June 23, 2002

I’m still dwelling on yesterday’s venture into pornography.

There were four of us all told—me, the gentleman who hailed from Laurel, and two others: one named D., who turned out to be the personal assistant to a major Broadway composer, and one named Y., who was from Australia.

The gentleman who hailed from Laurel finished early and was on his way. The three of us who remained stood around (naked) chatting with the director/cameraman for a while. It seemed to me that Y. and I were making some sort of connection, which I enjoyed especially because Australian men drive me wild. I was going to give him my phone number, but then D. hatefully gave him his phone number first. So instead of validating our unique connection, giving him my phone number would have proven that he was the special one and I was just part of the crowd, which would have been completely ego-crushing and therefore unacceptable. And yet I still felt we had something special. So as the three of us walked to the subway, chatting about inanities, I was silently racking my brain, trying to come up with some way out of my dilemma. Finally I hit upon a brilliant solution, and gave them both my phone number. That way I seemed like a generous, friendly person rather than just part of an adoring but pathetic mob.

So why hasn’t he called?

I am trying to figure out which is the proper lesson I should take from this experience:

a) a porn shoot is not an appropriate place to search for true love; or
b) next time as we walk to the subway I should push the third wheel into oncoming traffic, killing him and leaving the Australian and me free to help each other recover from the trauma we will have just witnessed and, in the course of that recovery, discover that we are soul mates.

I haven’t decided yet but I’m leaning towards b).