only made things worse, since after four attempts on my part to end the conversation he still felt the need for a shitty parting shot. I'm still not sure what set him off and while I appreciate his need to set limits I'm disappointed to find out that someone I thought I could talk to about anything isn't. I'm torn on whether I should tell him this which probably means I should just shut my trap and deal with it if it comes up.

But enough dwelling on the negatives, since it was a very good weekend overall. In fact, if it had gone a bit less well, Sunday might not have been so stressful since one of the positives kept me up until the wee hours. I'm talking about the guy I took home from Bear Night.

In an odd bit of synchronicity, I'd been thinking of him earlier in the week. I say "odd" because nothing specific reminded me of his existence, just the vague realisation that I'd been so happy to finally meet him months ago and then we hadn't interacted since. I'd barely made it to the bar when I ran into him. "I knew the moment you said 'hi' to me," he told me afterwards, "that I was going to have sex with you."

Still, I had people to greet, so I did that perfunctorily and then dragged him back to my place. He was very sweet and the whole experience was very balanced: vigorous without being too athletic (I thought I'd be much more sore the next day than I was), chatty without being to talky, tender without being falsely sentimental--you get the idea. We both agreed it was something we'd like to do again sometime.

Before that it had been a great cocktail night. I was worried I'd have too many guests but somehow it was just the right number again. Several people cancelled, but one of the visitors brought a friend and then summoned two others (any one of which I would've been happy to show a good time). I probably had one gin too many but it ended up not really mattering.

Hot Wet American Summer, pt. 1

My Fourth of July weekend started Wednesday evening with a viewing party at Marina City. Ostensibly, the object of our collective gaze was the City of Chicago fireworks display. From that point of view, it was a bust. The weather suddenly turned cool, transforming the humid air into fog. At one point, the Hancock Building a mere mile to the north nearly disappeared from view.

But I've seen enough fireworks in my lifetime. I came to view the apartment--and that surpassed my hopes. As I told anyone who'd listen, this is a building I've wondered about for literally forty years. Long before I'd ever visited Chicago, back when the name itself hardly even meant anything to me, the Childcraft children's encyclopaedia featured a two-page spread on the complex. It seemed impossibly grand and futuristic, like something out of The Jetsons.

Once I'd lived here a while, I heard that the towers were not all that. The flats were rumoured to be cramped. The building had structural problems (particularly involving those striking balconies). Certainly the shabby, tucked-away ground-floor lobby promised nothing impressive. It also proved difficult to navigate, as despite being a single condo, each tower has a separate security desk and the attendant at one has no listings for the other building.

A realtor might euphemistically call the apartments "cozy"--and they are, by the inflated standards of new construction; to me they seemed plenty spacious. The kitchen, for instance, was surprisingly easy to prepare food in (which I ended up doing, having brought a couple things for the grill). But it's the balconies which really shine. Given the unusual design, they're twice the depth you'd expect and my friends own two-and-a-half of them. One they don't even use!

It was such a good crowd, I really didn't want to leave. A friend of a friend was telling stories of his stoic Midwestern Methodist father, repressed and retiring almost to the point of caricature. (He would literally rather not eat than half to tell a waitress what food to bring him.) And I got an earful about the owner's historic Baltimore residence and the joys of a century-and-a-half of ad hoc retrofitting.

The next evening's gathering, despite a clear few to fireworks in three directions, could only suffer by comparison. The crowd was smaller, older, and on the whole less interesting. The balcony was so narrow it was difficult to slide past anyone. And the alcohol, although perfectly fine, had trouble standing up to homemade stock.

But it ended much the same: with four of us sitting around swapping stories like we could keep going all night. In truth, though, I was like a toddler fighting sleep, literally struggling to keep my eyes open and my head held high. Eventually--maybe an hour after it really made sense--I had to call a Lyft and head home.

As a result, Friday was something of a recovery day. I was trying to get some cleaning done so I wouldn't have too much to do the next day but it was steamy and sultry and I was too stubborn to turn on the AC so I ended up having to retreat to the inner sanctum for regular recuperative visits. I did eventually get everything done, even pushing myself to clean up areas (like a tragic corner of the porch) that I'd been neglecting for over a year.

Saturday I was ready to be social again, so I tapped a friend for brunch at Bongo Room. Afterwards I discovered the new location of Uncharted Books, a store I'd visited only once at their Logan Square location. As I told the owner after buying a volume of Iraqi short stories, the collection was surprisingly deep given its size. After that, it was Middle Eastern and Andersonville Liquors for necessities like ice, tonic, and Turkish delight.