Nurture or nature, however you want to explain it, I am a gay man trapped in a dyke's body... I do extensions on the sidewalk, sing loud on the subway, and write poems on Brooklyn curbs. My house is covered in little pieces of paper from my compulsive stenciling habits. I've moved around a bit, but I'm back in my home town, which happens to be NYC. I'd be really excited to hang out with someone around my age in New York that's actually from NYC... No offense to the newcomers, but it's odd to return home only to find that your home town lacks home-towners...

I am empathetic, flexible, and stimulated.

waitress, spoken-word poet, director's assistant, office bitch, rock star, erotica author at your service...

Sitting quietly and watching the city. Throwing back bourbon like it's water. Finding free things to do in the city.

My eyes from the front. My ass from the back- Whether I like it or not, I have hips and a big soft behind... Most days I'm still suprised when I look in the mirror and see a post-pubescent woman.

Nan Goldin is genious, Margaret Cho is fantastic enough that her extreme weightloss is tolerable, Audre Lorde is a true revolutionary, Eloise is my personal hero, Laura Nyro is excedingly unappreciated, Seedless watermellon will always put me in a good mood.

Music, sex, books, clean water, the ocean, dancing

Photos I'd like to be taking... My hair. I don't blame myself for thinking about it so often. It's just that strangers are constantly commenting on it, friends are constantly covered in it which means there is simply no way to not leave evidence of my having been somewhere. And then there are lovers and partners, all of whom seem to have had some very passionate opinions about it. Some reminded me that there are functional reasons that dykes have short hair, others have pulled it, others have joked that a hair-rubberband was our most essential sex toy. The wind seems to be quite fond of it as well...

Taking my little sister out, playing it cool at some dyke bar, making art, jack and cokes with lime, reading, or sitting somewhere near Hudson street writing about memory and the village until I get too cold and decide to go do one of the other things I mentioned.

I have a complete lack of verbal boundaries. There's very little I'm not willing to admit...

You can appreciate or tolerate my fear of bunnies. You're looking for someone to walk around the city with. You too are wondering where all the dykes in NY went. You don't take yourself too seriously.