COMMON MORTALS

NYC made me do them.

New York City is all about ambition even when it comes to sex and relationships. This realisation came to me as Joey and I were changing out of our gym gear at David Barton Gym on Astor Place. Belonging to the economic substrata of Common Mortals*, Joey and I would normally never be able to afford the exorbitant fees of this boutique gym. His boss, however, is a member and played Robin Hood by distributing free monthly passes in lieu of the ass-implants he had promised Joey for Christmas.

If the gym floor is a gay pride parade (sponsored by Muscle Milk), its locker room takes hedonism, exhibitionism and a small amount of soap to create a very protein-rich shake. There is no such thing as a side-glance. There is no such thing as too much lurid action. Flip flops are worn in the shower not to avoid Athlete’s Foot, but to avoid the athlete’s load coagulating around the drain. Although this may sound like a fantasy to many gay men, the lack of finesse and mystery really gets old. Call me old-fashioned, but the forbidden fruit tasted far sweeter when it was still forbidden.

Joey and I have a typical discussion for two twenty-something gays in a locker room. The only time we break from a story is to ask, “Can we help you with something?” of the 45-yearold bear drying his genitals for the better part of twenty minutes – the only bridge being his uninterrupted eye contact.

“There’s no such thing as a conventional relationship in New York,” Joey reassured me as we exited the gym and walked down Broadway. “I mean, look at the dude in the locker room toweling off his balls for half a fucking-hour. It’s sad to say he’s not the exception but is, in fact, the rule in this city. I mean, how’s this for convention: I know a couple that were so preoccupied with getting attention from people other than each other that they decided to merge their relationship with another couple and now live in a four-way. A quad-pod.”

The quad-pod works like this: Ryan and Randy (names changed for obvious reasons) have been in a relationship for three years. They both live in New York City and are extremely career driven. High-pressure careers combined with a relationship in a supersexualised city meant that monogamy put a strain on their union. “They would fight and even separate for days at a time over stupid things,” Joey continued. “One would want to fuck, the other would be too tired; one would want to go out while the other wanted a romantic dinner. It was impossible for either of them to keep in synch.”

Then, on one much-ballyhooed vacation to Fire Island, Ryan and Randy met Carlo and Christian. Over introductory drinks and general ‘get to know you’ conversation, they discovered that this couple was facing similar problems and, after contemplation, everyone decided to enter a polyamorous relationship.

“What are the logistics?” I asked Joey. “Easy. If Ryan and Christian are at home and the other two at work and they decide they’re both horny, they’ll fuck.”

“But,” I wondered. “What happens if Randy or Carlo come home during the act?”

“If they wanted to join in, they would. Otherwise they’d just chill in the other room to let them finish and, I don’t fucking know, send out some work emails.”

Is this type of union one that involves

“When was the last time that you heard someone came to New York to find love?

complete trust in all those involved or is this just what New Yorkers have come to expect of a relationship? The benefits of polyamorous relationships have been explained to me ad nauseam. It all begins with a broken heart, a love lost, a cheating partner, a demanding career; all of these factors interplay and after enough time spent among these bright lights, your memory is wiped clean of what to expect from others romantically.

“I don’t believe in love,” Joey mused as we sat with Klara at a vegan café waiting for our iced skim milk lattes. “Why be tied down in this city when you can meet so many people every day?” offered Klara. “This is New York. Everyone comes here with a purpose, creative or otherwise. When was the last time that you heard someone had come here specifically to find love?” Klara then regaled us with stories of her sexual exploits, all conducted with a deliberate lack of desire for the monogamous life. Meeting men at a bar, in Central Park or even on the L train into Manhattan, Klara got what she wanted and moved on to the next. It was her choice, her modus operandi, and it seemed to work for her. Klara was happy knowing her romantic life was in her hands and that her emotional expectations were not dependant on others.

The topic of New Yorkers’ idea of monogamy was further explored by Eric The Artist and I at Home Sweet Home, an underground Spanish/Thai restaurant/ bar infusion. Nothing in NYC can be just one thing – consider their beloved Cronut, a hybrid croissant/donut. Eric told me that once he had gone on a trip to Barney’s to buy deodorant (all-natural and aluminium-free) when he came across what he described as a “blue-eyed prince” but didn’t know whether they had been attracted to each other because of their appearance or their scent? He suggested to the prince that all New Yorkers are bound by a degree of separation and figured they must have mutual friends, via schooling perhaps.

All-natural deodorant purchased, hands-shaken yet no numbers exchanged, they parted. Not three hours go by and Eric The Artist had an email from the prince explaining how, through rather hazy social connections, it turned they did indeed both know one another. Another three hours go by and they’re getting a drink at the Boiler Room. Not even an hour later and they’re in Brooklyn on his twin bed, finishing up.

“We saw each other sporadically, but only ever to have sex. It was sad, too, because we hit it off in other aspects as well.” When I prompted what ultimately happened to his prince, he said, “The all-natural deodorant didn’t last long, but it did last longer than the relationship.”

Despite his story, he seemed to still maintain a flicker of monogamous hope in his eye. This made me realise that monogamous convention doesn’t need to follow norms. In this city, something that had never before existed can be imagined and if the Cronut can come to be loved, so too could a committed relationship – tailored to each individual’s taste. If only it were served with a side of coffee and friends to create your own happily ever after.

*Common Mortals: an underground network of those who must help each other to get by in this city of expense and expensive taste.