The first time someone called me a twink, it was 2003 and I was standing at the urinal in the basement of a laser-and-smoke-filled club in Toronto. I was 19, rail-thin and still in my excitable stage of post-coming out euphoria, which, in my case, meant wearing cut-off jeans and raising my hands above my head when I danced. That night, I had gone to the club with two new friends of mine, one of whom, an aspiring actor, kept telling me about this amazing drug, "poppers," he had just tried. Like most of our Friday evenings, we spent the night flailing our gangly limbs on the dance floor to [...]
The first in a pair of essays today on being an expat in Berlin.
When I first moved to Berlin this summer, there was a big piece of graffiti in the courtyard next to my front door. "Tourists fuck off," it said, in cheerful blue spray paint. It didn't really bother me at first—I wasn't a tourist, I was moving here; I speak German and have a German passport. And who loves tourists anyways? In New York, where I'd lived for the past six years, hating on tourists was part of what defined you as a New Yorker. Being rude to slow-walking Scandinavians wasn't just a way of [...]