As I trudge across town to the safety of my apartment, I notice a swarthy Latin man studying me at East 38th Street. My celibacy commitment feels safe, since I rarely pick up men on the street. I used to, before all my websites and phone hook-ups and iPhone and Grindr connections. Ten years ago street pickups were a gay norm in neighborhoods like the West Village and Chelsea. Cruise, smile, find a spot and f**k. That’s how we sniffed each other out. Dogs smelling asses. Not anymore. It’s all online.
The swarthy Latin is still eyeing me. He is definitely way past twenty, but bug-eyed sunglasses, an elegant cashmere coat with a giant sable collar and a hat reveal so little skin that he could be anywhere from thirty to fifty. His wool pants are tight around the crotch and I am pretty sure t
