NYC: Goodbye You Sexy Bitch



Charisma Stockton — Contributor — @ BylineBeat

(Brooklyn, New York) I’ll be honest with you, I have phases of young man cravings. Every 3 years or so, I end up with these college kids; spontaneous sex in parked cars and oaths of never ending love.

Doomed from the start; hospice patients fucking in coffins. Giving each other what we need, savoring every second of our fucking lives with shivers down our spine.

We hold on for a few months, and then we try to hold on. Then we swear to try harder to hold on. And then it’s all just some chore, and I go fuck someone else.

Last Thursday, I had that three-year itch for my college-aged drug dealer. I also needed material to go out with a blast in my last New York City 'Drugs & Sex' column.

I’ll do anything basically, so I helped the weirdness along and decided to pop a Viagra. I was hoping I could write about getting horny and my clit swelling like a prune, in return commanding me to suck cock, spread my caramel thighs and to get fucked on a McCarren Park bench.

So what if Bailey read about it on Byline Beat? By the time I get to LA and park my RV in our driveway, he will have forgiven me.

Besides, I still feel the need to be dangerous and daring. So I swallowed that pill and stared at my pupils in the mirror. I was waiting to keel over from a heart attack or lose my vision.

At 9:30 p.m. I was still alive and in some kind of a trance, hypnotized from looking at myself for too long.

I remembered the voice of my Brazilian colleague who gave me the Viagra, the voice like the sound of a purple genie in my ear.

"It takes an hour or so to start. Try to watch sexy video, they say you have to get moody to make it work."

I needed XVideos for this kind of nasty mood. I took my iPhone and clicked the first clip. I didn’t care whose fist was going into what hole. I leaned against my kitchen counter and turned my chrome vibrator to full throttle, turbo-massaging my clit for fifteen minutes.

In between the moaning, I fantasized about my drug dealer’s blue suede eyes. I hoped he would be game for a seasonal fling.

Let’s not kid ourselves, it’ll hurt him more than it hurts me, but he’ll be a better man for it. He’ll be more cultivated, versed in the ways of insane women, with a wide-open asshole and memories that will disturb him for years.

When he’s on the shitter…Kaleidoscope flashbacks of my strap-on harnessed hips. And when he gets an unskilled blowjob…he’ll long for my mouth over his cock. To the hilt and my middle finger massaging his prostate.

Leaving an impression is all a girl can hope for sometimes. It’s that age old, human conceit: what will I leave behind, what is my legacy?

After five years in New York City, I’m not leaving shit behind. No legacy of sex, drugs or doom. I’m actually the one who got fucked in the ass. I benefited from it in the end, but I went through the shits to get there.

Oh yeah, I could go on and on about the amazing experiences I had in New York City. It would some spiritual guidebook bullshit. But you know what made the deepest impressions and what made me grow the most? Shitty ass situations.

Like not remembering what happened in the champagne room at Headquarters.

And getting kicked out of my wealthy benefactor’s penthouse a day before Thanksgiving because he remembered what happened behind those mirrored doors. My guess is he put some kind of truth serum in one if my eight Hennessy Cokes while I was getting my face slapped with silicone boobs. I blabbered out that I’m not a good girl and that I’m not 25 and that my name isn’t Charisma Carlyle.

Don’t ask me why I picked the name of a famous and renowned depressions era art deco hotel.

I regret being so dishonest to the guy who gave me my first break in New York City.

I was a liar then…and an idiot for putting myself in dangerous situations. I didn’t know that I don’t have to subject myself to dubious living arrangements and that I don’t have to hide my passion for paid sex and old men.

I stopped lying and trying to cover up who I really was and moved to a cheap room in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, and let my sugar daddies pay the week’s rent.

It was the classic dine-and-fuck experience; $200 on the nightstand of a lower middle class hotel in Midtown West.
 
"Toots, you can stay the whole night, I paid for it. I have to get back to Westchester."
 
I usually smoked a joint, masturbated and commuted an hour back to Bed-Stuy.
 
Jesus, some of the loneliest nights of my life were in Bed-Stuy. There’s no physical reason you have to stay at home in New York City if you’ve got the money. And if you’re broke? Well, I was poor in Bed-Stuy for months. Isolated in between trips to the YMCA. Those were days, before the divine distraction of Twitter.
 
The Blackberry I bought from was from some third party T-Mobile dealer. It looked good on Ann Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada but it didn’t do me any good. I was so lonely and greedy for moving images, I couldn’t watch anything without an Internet connection.

I’d sit on my window sill holding my laptop in the air, praying to the winds, clouds and God’s iron will that they grant me just one bar.

At work, in Manhattan, I lived a different life. I was so hyper connected that when the news broke of Heath Ledger’s death, I ran down Broadway to Broome Street and stood on the slick cobblestones in front of the apartment he OD’ed in.

For twenty minutes I shuffled to find the best angle for my hundred dollar digital camera zoom. I changed positions five times before they carried Heath out. I was perched in the scaffolding across the street, crouching on a crossbeam. I had twenty-two photos of a human in a non-porous body bag. 

Some mornings I was just tired of the constant silence and I said good-bye to my apartment before locking the door. There had to be something out there for me, right?

Fuck that is what I eventually said to myself and started looking for my kind of people and making my life change.
 
I know, I know…my life is like an 80s self-help video filmed in soft lens. I’m always looking for purple blooming bushes, other fruity visionaries and utopians that know that the only way to survive the technological holocaust is to gamble. Bet on the humans but don’t bet on the machines.
 
My drug dealer and I sat on the bench in front of the deli at the Bedford L stop. He had Jim Morrison hair and suede blue eyes. He was wearing the striped, slinky tank top that I liked so much on him. I could see his bones covered by alabaster skin, like a marble statue in a hipster cemetery.

He was so adorable with his weird views and his goofy laughter. But I couldn’t tell if the tension I was feeling between us was mutual, or if my clit was feeling like a foreign object between my thighs because the smurf boner pill was kicking in.

For two cigarettes we shared stories of being attacked by rogue firecrackers and I told him that I read about that DJ, called Skrillex, in the New York Times. Diplo…That’s his favorite DJ. Nobody in his circle cared about the New York Times and pockmarked Skrillex.

"New York is killing itself," he told me. "Trying to keep up with some ideal that doesn’t work in these times. It’s unpleasant sometimes, like fucking women over thirty. You fuck the wrinkly hag until you learn all you need to know: how to eat pussy, how to act in "intimate" restaurants and you’ll score some party connections and nice threads on your way up. And then you come in her face, steal her Technics 1200s and move on."

It wasn’t all torture, he said. He had fun with her sometimes. But now he just can’t stand the feel of her goat cheese skin and when bright lights hit her just so, he can’t stand the site of her blue cottage cheese veins.

So much spoiled milk from such a young mouth…I’d been having problems finding a tough nickname for him. He’s no Dragon. But I finally had a name that fit. He’s a Shitter.

I still wouldn’t have minded sucking his cock, for a dime bag. But if I made a move now, wouldn’t I come across as some junky Milf? Did he even like me?

All I learned that night was that genders function on a fundamentally different level. The mechanics of Viagra don’t work with women.

I guess not every New York experience is dramatic and morally corrupt.

This is what I looked like when I lived in Bed-Stuy, chasing Bellini dreams and spending half my month’s rent to fit in, which I never did.

Photo - Bellini

This is me in a wig with my roomie and her BFF. I’m transitioning towards a new self…

Photo - Wig

This…

Photo - Cabo

Oh Brooklyn, I wonder what person I’ll become without you. Well, whoever it is, I will love her just as much I do all my past incarnations.

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I can see you
Your brown skin shining in the sun
You got your hair slicked back and those
Wayfarers on, baby
I can tell you my love for you will still be strong
After the boys of summer, have gone

Don Henley, Boys of Summer

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Photo - Wayfarer

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Author’s Note:

Hey Kids,

I’m moving to Los Angeles and this is my last Byline Beat post before I head West in my RV.

But I’ll be blogging up a storm about my road trip on CharismaStockton.com, starting July 18.

I’d love for you to join me!

Also, tell your boss, mother, wife, boyfriend and your ex to follow me on Twitter at @soychailatte.

See you in the other side,
C

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Editor’s Note: ‘Drugs & Sex’ will be on break until August, 16th.