Despite some extreme exhaustion, this morning’s mad dash was fine. I got my things together at the Witch Cave, left the place in perfect condition without a dish in the sink, and then took a subway and bus to the island airport where I met the boys – Dan, Connor, Evan, Craig, Derek, Zack, and Noah – and boarded the plane. How ridiculous that these eight gays were all going to New York City on the same flight?

I was so fucking tired this morning that I only took off my sunglasses for security and passport checks. Nobody else was seeing my eyes today. I have a rule that states I must achieve a minimum of eight hours of sleep or more to be seen without sunglasses on.

I got some writing done pon de plane, and had a couple of free vodka drinks. I felt good. Once we landed, things were a completely different story.

The group loaded into a shuttle van, and made our way from the depths of Newark Liberty International Airport to our hotel at Grand Central Station. At this point, I was still doing well. I was enjoying myself. I might have been quieter than usual, but I think that was due in part to being with some of the loudest gays on the planet. I don’t do well in crowds, and this was a big group of us. Nonetheless, I was having fun taking in all of the ridiculous quotes and behavior – especially Craig’s. That boy is fucking hysterical.

Unfortunately, I started to develop some pretty extreme anxiety around the time we got to the hotel. I know it happens when I’m tired, and almost always during my first day of travel to another city, but today was overwhelming.

Hungry for some lunch, the group walked to Shake Shack near Times Square. As soon as I had finished my meal, I knew that I needed to go back to the hotel room and rest. I walked alone, listening to the Go-Go’s and other weird music as I popped a Xanax. Once at the hotel, I stripped down to my underwear and crawled into bed for my much-needed nap.

I re-downloaded Grindr and Tinder for this trip. It’s only our first day, but I’ve been talking to a lot of guys on the apps. Of course, this might have something to do with the fact that I max out my Tinder swipes every twelve hours. Hey, when in New York!

The guys came home in the early evening, but then dispersed again for their respective activities. Evan went to meet a local friend for dinner, and Connor and Dan went to see Waitress on Broadway. I don’t know what the other boys did.

The thing is, New York City doesn’t really excite me all that much. I enjoy the city, but I’m not exactly crazy about it. I appreciate the nightlife, as it’s certainly more entertaining than what we have at home, but other than that, I don’t really care to do a lot. Perhaps I just need someone to show me around? Oh, wait. Never mind. We aren’t going down that road again.

After my nap, I continued relaxing in the hotel room for a while. I did some writing, and then went to the gym and did my thing. I also made a liquor run for what was sure to be a very gin-fueled weekend.

Eventually, everyone had returned to the rooms. We have two of them, by the way. While getting all dolled up, we busted out the alcohol and started blasting the queerest music Hyatt Grand Central Station had ever heard – and that’s saying a lot. I had a decent amount to drink – and by that, I mean I was doing shots out of the bottle – but managed to keep it cute throughout the night.

At the suggestion of Kevin Sutherland, we all ended up going to Industry in Hells Kitchen. By the time we arrived at the club, it was too late for Kevin to join, but we had a blast. There was an amazing drag show, which was a 90-minute retelling of Alice in Wonderland. It was fucking unreal. The pinnacle of the night was when they played Mariah’s “Fly Away (Butterfly Reprise)” during the caterpillar scene. Fucking crazy. I’ve only heard that song at one other party, and it was mine.

I met a guy tonight. A Brazilian. He was making some serious eye contact from across the bar, so I decided to pursue him. I couldn’t understand a word the guy said, but he was cute. Well, cute enough. He was also giving me attention. I didn’t exactly set high standards for myself tonight, okay? The guy’s friend was seriously unenthused, but was a good sport about the fact that he was being ditched.

The Brazilian and I ended up moving to another room of the club, where there were a series of red velvet couches in dim lighting. We made out on one of them for a bit.

“Can I have your number?” I asked.

“No, I’m sorry,” the Brazilian said. “I have a boyfriend.”

That was the end of that. Goddamn it. Strike one.

I gave the Brazilian one of my signature goodbye kisses. You know, the kind that paralyzes you from the waist down. After that, I quickly pulled myself off the couch and returned to the main bar to join the other boys. I needed to dance. There was no time to waste tonight.

It didn’t take long for me to approach another guy in the bar. I spotted him on the edge of the dance floor, leaning against a wall and looking bored as all hell. I recognized the look, as it was the same one I had when Dad made me watch the Tour de France with him in Paris for six hours straight. By the way, this seems to be my new method of hitting on boys. Find the most unenthused guy in the place, and strike up a conversation.

I completely spaced on the new guy’s name. To be fair, I’d forgotten it before he even told me. Nonetheless, my new man had a Jewfro that would’ve made Andy Samberg jealous, so that’s what I decided to call him for the rest of the night. Much to my surprise, Andy Samberg and I actually ended up hitting it off in a very Logan “Canadian vs. American” fashion.

At this point, flirting with Americans is a special skill of mine. Add it to the resume. It’s so fucking easy! All you have to do is tell an American that you’re Canadian, and you seem to have an instant hall pass. It’s so strange. Americans think we are these completely foreign entities. In reality, Canadians are basically just Americans with good manners, better health care, and a hotter leader. We’re America’s innocent younger brother. You know, the one who hasn’t yet reached puberty and fallen in with a bad crowd.

While in the middle of a very crowded Industry, Andy Samberg and I ended up talking for quite some time. What we talked about, I can’t exactly remember. I had bought myself two drinks at the bar, but wasn’t messy by any means. Perhaps it just wasn’t that riveting of a conversation. I don’t know.

I’ll be honest. Tonight, a part of me felt as though I was trying to recreate the spontaneous Manhattan moment that happened with Logan last December. In reality, my encounter with this stranger at the club couldn’t have been further from it.

Andy Samberg said he had to get going. I had other plans in mind. After hopping off the table I was sitting on the entire time we were talking, I stood in front of Andy Samberg and asked if I could kiss him. This boy wasn’t going anywhere.

“Come with me,” I said.

Returning to the couches on the other side of the bar, I claimed a spot in the darkest corner of the room. Despite being stared at the entire time by an older bear looking at us from the couch across the coffee table, Andy Samberg and I immediately started making out. I don’t know what came over me – it was probably the gin – but I ended up straddling the guy while I continued to have a conversation with him.

“Are you Jewish?” I asked.

“No,” Andy Samberg responded. “Although, I get that a lot.”

There was a unique charm to Andy Samberg. He was cute, in a nerdy way. You could tell he was smart. After further conversation, it turned out that Andy Samberg was starting a post-grad program at Princeton next week, and was currently staying on a friend’s couch in Brooklyn. That was all well and good for Andy Samberg, but where did I fit into this picture? Oh, right. I didn’t.

Strike two for Kurty.

I couldn’t bring Andy Samberg back to my fully occupied hotel room, so I lied in the hopes that he would invite me to his couch in Brooklyn. I told Andy Samberg that I was in town “for business” and that my friends, whom he had met earlier, were staying in my room because it was paid for. It was half true. Wait. It wasn’t true at all. I also said that I was Jewish. At least that was 2% true.

Needless to say, Andy Samberg didn’t take my bait. A couch moment in Brooklyn was not happening tonight. Instead, we continued making out for a very long time. Basically, the rest of the night. Probably until about 3 a.m. Andy Samberg kept telling me that I was an amazing kisser. You know, I would have to agree with that. Honestly, I love making out. Almost every person I have ever been with – girls included – has told me that I’m a fantastic kisser. I’m amazing at making out. Another special skill! It probably has something to do with the fact that I enjoy it so much. I suppose the same could be said for my blow jobs. Oh, wait. They do say the same thing.

Anyway, Andy Samberg and I left the club together. I walked him to the nearest subway station, which was on my way home, we exchanged numbers, and kissed goodbye. I wonder if I’ll ever see Andy Samberg again? He was cute. However, that’s also coming from someone who is continually realizing how desperate they are. I seem to take on any guy who will pay me the slightest bit of attention. Tonight, that meant a Brazilian with a boyfriend who barely spoke English, and a 24-year-old faux-Jew who was couch surfing. Fuck.

I walked the rest of the way to the hotel. I was so pissed that McDonald’s was closed, but it was a total blessing in disguise. I needed to get to bed. I walked through the door at 4 a.m., washed up, and passed out beside Dan. All of the guys had gone home really early, most likely because they hadn’t had an afternoon nap like I did.

Anyway, that was it. This was an interesting start to the trip.

Goodnight xo