One rainy cold day in the heart of new york city,
the wind blew,
drops as huge as ice cubes rained down,
giving your very soul an eerie tingle...
he clenched his trenchcoat, protecting himself from the downpour,
briskly walking past confused laughing tourists on their way to Marc Jacobs or Magnolia while
holding newspapers and plastic bags over their heads.
chaos is the west village on such a day.
he had lived there for years,
lovers came and went,
all with the nodding pleasure of his nosey genius neighbor...
let's just call her, Amy.
he had been rushing all day,
four pots of espresso later,
Brad yelling at him for being late,
John and Alessandro's book signing,
life in the gay fast lane in the early part of the decade
was quite stressful...
he managed himself into a tightly tailored John Bartlett chocolate brown velvet trousers,
a plain white cotton Comme des Garcons button down classic,
Marc Jacobs trench, and Paul Smith bucks,
a vintage pair of Alian Mikli's sat a top his head,
half on...
and it was raining, so anyway...
they rushed out onto Christopher Street,
black teenage drag queens and trannies pushing by,
they walked, half ran to their perspective bank machines.
he, being the superstitious guinea that he was,
always went to the same ATM,
the last one on the right,
right by the door, because,
it had a 1/2 mirror, and so,
before leaving the block and heading out into the cold bitter world
aka, outside the west village,
he had one last look-see on his attire,
and could rest assured he was giving off the glam hooker he thought he was.
he was, of course rushed, getting his last view of himself,
talking, dialing or texting on his cell phone,
wondering f he had shut off his computer...
and then,
from no where,
with only the sound of raindrops beating down on the sidewalk and street,
from nowhere,
a soft cry...
he reached to grab his Mikli's,
head spinning,
for,
it was as if he heard a long lost lovers voice,
in pain.
crying...
but so soft,
it could have been imagined.
then,
it happened again.
the soft cry...
from his glasses to his trench, he spun,
loooked up,
sideways,
left and right,
and then,
down...
and when his eyes focused,
he jumped back, taken for a moment
by something quite remarkable...
something amazing.
something he had never before seen,
and never before imagined was,
there,
in front of him,
in a box,
with his five identical sisters,
looking up at him with the bluest of blue eyes,
and tears pouring from his face,
a baby.
a six pound,
tiny, innocent, beautiful baby boy...
and he cried because he had found his daddy,
and somehow, hie daddy knew also,
that he had just found his baby boy.
the love of his life began that day.
cuddled up in his Marc Jacobs trench
snuggled into Rei Kawakubo's cotton plain placket front shirt,
as they arrived off the subway,
and the skies had calmed and God had stopped the angels from crying,
they walked into the book signing.
paparazzi flashed,
sunglasses came down,
hands flew up to hide the cameras,
autographs and onlookers
reached to get a touch, a feel
but he was unbothered,
for, he was hiding the press from the real story.
he looked down to his chest and the baby looked up,
bewildered,
wondering where the fuck he was...
and the daddy looked down, gave a sweet smile of sweetness,
and the baby felt so happy, so relaxed,
that he took his first peepee with,
and on,
his daddy.
daddy, feeling the warm peepee soak his Comme des,
reached in, grabbed the baby and threw him up in the air,
joyously exclaiming
"this IS my baby, he just pee'd on me!"
and the crowd went bizeerk...
the press had a feild day,
and the party turned out,
after all,
to be a succes.
and that's what happened the day daddy met Buddy, his little baby boy who he loves so so so so much...
