Guy New York is a bestselling erotica author and publisher with more than 25 titles to his name. With two full length novels, numerous short works, and a thousand free stories on his blog Quickies in New York, his books have been widely read and occasionally burned.
I’ve been somewhat out of commission for the last three or four weeks with a pinched nerve in my neck and some serious back pain. It’s been a challenging time, and a big part of that has been my inability to write. Sitting at the computer is the least good thing I can do for myself, so instead I’ve been taking it easy, getting some help, and trying to rest as much as I can.
I have found my way out and about on a few occasions though. I went to a birthday party, found a new wine bar, and had some delicious brunch this past Sunday. I’ve taken some walks, which have helped despite the heat, and sat in the hot tub at the Great Jones Spa as much as I can afford to. I even got some work done.
Here are a few photos from the last couple of weeks:
I just wrote the first chapter to a new thing I’m working on. Piper and I spent most of Sunday wandering around lower Manhattan inventing bars so I could write a book about it. Maybe we’ll write a book about it. I don’t know. But we came up with a long list of dreamy, fantasy, impossible places that should definitely exist. It took me a day or two to figure out what to do with it, but I’ve finally settled on a book taking place during a series of dates at our little fantasy bars. I started with a place built like a park where the food and drink is served in picnic baskets, and so far I think I’m off to a good start.
To clarify, I’m at Dempseys up the corner from my tiny apartment. It’s an Irish bar that has a live Irish session every Tuesday, and while I’ve only been here a few times since I moved in, I mean to come every week. I have a memory of coming here after prom, but it’s possible it was another bar named Dempseys. Either way I was too young to drink and stood outside with friends as the much cooler kids went inside where someone knew the bartender. What a strange thing to imagine now at forty. A gangly nineteen-year-old version of me is hardly something I can remember.
But tonight is my self date where I take myself out and do the things that I want to do. I made a list, although to be honest last week I came here too. I miss hearing live irish music, and even if it reminds me of my ex I’m happy here. Maybe because of it, I don’t know. But I am happy here, and the writing is helping as well.
I don’t often write in bars, and the reason it simple: I feel foolish pulling out a laptop in a dark bar and typing down words. Maybe if I could write by hand in a notebook it would feel different, although I’m sure no less pretentious. But today I said fuck in and came down anyway. I have a corner booth right next to the music, and I currently have one pint of Guinness and a chicken sandwich in me. It’s a good start.
Of course, I also have one chapter down, which is helping everything.
Music like this is one of the few things that makes me wish I had been born in a different time. I long for old timey pubs with men and women singing as they raise their glasses to old friends. Maybe it comes from playing too much dungeons and dragons as a child or maybe it comes from somewhere else, but it’s a longing that feels built into me. And it’s one I’ve never felt very comfortable with me. It’s nerdy in a way that’s not cool at all. It’s geeky in an ungeeky way, and so I’m stuck here by myself, wishing it was two hundred years ago, and I was in a city pub lit by candles. Lit by beer drinkers and whisky lushes who speak in voices I can barely understand.
Imagine a bar with sawdust on the floor, an old woman playing the fiddle in the corner, and a dog in front of fire and you’ll understand. Imagine bartenders in low cut blouses, cherry smiles, and flowing dresses. Forget the smell and the suffering that always exists, and instead focus on the people. The people coming together to talk, to sing, to make music.
Our bars are about being seen or possibly getting laid. I’ve been laid before. I like it, but I have to say there must be something else to do in a bar. If drinking and flirting are the only two options then we’re missing out. A random trivia night doesn’t hurt, but it’s not the same thing as the imaginary places I dream of. The ones I long for and try to recreate without any hope of success.
But right now, it’s pretty damn close. I’m the only asshole on a computer, and I can hardly count the fiddle players. A man sung a song so perfectly off that it might as well be eighteen hundred and fuck if everyone didn’t clap like he was Frank Sinatra on New Year’s Eve. The walls are stone, the tables wooden and scratched, and for the first time in a while I’m not anywhere close to the oldest person in the bar. Other than my laptop, you’re be hard pressed to guess what year it was from a photo. For thousands of years humans have gathered to make music, to tell stories, and to come out of the world of strangers and into the world of friends.
Is there irony that I’m sitting here alone? Is it odd that a world as close to perfect as I can imagine, I’m sitting here writing instead? But what is there to do? Move to a table with people I don’t know? Flirt harder with the waitress and hope for an introduction? I’m a single man at a bar in twenty-fifteen, and so solitude is probably my best option.
I have to say, it helps having you here.
This weekend has been a bit of a rollercoaster, ending with me in serious pain from a pinched nerve in my neck. Which means that my usual weekend photos were mostly of my bed.
That said, it was a delightful week in many ways. I took myself on a few more self-dates, I saw some old friends, I ate delicious food and found a new oyster bar near me that has a wonderful selection of happy hour priced crustaceans.
I also started writing two new things: a diary/memoir thing about me right now, and a mythical bar guide of New York currently called The Defenestration of Prague. For reasons.
Anyway, here are some photos that sum it all up.
(and excerpt from Disgusting Beautiful Immoral. Read the whole thing in print or e-book here.)
“You were distracted last night, Babygirl. You know I can’t allow that, don’t you? If you’re going to suck Daddy’s cock you’re going to need to concentrate much harder.” I don’t know where it came from, but I was instantly in control in a way that still felt new. I adored her and loved her, and I wanted so many contradictory things at the same time that it hardly made sense. I wanted to punish her, comfort her, fuck her, and watch her get fucked. I wanted to take her over my knee and spank her until she cried, and then I wanted to hold her and wipe away her tears. I wanted to slide inside her and slap her face as we fucked. I wanted everything at once.
“I promise I’ll do better,” she whispered. “I promise, Daddy.”
“Did you like having your little friend lick you?” I asked her, my mind moving quickly in one direction.
“It felt funny,” she said.
“Have you ever done that before, baby? Have you ever had a friend do that to you?”
She nodded – looking down – and I pushed her off me and rolled her onto her back. With more force than I intended to I opened her legs and covered her cunt with one hand. She was breathing quickly, and she was so hot I could feel it against my skin.
“How many times, Little One?” I asked. “How many girls have done that to you?”
“Three or four,” she whispered. I slipped my fingers inside her and she moaned even as she tried to cover her mouth with the back of her hand. I pushed deep inside her, my thumb moving to her clit as she wiggled next to me, little cries of pleasure leaking out of her mouth.
“And how many boys?” I finally asked, unsure if this was a game or not. Had she really hooked up with four girls? And did I want to know the answer to this question too?
“What do you mean, Daddy?” she asked, biting her lip.
“How many boys have you been with? How many cocks have you sucked and how many boys have fucked you?” My voice was louder and more demanding, but my fingers never left her and she pushed down onto them even as she tried to look the other way. “Don’t lie to me, Babygirl. Don’t you dare lie to me.”
“Please, don’t make me say,” she moaned…
A few Fridays ago I was out with a group of friends at a bar, laughing, drinking, talking, and presumably having a good time, when I suddenly realized I wasn’t really there. I was surrounded by people I love, but I was so exhausted, so burned out, and so overwhelmed, that what I needed most was to be by myself.
In the weeks since then I’ve decided to actively build alone time into my schedule in a way that is actually fun. It’s not a new idea, but aside from the time I need to clean my apartment, shop for groceries, and drop off my laundry, I need to treat myself like a partner. I need to take myself out, do exactly what I want to do, and find good ways to be on my own that don’t feel like a chore.
I’ve had a few self-dates since then, and while none of them have been incredibly exciting or innovative, they have already made a huge difference. Last night I went home after work, did a little writing, picked up my laundry, and then took myself out. With my laptop in tow, I walked the few blocks over to Dempsey’s on Second Ave and plopped myself down in the back room where the musicians were just setting up for a session. I ordered a beer, something to eat, and opened up the laptop to do some writing.
Sitting alone in a bar is a strange thing. As a man it’s fairly easy to do without getting bothered, and having a laptop makes it even easier, but it’s still not a familiar feeling. The waitresses were friendly, the band was good, and as they dimmed the lights I sat and wrote a new story just the way I wanted it. I drank a few beers, listened to the music and posted a few photos to Instagram.
It was nothing to write home about as far as dates go, but it was exactly what I wanted to do. I moved from being excited to feeling lonely half way through, but all of those emotions passed during the evening. And being by myself I was able to let them come and go, noticing them as much as anything else. By the time I got home I was tired, but I put on some Netflix as I crawled beneath the air conditioned covers.
I have a long list of things to do with myself: kayaking on the Hudson, long walks through Soho, writing in the park, movie marathons, and of course more music. I’m sure new things will come to me as time goes by, but I suspect that more important than the activity is the intention and the follow through. Treating myself as Donna and Tom might say, is fucking important. Giving myself enough time alone when I’m not doing chores is important.
If I start to see myself as a partner, worthy of everything I offer my friends and lovers, I suspect some good changes might occur.
Who knows, I might even learn to like myself a whole lot more.
Last week was full of emotional ups and downs rounded out with cocktails, fireworks and good friends. I had a self-date on Thursday, and I spent about four hours reading The Sun Also Rises at a bar near my apartment. Friday I saw Jaws at the Nighthawk, did some cooking and caught up on some shows. We BBQ’d on the fourth on a loading dock in Brooklyn. There were friends, delicious food, fireworks at night, and of course flowing drinks.
I took a long walk with Piper on Sunday and we invented bars for a story I’m working on. We walked down to Battery Park and back and laughed at ourselves for most of the way.
All in all, it was a wonderful weekend.
I get asked about bars a lot, presumably because I write about them and drink too much (give or take). So, I pulled together a few of the places I’ve been going to recently. They tend to change with the seasons, although a few of these places are consistently on my list.
If you’re looking for a good bar, you could do worse than any of these. Okay, you can’t do worse than Docs. But you can’t do better either.
“You broke my rules twice just now, Alice.”
It wasn’t a question so I remained silent. He reached one hand up and handed me his glass of scotch. I took it and held it as he watched me. He took my other hand and pulled me towards him, directing my body with his arms. He slowly lay me down across his lap with his glass still in my outstretched arm.
“If you spill anything at all I’ll be rather upset with you, do you understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Richards,” I replied, trying to steady myself.
The first slap came as a complete surprise. In fact, I heard it before I felt it, but the sting it left on my ass spread throughout my entire body. Somehow, I managed not to spill his drink.
“You did want to be punished, didn’t you? You wouldn’t have forgotten the rules otherwise. Isn’t that so, Alice?”
“No, Mr. Richards,” I started to say before his hand came down the second time. Before I could say another word he hit me three more times in exactly the same spot and I cried out. I could feel a fire between my legs as I tried to hold still, and yet as soon as the blows stopped I felt alone. I felt empty and strange, and for a second I wondered if maybe I had upset him enough to stop.
“I mean, yes, Mr. Richards. I needed you to punish me. That’s why I made a mistake.”
His hand was soft and gentle on my skin once more and he touched the tender places where he had struck me. Even the lightest touch sent shivers through my body and brought back the pain of his hand. He moved up and down, and without warning he pushed two fingers inside of me.
“Ohhh,” I screamed out, as he easily entered me. I was wetter than I had ever been before, but I still felt empty inside. I felt like there was a part of me missing and I didn’t know what it was. He pushed his fingers deeply inside of me, and I tried not to squirm on his lap. I tried even harder not to come at his touch.
This is how it started. With five simple words I’ll never forget: I’m not doing that shit! I had simply reached out my hand, asking to follow her, promising to be lead, never falling behind (unless I needed a better camera angle). The rejection bit hard, like a bike chain on acid washed denim, tearing into my pant legs on a short trip to the deli.
And so, with a tear in my eye, I donned my imaginary fedora and went in search of someone who would love me for the man I will never be.
It didn’t take long for me to fall in love with this one. She was dark, cold, and strong – and she went down easy. I held on as long as I could, but like all good things in life, I swallowed her too quickly.
I thought a jaunt in the country might heal my wounded heart (and ego) and so off I went, quickly finding a blue-green beauty to touch my hot lips. She was a breeze on a hot summer afternoon and a rain storm on a dark night. She was sweet and delicious, and she was from outer space. But alas, all things must pass, and so with my head spinning I fell asleep wondering if love would be there in the morning.
In the morning she was gone, but I quickly found a new love, who while less intoxicating was invigorating all the same. At first she was bitter, but a splash of cream changed everything, and by the time we had seconds I was in love. Sadly, she grew tired of my frequent trips to the bathroom, and I was once again left to my own devices.
As I made my way back to the city, I decided a long stroll down the High Line was just what I needed to heal. But the sun was hot and with sweat on my neck (and everywhere else) I found the tall glass of water I had been looking for.
This time it was me who left. While satisfying and refreshing, I found him a bit boring after a few refills and decided I need something with a bit more flavor. So I hustled downtown for a game of minigolf with this blue beast, only to find that no one was impressed with my mad skills.
And so, once again, with my head hung down I made my way back to the bar where I knew I could always find a friend. I sat back with a smile, reached out my hand, and let out a sigh, knowing that some things just keep getting better. Like beer. When it’s hot out. And the bar is well air conditioned.
So, that was my weekend of love lost and love found. Of whisky drunk and Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters imbibed. So next time you reach out your hand looking for love, remember it’s not what’s on the outside that counts.
It’s simply about who feels good in your hand.
-Guy New York
Guy New York
June, 2015, New York City
Have you ever thought about writing something real? You know, something important?
It’s not usually asked with real malice, but you can bet your sweet ass that I prickle all the same each time someone puts the question to me. I often nod and smile, saying I write all sorts of things, but I try to stick with what I know best, and sex is at the top of the list. Everyone has sex I’ll tell them, or at least most people do. And for so long we’ve left it out of our books, as if it’s not a giant part of the human experience.
But none of that is enough. That borderline polite conversation doesn’t get to the heart of it, and the heart is important. The blood is important. The breath is important.
Erotica is important, yes because sex is a part of the human experience, but of course so is water. We all eat and we all have to sleep too, so why don’t I write about those things instead? What is it about sex that stands out as something in need of examination through fiction?
And the answer is that we’ve perverted the sexual experience in the most traditional sense of the word. We’ve taken a normal part of human existence and loaded it up with so much baggage that the only way to unpack it is through myth, fiction, and dialog. Sure we can write textbooks, but they only give us part of the solution. Educating our minds as to facts is important, but we tell stories for a different reason.
Stories allow us to experience something without having to do it. There’s a great lie that says if we’re exposed to violence or sex through games, films, or novels that we’ll act them out, but in fact these tales have always allowed us to feel things first and then decide how to act. We know what’s it’s like to be burned by hubris without having to fly close to the sun. A textbook can tell you what an orgams is, but it can’t tell you what it feels like. A how-to-film can show you what sex looks like, but it can’t give you the emotional sensations of experiencing it.
But a great novel or a great film can make your heart race and your palms sweat. A good book can pull tears from your eyes and laughter from your chest, the experiences almost as real as if they were happening to you. So when we write about sex, we let ourselves explore our own fantasies in a way that is safe, sane, and consensual before we test drive them with another person. Knowing what a blowjob is is vastly different than experiencing one, and writing and reading give us the chance to work through everything that surrounds it from emotions, to physical sensations and social repercussions.
Erotica isn’t just about the mechanics and it isn’t just about the morality. It lets us explore one of the largest and most complicated aspects of human experience with depth, compassion, and freedom. Dirty books don’t just tell us what a threesome is, they let us know what it feels like to let go and do something risky. Dirty books can let us know how to physically have anal sex, but can also advise us on what it might feel like emotionally, both during the act and also the next day. Through sex we experience love, pain, loss, elation, jealousy, anger, and fear. And if we don’t write about it (and therefore read it), with honesty and in detail, we are simply left with our cultural messages of guilt and shame.
I write erotica because I’ve been told from a young age that sex is dangerous and dirty. I write it because each one of us has been told that our desires and our wants make us broken, and I want to tear that lie apart as brutally and fully as possible. It’s scary to let ourselves go to places we have been told are dark, but if we’re ever going to unpack the baggage, reverse the damage, and emerge healthy and whole on the other side, we have to do it. I write erotica to turn you on and to turn myself on. I write it to explore desires that confuse and upset me, and I write it to fight back against cultural institutions and messaging that tell me those things are wrong. I write erotica to feel, to experience, and to learn.
Most of all, I write erotica to say one thing: you are okay. You are normal. The things you want and the things you desire make you human. And that is a message that most of us could hear as many times a day as it takes for us to believe it.
So pick up a dirty book and remind yourself. Flip through the pages one handed and know it is true. Close your eyes and let whatever comes to mind come as it will. Sexuality, with all of its complexities, is a part of what makes us human and alive.
And that is just as it should be.