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.
Walking the High Line, we fuck everywhere.
The bench over there with the couple watching us as they kissed through shielded hands; the wall beneath the hotel, in a shadow perfectly placed to give us minutes of biting thrusts; the elevator that somehow doesn’t open until someone calls it down; each one was a new story.
As we walk back through the village, the stories are the same. We climbed into a loft we can barely see from the streets and fucked on their oversized bed as the dog growled through the closed door. In the stairways to the bar that never opens, I knelt on the chipped stone and buried my mouth between her thighs as she smiled at the few tourists who paused to stare.
In the park it’s under arches, against trees, and in the boats that bob like apples in the shallow pond. We pass rooftops with perfect views, museums designed for clandestine blowjobs, and tiny apartments where I tied her to brick walls as we whipped pleasure into perfection.
Hand in hand, we walk and walk, looking up and down, as the images fill our heads. Some days we walk for hours, the stories spilling from our lips before we pour ourselves onto a bench, and I wrap her in my arms and hold her forever.
Fucking in the East Village is very different from fucking on the Upper West Side.
The first time I fucked in the village I was drunk and jealous, and we tore at each other’s bodies and hearts with a slightly innocent anger that lead to amazing sex. It was dirty and tender and we both knew that in just a few hours we’d be lying across someone else’s lap.
At 81st and Columbus it was a tryst that felt completely wrong, and so hot I could barely contain myself. It wasn’t supposed to happen and we both knew it as much as we tried to forget. I got lost in her red curls, and she turned his picture down on the bedside table.
The West Village reminds me of our three bodies in the shower, on the long couch by the exposed brick wall, and finally up in the loft without a window. You watched us, and it was my first taste of another man. We laughed as we struggled with something completely new, and he fucked you like a happy puppy as I held your hair.
The Upper East Side is blowjobs in central park and horrible food. We always found the worst places to eat and since we couldn’t fuck in the apartment we managed everywhere else. It often felt like an obligation that was better relived in a story than experienced at the time, but I loved you more than I could ever express with my body.
When I’m fucking under the shadow of the Williamsburg Bridge my body is made of water and I always see the sun rise.
This morning in New York four hundred cab drivers yelled fuck you out their windows before eight am.
Two and a half thousand NYU students jerked themselves off before getting out of bed, and twelve senior citizens had sex in the shower propping themselves up on accessibility chairs and hand rails. Seven hundred people woke up with come in their hair and three hundred dogs peed on the floor at the prospect of going out into the snow.
Forty-seven-thousand-three-hundred and sixty two people had morning sex, and nearly half of them closed their eyes and thought of someone else just before they came. Nine hundred boys spied on their sisters getting dressed for school, and three hundred teachers tried not to think of their students as they touched themselves in the shower.
This morning in New York a million cups of coffee were made, along with three hundred thousand egg and cheese sandwiches and seventy five thousand chai lattes. Nineteen people had anal sex for the first time and only four of them cried. As the snow started to fall, seven thousand New Yorkers tried–and failed–to call in sick, and at exactly 8:15 two thirds of the cats in the city were still sleeping.
Just as the sun was coming up, twenty-six people fucked on yoga mats and one hundred and sixty three people hit snooze for the seventh time.
This morning in New York three thousand people said I love you for the first time, and three thousand people said goodbye.
I recently decided to put together a print book containing every story ever published on QNY. It started out as a whim, but after I spent the time cutting and pasting more than 50 pages of blog posts into a giant word document it started to pick up steam.
I gathered all the stories into one document (close to 1,000 pages in total) before I realized they were in the wrong order. A blog starts with the most recent post and goes back in time to the beginning. A book on the other hand should go the other way.
Undaunted I cut and paste each story in a Google doc, reversing the order. I made a separate document for each year starting in 2009 and ending in 2015. Once I had everything in the right order, all of the extraneous shit cut out (notes, tags, my signature, images, etc), I dropped the stories into Indesign.
I formatted each title, date, and story with the correct styles, set up the front matter, and designed a cover all in a matter of days. I still can’t decide if it will fit into one giant book (it’s 806 pages currently) or if I should split it in half.
For now, the proof from Createspace is on the way and I’ll soon have a physical representation of seven years of blog posts. It’s satisfying in a way I didn’t expect, and looking back through the stories I feel not only proud, but also grateful. It chronicles a very difficult period of time in my life, and yet thanks to my amazing readers, my dear friends, and very supportive partners, I managed to keep on writing.
Above is a screen shot from the interior. Once I get the proof, I’ll have a better idea of when it will be available. Hopefully it will be out sometime in the next three weeks though.
I have a new book out! It’s a collection of my creepier, stranger, and slightly magical stories. I like to think of it as how I see New York when it’s late at night and I squint my eyes. Whose to say the girl I met at Coney Island wasn’t a mermaid and you can’t really tell me the drunk in the back room isn’t a fairy.
Dive into a New York that might be.
Drunk fairies, chain smoking mermaids, and wise bartenders are just some of the characters you’ll find in this collection of strange tales of New York City. Time stops, windows open into other worlds, and on occasion people transform in marvelous ways.
The collection is sometimes gritty, often funny, and occasionally scandalous. But most importantly each story will draw you into a secret world most of us never see. Seductive and hilarious, Guy’s vision of his beloved city is a heartwarming as it is raw.
With more than 30 stories, Tales of New York will transport you into a mythical New York City that might be more real than it first appears.
It’s two am on a Sunday, and Fanelli’s is mostly quiet now. If you get in before last call you can sit quietly at the wooden bar and laugh with the bartender as he wipes it down. The tourists are gone from Soho and the cobblestones look old again. It’s two am, and time for one last beer.
It’s seven on a Monday morning and the Lower East Side looks like a hurricane came through dropping NJ’s detritus onto the streets. The shops are shuttered and the garbage lines the sidewalks waiting to be picked up. Aside from the delivery trucks there is no traffic at all.
It’s four in the afternoon on a Tuesday and you can still get a seat at Blind Tiger before the crowd rushes in. Ask Katie for a suggestion, drink your beer slowly, and wait until the bar is so full you have to stumble back out into the early evening, fortified for whatever comes next.
It’s six-thirty on a Wednesday, but you can still put in an order for two dozen oysters at Sel Rrose before happy hour ends. Try the Beausoleils or the Nootka Sounds. Eat all of them with nothing but a squeeze of lemon and pretend you’re in Paris.
It’s eleven am on thursday morning and no one is sitting in the lobby of the Algonquin Hotel. But you can order a cocktail or a coffee and pretend old writers still sit in the corner. Pretend Midtown is still a circus instead of a shopping mall, and stay safely inside until well after lunch.
Almost midnight on a Friday and you’ve been drinking for too long. You realize why New Yorkers don’t go out until eleven, but it’s too late for that now. Sit in Washington Square Park for an hour and try not to ogle the college kids with their pink hair and acoustic guitars. Let them think they might still win at chess, and when you’re ready, move to the French Roast for an espresso, or possibly another drink.
After all, the night is just getting started.
Late one night, the East River far below and the overbuilt goliath beneath their feet, they fucked on the Brooklyn Bridge to say goodbye. She left one way and he the other, a kiss still wet on their lips as they pulled out their phones to delete numbers.
Early one morning they climbed from her roof up the ladder, through the hatch, and into the old water tower which had for years been dry. He lay on his back, propped up in the dark by things he couldn’t make out as she straddled him. It took her long moments of whispering dirty things for him to get hard, but when she finally took him inside her the sounds echoed for hours, shaking the walls and rattling the stairs.
It was only with strangers that she was unafraid. She led the last one down beneath the arch and into the shadows with a finger on his lips. Central Park made only the sounds of pigeons fighting over a half finished pretzel. His rough hands lifted her skirt, and when she turned and bent forward he was inside her in seconds. Silent men were the only safe ones.
The music was far too loud, so they slipped out onto the street, leaving the pounding rhythm behind them. Two scratchy faces found each other on the corner quickly, but kissing here was different than hidden in the whirling crowd. Two shy eyes looked down, and one strong hand was tentative. Fingers caressed hardening skin through tight jeans, and someone laughed in relief.
Every friday evening she finds herself sitting at his desk after he leaves for the country. She closes the door and looks out the window onto the streets far below wondering what it would be like to sit there every day. Dreaming of a new apartment, a new wardrobe, and a new friends, she lifts her skirt with one hand as the other falls between her thighs. She closes her eyes.
When he needs to come he imagines it’s him and not her kneeling on the floor. The sting is on his cheek, the marks on his ass, and the longing to please and to give slips from his mouth in well practiced words. He reaches down and touched her hair gently, waking from his dream. Good girl, he whispers with a sigh.
The only thing left in the apartment is the bed, and they fuck on it for hours. For the first time in five years they don’t worry about the neighbors or the dents the frame is making on the wall with each strong thrust. They scream and they laugh, wondering why it took so much work to get back to such a simple place.
While on vacation, I took a writing workshop with a bunch of brilliant people. It wasn’t a time for serious critique, demanding attention, or long effort. Instead, we wrote quickly without too much thought, starting each time with a prompt or suggestion.
One of the exercises was similar to a haiku, but without the pressure. It’s just a three line bit of prose with two words on the first, three on the second, and then two on the third. It’s simple, but it was fun to play with.
Here are a few dirty ones I wrote this morning. You should try it. It’s fun.
after kissing him
slow, strong, thrusts
as I watch
is it me
on her stomach
Before I left for vacation I started playing with images and text. Not sure where it’s going to go, but it was fun to start. Especially since I can do all of it on my phone.
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: