East Coast Fall 2026

I’m so excited to be traveling up the Eastern Seaboard. Fall is my favorite time of year there, and the train line makes the transitions smoother than other modes of transportation between cities. I love taking the train. It’s so romantic, reading as the cities and countryside whiz by.

Washington, DC — September 24–26

I went to DC for the first time in May and absolutely loved it. It’s so nice to be in a city that doesn’t have a culture because it’s so international. There are no standards by which you need to act. You can just be yourself, which is all I can ever do anyway.

I’ll fly into DC and spend two nights there. I would love to go out to Bourbon Steak for a very DC, very politician, very demure kind of dinner. Butter-poached meat? Yes please. I would be willing to make a nice deal for the gentleman who wants to take me on that three-hour date.

Last time I was able to go to the Smithsonian, so I am looking for recommendations for what else I might enjoy doing if I have any downtime.

BWI — September 26–27

After two nights in Washington, I’ll be off to BWI Airport for just one night.

I have very limited availability here, but reach out and we’ll see what we can make happen.

I absolutely have no time to do anything in Baltimore, and that is by design.

Philadelphia — September 27–28

I’m staying there for one night to test the market on my way north and also to have a well-priced hotel on a Sunday night. I used to go there for comedy. It’s like New York without all the money.

I’m excited to check out the poetry section at Lot 49 Books in Fishtown. I don’t ever read books others pick out for me, it’s a problem that I have. It’s just like, oh, nice try getting my brain on that task, I have an entire bookcase for my TBR pile so to the bottom with you. But if I pick out a new book my brain will permit it to go to the top of the pile. I will definitely go to the Reading Terminal Market again for breakfast, and hopefully get eine kleine Wanderung in after.

New York City — September 28–October 1

My prime-time evenings are already filling quite quickly, so I’ve added a third night, September 30, which is currently completely open as of today. Reach out to book because apparently the hours of 7–11 PM in New York are highly in demand for me on this trip.

I might have time for a late night on Tuesday or an early happy-hour time, and I have my days free.

I’m going to spend time with my best friend—well, both my best friends on this trip. One is in NYC, and one is in CT.

I’m most excited to check out Marianne Wex’s exhibit Taking Back Our Space: Photographic Perspectives at the Museum of Modern Art. It’s a photographic exploration of the ways that men and women are socialized to take up space. The intersection of gender, socialization, bodies, art, observation, and sociology is absurdly up my alley, and they don’t even have alleys in NYC. I want to do everything, eat everything, see everything, hug everyone that isn’t a comic I don’t respect. I want to go to a jazz club in the West Village, get a cheap Little Tokyo massage, sit in Washington Square Park where I used to sit and read with my dog.

Take me to your favorite museum. Take me for your favorite slice of pizza. I’m just so excited.

New London, Connecticut — October 1–4

Then I’ll be heading to see my other best friend in New London.

Now, New London is not really known for being a hot market, but I do have some regulars there that I enjoy. I’ll be staying at my friend’s house, so there will be an incall fee.

But also, I’m going there to get a tattoo.

My best friend is a tattoo artist. She did my first tattoo, and this one might be my last. I’m having a small silhouette of a dog sitting on the moon tattooed with some of the remains of my dog Nico, who passed in January.

He’ll be facing away because I never wanted to try to do his face or photorealism. It’s just an image, and she has a picture of my dog sitting and looking in the other direction so she can get his profile.

I’ve always wanted a moon, and I’m so glad I never got one before, because my dog needed to be sitting on it. And his ashes needed to be tattooed into my skin.

That is my birthday present to myself.

I also desperately need a hit of Classic New England Fall, so I’d be willing to make a nice deal for the gentleman who wants to do a three-hour date that includes Scott’s Yankee Farmer in East Lyme. Let’s pick apples before I rub mine all over you. I am not leaving New England without eating several apple cider donuts. I am home in my favorite time of year, and I would like to aggressively experience it. Maybe I’ll even run into an ex for the true prodigal return experience.

Back to NYC — October 4–5

I am turning back around, and we are going back to New York to fly out, which means I have potential availability October 4 in the evening and October 5 in the morning. There will be an incall fee for anyone who wants to book during that time.

I’m also taking the train back from New London to New York, so if you’re in Stamford, New Haven, or anywhere along that train line and want to get together, let me know. We could probably work something out.

Speaking of my birthday…

My birthday—and Beyoncé’s, but I don’t think she needs any presents from y’all—is September 4.

Even though it makes me feel really vulnerable to ask for things because immediately it’s like, Oh my God, nobody’s going to get me anything. That’s so embarrassing. Nobody cares. All that stuff comes up.

But whatever. I can just put it up there. Nobody has to do anything.

Anywho, one of my Baltimore clients already got me a mani-pedi and massage, so I guess: proof of concept.

I updated my Throne. What I want most is to crowdfund a Nintendo Switch with the Mario World bundle.

I’m considering moving back to the East Coast in the next few years—thinking White Plains area—so having that knowledge in my mind as I travel makes it feel even more important to pay attention to everything.

I will miss my cats terribly, but I found a woman to exchange house and cat sitting for a place to stay. She gets to come stay in my beautiful, peaceful apartment where she can walk to the beach, and I get free cat care and someone sleeping in my house with my girls while I’m gone. Win-win.

So that is the update, you guys. I can’t wait to see you. I used voice to text to talk out this announcement rather than write it, before copying it into Google Drive to do some extremely light editing. Let me know if you prefer this conversational style to the way the posts read when I write them out instead of talk them out. I’m experimenting with various tools right now. It’s fun finding tech that I can use to smooth the executive and cognitive barriers in my workflow. I’m down to hear about that as well.

And some of you, if you’re thinking about reaching out: absolutely do it sooner rather than later.

Tell me your favorite philosopher in your booking inquiry and I’ll make it worth your while.

Email dateavivaruse@proton.me to book.

DateAvivaRuse.com

After nearly a decade of being Aviva I’ve made friends out of lovers, lovers out of friends, and countless other outcomes. Some of my favorite clients confess they hold back contacting me unless it’s to make an appointment. Others have talked about wanting to get to know me a bit virtually before a date.

There have been messier versions: needing to vent about a colleague one time magically turns into piles of ongoing voice notes from someone who hired me (checks notes) for one hour once three years ago. At least he’s not talking about his marriage or looking for sexual validation, I told myself right before listening to a voice note in which he talked about his marriage AND his penis (a penis I met once that he keeps insisting I remember!)

The politics of time outside of time in the world of escorting is confusing, especially as a neurodivergent worker who attracts neurodivergent clients like a magnet. Tips and gifts open the door to between date communication. But how much? And for how long? A regular degular girl would know, but alas, a regular degular girl would never find herself in this predicament.

Clarity around expectations is my favorite thing about this career and what has made it my favorite way to interact with the opposite sex. Because we all want things from each other. And in my world, it is very clear. I feel like I can truly relax when I’m not worried about being taken advantage of or taking advantage. Even if I wasn’t AuDHD, I’m a Virgo with seven Libra placements. IT HAS TO BE FAIR OR I CAN’T PLAY.

Currently I only have the Zoom half hour as a virtual option that regularly gets used. I don’t even love last minute Zoom dates without a larger friendship / client context. I almost never want to do it the same day someone asks, and it’s not really a thing people plan in advance. There’s so much pressure on a Zoom call that doesn’t exist in voice notes or emails. I listen / read and respond when it makes sense for me.

And I do like staying in touch between dates.

Here’s what I am offering:

Aviva Betwixt: Prepaid conversation time. You can use the time asynchronously, rather than having to schedule a Zoom. We can treat it like a coaching session if you want or we can talk about philosophy, history, whatever subject interests you.

1. A La Carte: $250/hour. Any sexy conversation (listening or speaking) counts as double time.

2. Five Hour Monthly Commitment: $1125, must be used within one month, includes exclusive photo content, sexy talk still counts as double time. Priority response.

3. Ten Hour Monthly Commitment: $2250, everything above plus exclusive video content, and sexy talk included at rate.

4. Rent Daddy: $4000/month, top priority response, bespoke photo and video content, no time counting regarding access– I’m your long-distance girlfriend. First and last up front.

5. Exclusive / Bespoke Virtual Arrangements: To make an inquiry, please send a gift to $AR639 and then email dateavivaruse@proton.me

I really love talking to you guys. I just hate using the energy I need in order to provide for myself to do it.

my Midwest trip is confirmed & I’ve changed things a bit. I still have availability in each city.

Also! I’ve decided to offer a four hour dinner date that’s not on my menu for this trip, email me for details dateavivaruse@proton.me

Minneapolis, July 19-21. I’m available for the evening on the 19th, have a lot of flexibility on the 20, & have time for a breakfast date on the 21. Incall is downtown in an upscale hotel.

Chicago, July 21-22. ONE NIGHT ONLY! I haven’t decided exactly the area yet, but I could be easily swayed by a multi hour date.

Naperville, July 22-23 samesies. I have dinner availability & breakfast the next morning

Detroit, July 23-25, final stop. I’ve gotten a ton of interest but few confirmations. Beat them too it, my goal is to have this tour fully booked before I step on the train.

How else would I know when I could visit the botanical gardens & art museums?

Duos are available with @emberlynslade in Mpls & Detroit.

Have a lovely holiday everyone, & thanks for allowing me to be part of the absolute onslaught of emails coming at you at all hours.

Anyone who supports me in any way they can, it means a lot. You’re the key to my freedom. 💋💋💋💋

Then the delicious weight of him is on me again, his lips on my lips, his tongue tangling mine, his muscles straining his white t-shirt, his cock shouting against the warden of grey sweats.

His dog follows us, but I’m here for a good time, not a long time, so I ignore her. Even if she’d stayed on the couch, she’d still be just a few feet away.

Compliments continue to fall out of his mouth the way a credit card falls out of an unzipped purse on a leather banquette, but I’ve heard it all before and I let them slide off me too, as if I am also made of pleather from the nineties. And in a way, I am.

I pull his t-shirt off, revealing his “I used to do fentanyl, and now I go to the gym with the same fury” body, and it’s good. Billboard on Sunset good. My shirt vanishes with it, and as his warm skin presses against mine, I moan.

He pulls one nipple free from the cup of my red bra, his mouth closing around it, his tongue circling, sending a tingle down my spine and all the way into my clit, which is already swollen. His lips closing around it, he sucks gently, and I moan again.

His mouth makes its way down my belly now, resting on the tattooed hip we used as the excuse to start devouring each other. He kisses my hipbone and I swear, it feels like his mouth is directly on my clit. He puts his mouth on my actual clit and a rocket launch goes in my brain. It feels like I am looking at the Northern Lights.

I quickly warn him that I don’t usually cum the first time someone goes down on me (this rocket will likely burn up when it leaves the ozone layer) to take the pressure off myself. Then I give him a different look, one that gets the dog finally in the crate.

And five minutes later, his lips on my lips and his pointer finger in my pussy, I cum, the convulsions closing and opening around his finger for what seems like an entire minute.

“This is my favorite way to be wrong.”

Then I smile in a way that some of you are lucky and clever enough to know, pulling him by the legs until he’s seated at the edge of the bed. I kneel below him, securing my hair. I grab the sweatpants and pull. His cock pops out like a collapsible magic wand. It’s normal in girth but extra long, so it kind of looks like that, too. I look up at him and smile again. This is going to slide down my throat so easily.

And it does. And now it is his turn to moan, his hands in my hair. I keep changing the tempo to delay his orgasm, but suddenly he is frantic, his eyes wide.

“I haven’t hooked up sober ever in my life!” he sputters. I remove the head of his dick from my throat and crawl up next to him. He doesn’t have a condom. I didn’t bring any from my own stash of office supplies. He begins to glide his bare cock up and down my pussy.

“We could just do this,” he says. “This is great, just grinding!”

This is not the way I want to feel seventeen again.

So I look into his eyes and say, “If you don’t put your dick inside me right now, I’m going to scream.”

Exactly like he wanted me to. It’s been years since I’ve had a bare cock inside me, the best skin to skin contact that exists. The sex is like a roller coaster ride: thrilling, but over far too quickly. We both watch the hot ropes of cum shoot onto my stomach, which, to me, feels like the sun coming out of the clouds while you’ve been sitting on the beach, hoping to bathe in it.

Reader, I bathed in it.

On the ride home, I watched Mid-City stream by and realized why Bill Wilson wrote the twelve steps in the first place.

To get to the thirteenth.

I am so behind on writing these that if I plan it out in my head I’m going to overthink my way out of doing it and into swinging in my hammock chair while reading Natalie Diaz poetry…wait.

I’ll get to that in a minute. Because I have news.

I moved to Santa Monica! I was not planning to move, I mean, I had prepandemic rent control. I also lived in that apartment longer than anywhere I’ve lived in my life. Not adult life, not LA life, but entire life. I met someone who lived on the west side, looked into it, saw rents seemed less high (or my perception of what is high) than the last time I looked, saw exactly one apartment, and took it.

I’m now in a freshly renovated spot just four blocks from the ocean. I have a patio. I am growing blueberries, strawberries, holy basil. I’m finally on the same side of the 405 as every great LA lover I’ve ever had.

It’s good. My first date as a Santa Monica resident was a couple at the Viceroy, which was exactly right.

I’ve even found a wonderful new pet sitter. I’m no longer going to Austin tomorrow as I am going to visit an MFA residency instead. I will have limited (evening!) availability in Palm Desert June 10-12, and late afternoon / early evening in San Diego on July 7.

As for July, it’s one of the few months of the year the Midwest is not scary cold, so off to the Midwest with me.

I get in to Minneapolis late afternoon on July 19. Duos available with my cute friend Emberlynn Slade for those dates. On July 21, I’m driving to Milwaukee. Would love to have a reason to stop in Eau Claire on the way for a late lunch. July 22 I’m going to check out Naperville, then July 23-25 I’ll be exploring Detroit. Duos with Emberlynn may also be available then, reach out to check.

All other dates, I’ll be swinging in my hammock chair in Wilshire-Montana reading Jacques Derrida. Further east in August.

Have a great week, boys!

I’m coming back to Baltimore for some sweetie pies I met the last time I was there and wanted to add one more city. It’s a short trip for a few reasons: I have a new Ragdoll kitten named Samantha Jones, and I’m moving to Santa Monica!!! My hiatus was full of purging what is no longer lighting me up, creativity, and internal rearrangement. Now I am ready to get back on the plane, gang, and into another sort of internal moving around.

I like a short trip. Shake, stir, thank you sir, and I’m home again. I’ll make a separate post for the Santa Monica move with more details next week, or will I write the second part of my 13th Step Imagination Diary?

Nobody knows, not even me!

I’ve got a few months sober stacked up, I’m well rested, I wrote a pile of poems, and I had some dirty dirty sex with some early 2000’s romcom villain type I’ll never see again. I love being a whore, but every once in a while, it’s fun to be a slut too.

I’ve never been to DC, can you believe it? My neighbor says it’s ugly LA, but based on the bookings I already have, maybe it’s just east coast vibes LA. I can’t wait to meet my new clients. Nothing makes me wetter than men who read.

Also, being sober sober makes being with you the best drug available.

Here’s my availability for both cities:

Washington, DC

• Saturday, May 16 Arlington (near DCA Reagan National Airport), dinner & late night

• Sunday, May 17 Arlington: first coffee of the day. Dupont Circle: late afternoon snack into night

• Monday, May 18 Dupont Circle: breakfast & brunch. Outcall & outings for the afternoon (who wants to get frisky after footsie in a business lunch bathroom?)

Baltimore, Maryland

• Monday, May 18 Mount Vernon: late afternoon into night

• Tuesday, May 19 Mount Vernon: dinner into night

Date Ideas DC:

Steak. I don’t eat meat very often, but I have been craving steak lately, and this town can deliver. The Palm, The Prime Rib, Annie’s Paramount, Mastro’s, I’d be happy to smile from across the table at any of these. I want filet mignon with bearnaise sauce, garlic mashed potatoes, and you. Inquire via email about my unlisted Dinner Date offering.

Smithsonian: Take me to see the Hope Diamond and then lie to me about how my eyes sparkle more. Then let’s flirt our way through the gems and minerals hall, drift through Ocean Hall. Then? Your favorite thing. No, not that, your favorite Natural History thing.

Date Ideas Baltimore:

Poetry & Dealer’s Choice. Let’s make out by Poe’s grave until I feel your tell-tale hard on. Maybe attend a book event or poetry reading? What does this city have to offer beyond the darling boutique hotel and attentive lovers I encountered last time?

I hope to return to LAX so exhausted I’m happy I planned my movers for a few days after my new lease starts.

Back soon with more details on my move to the Westside (I can see the ocean from my cross street).

They say if you want to get what you’ve never had, you’ve got to do what you’ve never done. For me that was the thirteenth step, or, fucking someone in the program in early sobriety.

I started going to this gay men’s meeting near my house last summer. I was sober, but not ready to do the work. Gay men’s meetings are a perfect place to hide. I sat on the stage in the back, getting there as the meeting started. I zoomed out the second we stopped holding hands at the end. I noticed him, a few weeks in, the one straight man in the room, looking like a 90’s movie heartthrob. He shared at the podium every single time I went–not even about what the speaker said, just whatever war story the lead made him think of. What a selfish asshole, I remember thinking. I decided they were all like that, stopped going, started smoking weed again.

I went back after Thanksgiving. An eight minute walk was as far as I was willing to go for my sobriety.

“He probably has a girlfriend,” I told myself. Later, he told me he thought I was gay. He started saying hi to me while I was running out the door. I’d sit on the stage looking at the back of his neck, getting horny. I don’t remember when he started hugging me hello.

Touring kept me from going often. He started asking if I was coming the next week. Going now required that I wake up early enough for no makeup makeup and my nicer sweatsuits. One day I sat next to the coffee urn, which was empty by the break. He walked up, I told him it was empty. He went to tilt it, I laughed, “everyone already did that.”

He stumbled a bit, and spilled on himself. Then he tripped over his words when he shared.

“Oh,” I thought, “I make him nervous. Perhaps he doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

The next time he didn’t walk up to the podium to do his usual bravado share.

I went exactly two minutes before the meeting started. He ran over to me, hugged me, asked how I was. I told him I’d seen him speak at a hybrid meeting. I could see him trying to remember what he said. The next time I told him how I was.

I knew when I woke up that morning he’d ask for my number. He asked me not to run out after the meeting. I started to anyway. I’d come to think of him as the mayor of the meeting. Of course he was, being hot, straight, allergic to accountability in a room full of gay men. He was perfect for my purposes.

I took March and half of April as a hiatus from work to focus on recovery.

The program suggests not to get into a relationship the first year. I didn’t plan to. But now that I wasn’t using substances, I was dying for a hit of the ultimate drug.

Sex.

He yelled at me across the room not to leave. I sat down outside. When he came out, still politicking, I overheard talk of a group going to breakfast. I looked up. He invited me and said he would drive me. Exactly why I walked. He was driving an older woman home first, part of a performance I knew would translate to sex. I asked her to sponsor me, just so we could pull out our phones. He asked for my number as I was putting hers into my phone. She was a terrible sponsor and one I would fire less than a week later. All she wanted was to matchmake us anyway. I didn’t need her for that.

At breakfast, I mentioned it was bright and hot under the sun. He leaped to move an umbrella before the waiter could get to it. He continued to text me throughout the day. I waited until it made sense to respond. He began soft-launching hanging out: he needed a new show to watch but didn’t like to watch alone. By the next day, a hundred texts were exchanged.

By the time we’d settled on the White Lotus I was already in the shower. I came out to a “we should watch it together sometime” followed by, ten minutes later, “sorry, was that weird.”

Of course it was. And it was exactly what I wanted. He picked me up, and back at his place, he asked if I wanted space bc of my neurodivergence. No.

He sat facing forward on the chaise. I slung my legs across his body.

He began touching my leg, complimenting my body, asking about my tattoos.

I showed him all of them and told him about the one on my hip. Maybe ten minutes of compliments and caresses later, I said, “fuck it,” and opened my jeans to show him that one, too.

He gently traced it with a finger. I leaned over and kissed his temple.

Suddenly I was under him with all the strength of a man who’s traded the needle for the bench press for “almost ten” months, making out furiously. I couldn’t even tell whose breathing was whose. My panties, as Erica Jong once said, were wet enough to mop the streets of Vienna. I could feel his long cock straining through his jeans.

“I haven’t hooked up with anyone since I got sober,” he sputtered.

“Me either,” I replied.

I had fourteen days.

His hand slipped under my back and I was in the air, being carried toward the bed.

To be continued…

Travel dates:

May 16-18 DC

May 18-20 Baltimore (confirmed)

June 9-11 Austin

June 22-24 Salt Lake City

First gentleman to confirm the three unconfirmed cities gets extra time with me, up to 45 minutes on a three hour booking.

❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

This time I’m hoping for weather that actually matches the vibe. I’ll be reconnecting with my work wife Eva Bora, doing a collab with the very talented Bobby Gray, and still have time for you on Friday.

The first time I went to New Orleans, I was there for the National Library Conference.

Now I’m coming back as an escort on tour. I don’t think it gets more different than that. I’m going in with beginner’s mind for this version of the city — same streets, completely different life.

I’m staying downtown in both cities.

Austin: Thursday March 19th – Saturday March 21st

New Orleans: Saturday March 21st – Monday March 23rd

Email me at DateAvivaRuse@proton.me or fill out the form at DateAvivaRuse.com.

In college, I studied under Ann Charters, THE Beats expert–she wrote the definitive Kerouac biography and compiled and edited the Portable Beat Reader. I brought a poem to her office hours once, and the next class, she asked me to read it to the whole 250-person lecture. When I finished, she said that Ginsberg would be proud. This remains one of the best moments of my life. That’s how I fell in love with the Beats, and subsequently, their San Francisco. They made it seem so wild and free and poetic, and that’s all I ever wanted.

The first time I went, I was a little kid. The next time, I was couchsurfing through Twitter. I kept accidentally finding myself at wonderful places like the Folsom Street Fair or Comedy Day in Golden Gate Park, just as I suspected. It was too hard and scary trying to save up to move there, so I headed to New York instead. By the time I could do it, I was deep into comedy and felt too experienced to head to a secondary city. I thought I’d missed my chance. But life has a way of bringing things back around to where they belong. For a while, I thought the tech industry ruined everything I love about it. Once I discovered my neurodivergence, I realized that me and the tech bros weren’t so different, after all.

Last year, I toured SF for a few days as the LA fires wound down. It was so lovely to get out of town and be somewhere where people were less freaked out. I had a date with a fellow Angeleno doing the same thing, and it was like coming up for air from the bottom of a deep pool. I had a classic Italian-American dinner in North Beach with a coaching friend, burritos with someone I hadn’t seen since Comedy Day, the infinity mirror exhibit at SF MOMA. I read Angelica Noi’s memoir, All Hookers Go To Heaven, while I was there, as if a friend were in my tote.

For the first time, after all those years traveling for comedy because I wanted to be on the road like Kerouac, I felt the way I’d always wanted to. I love that the thing I started doing to support my stand-up career became not only my actual career, but also gave me everything that comedy promised.

I still haven’t given up on my dream of living there. Maybe it’s next.

Here are some date ideas. I will give extra time to anyone who takes me to any of these places.

SFMOMA, again

I never don’t want to go back. This time, they have a Kara Walker installation, a Carrie Mae Weems photography exhibition called (Re)Constructing History, and KAWS: FAMILY — his first major West Coast show.

Wander North Beach

The neighborhood where the Beats drank and wrote. City Lights Bookstore. Vesuvio Caffè. Let’s retrace their steps and philosophize.

I would also do unspeakable things to the man who brings me to the French Laundry.

Berkeley: Beginner’s Mind

Berkeley has always been mythical to me, and not just because of The OC. When I was 14, I used to party at the University of Hartford and pretend I was a student at UC Berkeley, taking a semester off for my parents’ divorce. Despite my braces, it worked until someone caught me not knowing my own mascot. Now I do. The places I would most like to take a date are listed below.

The Gourmet Ghetto

This is where California cuisine was born. Chez Panisse — Alice Waters’ legendary restaurant — is at the top of my list. The upstairs café is more casual, while downstairs is the full prix fixe experience. Either way, it’s a pilgrimage. I also want to try Juanita & Maude, which has one of the Michelin Guide’s top five burgers in California. And the Cheese Board Pizza Collective — worker-owned, one pizza option per day, eaten on the grassy median across the street—exactly the Berkeley of my imagination.

UC Botanical Garden

Thirty-four acres, over 10,000 plant species, and views of San Francisco. It sounds like exactly my kind of leisurely, beautiful afternoon. After spending so much time wandering the once at UCLA and studying Herbalism near the Russian River, it feels necessary.

I’m in San Francisco February 22–25 and Berkeley February 25–28. I’m traveling with a friend who’s cool about my work, so incalls are available.

Email me at DateAvivaRuse@proton.me or fill out the form at DateAvivaRuse.com.

I have both a P411 special and a bespoke special for anyone who takes me to any of the places above.

I don’t know anyone who was sad to say goodbye to January. It was a rough month collectively, and I had a great loss, one that is still raw and new.

I hate the cold, and I don’t even have a proper New England coat anymore—I’ll have to pile two LA coats on top of each other. However, right now I need the warmth of my chosen family more than I hate snow and windchill.

So when a close friend asked me to stay with her in Quaker Hill for a few days after Boston, I said yes. I came into my own as an autonomous individual and an artist living nearby in New London. Seeing the sights and people from the first place that really felt like home to me feels exactly right, even though I know my feet will be frozen into a block from the second I land at Logan until the moment I’m back at LAX.

My availability will be limited while there. I’m prioritizing rest and connection. But if you’re a repeat client or someone who’s been following along for a while and wants to reach out, I’d love to hear from you.

More details on San Francisco and Berkeley to come.

Last June, we did this to great success. It wasn’t just her first duo experience but her first time with a woman at all. I was honored that she trusted me enough to do so — she’d turned down suggestions from her regulars for over two years, not having a friend she felt comfortable enough with. She thought it was something she’d never offer. Now she’s my work wife. It’s so grounding to have a true ally in this wild and misunderstood business. After those few days in June, our friendship deepened and became more romantic. Another reason I’m excited to move back to the East Coast.

Much of what follows actually happened. The rest I made up.

I open the door. He’s brought us flowers and chocolate. We offer to play a bit first in the room, but he’s into the anticipation — he wants to go down to the casino floor. He walks between us, arms linked. We saunter along in dresses and heels. Everyone looks as we pass. He loves it. He hands us each a wad of bills, and we wander about, finding our favorite slot machines, running into each other. I feel her hand on my back. He’s ready to go back to the room.

He eases our shoes off and massages our feet, one at a time, while we lie there. I lean over to kiss her while he watches — her first kiss with a woman. I beckon him to come up between us. Clothes disappear. She guides my breast into his mouth, her other hand stroking his cock, which is so hard it looks like it might fly across the room like a champagne cork. Once she takes all of him into her mouth, I slide down and take one of his balls into mine, gently sucking as she works up and down his shaft. I take it out of her mouth and show her how to deepthroat before sending her to gargle his nuts. She comes back up, and we pass it back and forth, giggling. She accidentally hits me with it, and I fully slap her in the cheek with it in return. Lightly scratching the inside of his thighs after she’s snatched it away from me again, I look up. He’s got a look of pure joy on his face I’ve only ever seen on a South Park character.

My heart grew three sizes that day.

I open the door. She’s warned me that this client is high-energy. He’s also a complete sweetheart, built like a bear, the kind of guy who talks to us rather than at us. He has no shame in meeting with us, and it always comes through in providing a more connected experience for all. She has to get a special waterproof blanket from her car because he makes her squirt so much.

He’s lying on his back with two fingers deep inside her while she whimpers when the first one comes. She squirts at least three times before she’s even had breakfast. Suddenly, I’m on my back, his strong hands gripping my thighs as his knees spread them. She gets behind me and spoons me, giving my head her soft breasts to land on as he pounds me. I look back and can see she’s jealous. She wants his cock, too. She’s never had to wait her turn for dick before, and you can practically see the gymnastics going on in her brain. He tells her she has to wait. I laugh at how well he’s cucked her, continuing to let his hardness slam into my tight little pussy until I’m out of breath.

Then it’s her turn. She’s so ready, she’s whimpering before he even slides in. I hold her now, tracing slow circles around her nipples as she cums again and again and again. I now understand why her regulars are so loyal. She looks like a good girl, and is a good girl in public. Here in this suite with the shades drawn on a weekday afternoon, her true nature is revealed. She’s just a ravenous little fiend.

She stays with me that night. As I lie there unable to sleep, she says, “I came more times than you today.”

“That’s okay, silly,” I reply.

“Well, do you want to cum more?”

“Ohhhh…”

She reaches her hand between my legs. “I’m going to touch you the way I touch myself. Tell me if you don’t like it.”

Reader, I like it. My hips buck as I cum, gently biting her shoulder. We both fall into a deep and dreamless rest.

In the morning, we get coffee delivered and have a much-earned lie-in. Around 11 we start getting hungry. I called housekeeping to change our sheets.

“We’re gonna need a bigger blanket.”

We shower, change, and take a ferry across the bay for lunch and a much-needed recharge. I’m so glad we blocked out this time just for us. The flirting continues as the breeze hits our flushed faces. Now it is we who are on a date. It occurs to me that I haven’t tasted her yet, and that I want to. I lean over and whisper that I can’t wait to lick her clit when we’re back in the room, and she nearly slides off her stool.

I open the door. It’s her whale, and our longest date. We’re dressed and ready for the nicest restaurant in the area. I can tell they like their bond being witnessed, and that neither of them expected that bonus when we arranged this. His ease at being around her is gorgeous. The right escort will hold your hand through your divorce like no therapist ever could.

Back in the room, I draw a bath. He gets in, I crawl between his legs, and she sits on the ledge. I reach my left hand back to stroke his hard dick bobbing in the soapy water while leaning forward toward the space between her thighs like the naughtiest little yogini. I slide my free hand over her wetness and her thighs open with a tiny yelp. “Are you ready to have your clit licked by someone who has a clit?” I whisper. She nods, looking the same way she did when I was getting railed and desperate for it to be her turn.

I guide his cock into me from behind, releasing my grip on it. Now I have two hands to work on her and a completely full pussy. I slide a finger in and gently lick the space where her outer lips part. She nearly falls off the tub. Water is sloshing everywhere. We’ll tip the maids so well before we leave. He’s grabbing my hips and thrusting, keeping the rhythm of my fingers. I lick the entire alphabet on her until she swells so much it reveals the tiny rosebud at the center of her clit.

A gush of fluid erupts onto my chin, which makes him explode hot cum deep inside me — my absolute favorite.

We dry off and put on plush white robes. I direct them to the couch. I tell him to sit, then guide her hips on top of him, facing me. I guide her up and down on his dick while kissing her neck and pinching her nipples until they both explode again.

They leave together looking like an adorable couple. I have the room to myself for the night to see someone who’s been following me on socials for a while and wants my complete attention. The change of pace is nice. I’m so turned on from the previous days, and it’s a lovely downshift to give and receive undivided focus.

The next morning, heading to the airport, I think how I barely even need the plane to fly home.

See you in Cambridge, lovers

I was about to announce that my Atlanta tour was full when the email came in; that insistent flag on an inbox I’d just emptied.

Oh. A Jewish NYC native who’d relocated at the end of the pandemic to where his wife’s family was from. Mid-thirties, glasses, Dad bod, executive at a top hotel chain. Happy to arrange a suite for a three-hour rendezvous, would love to book me a spa morning first.

Okay, Mr. Big, I thought, and replied asking for screening & with deposit info. A girl I knew from college was part of the Atlanta Jewish community. It took a while to realize that a girl who takes her good shampoo out of the shower caddy when you visit her at college is not your friend. The kicker? I’d written the essay that allowed her to switch schools after freshman year. She had no idea until arrival that our college was, like most of Connecticut, not fancy at all.

The summer after freshman year of college, she invited me to work at the Jewish summer camp she’d attended as a kid, where she’d get embarrassed by my not being Jewish enough. When we arrived at her home the night before camp, I was in shock. She had two kitchens, and still made me eat off paper plates so that I didn’t disturb…the housekeeper?

I grew up not realizing that my lawyer father didn’t have the same money as people like her. It prepared me to be the class interloper I am professionally now. I didn’t know then she’d clocked me. My parents gave me a weekly allowance; her parents armed her with black cards and a bank account. She laughed that she had no idea what was in it until she had to close it to move.

I remember the second-to-last time I saw her; she was complaining about this guy she had dated and was still chasing. When I tried to relate to her, she snapped that I was turning the conversation back to me. I saw her again briefly at twenty-two, when I was in my first serious exclusive arrangement, excuse me, I mean, relationship. She was irritated that I wasn’t working, because her parents would only pay for her apartment if she did.

“I don’t have a rich boyfriend,” she spat, before bringing along a roommate as a buffer to dinner.

It’s time for a little Jewish geography, I thought, wondering how many degrees of separation existed between the two of them.

I plugged his last name into Instagram. He didn’t have one. But she did. There was her name, her face, and his face—all one. I scrolled further, thinking it couldn’t be, maybe she was his sister-in-law? Nope, the guy she’d been dating–that she didn’t want to introduce me to–was him. There it was, a fancy photo with an anniversary caption. Gah, he was way too cute for her. But then again, she had the right family, even within Jewish country-club land.

Her entire feed was full of promos for an MLM she was a “consultant” at, street shots in Chelsea (right near the last restaurant I waited tables at, thank god I never had to serve her eggs), a fancy hotel suite (#goodtoknowaguy, she’d tagged it), and complaints about being a stay-at-home mom. The ubiquitous “Mommy needs a drink” posts. The only thing she and I ever really had in common was smoking weed. Until now. Her posts stop at 2021, with a milkshake she’d captioned as “Mommy’s magic milkshake.” AHAHAHA I get it, it has booze in it. I’d sooner go to Catholic confession than hear her say that aloud.

2021. Right. When they moved. I looked at my schedule again. Surely I could make something work for the husband of the girl who thought I wasn’t worth eating off her actual plates.

I knew firsthand how grating her nasally complaints could be. I just couldn’t believe she’d bagged this hottie. I suppose that’s subjective, though. I like a man who looks like he could really kick your ass…in Jeopardy.

This was another type of Jeopardy altogether. A few short emails and the ching! of a deposit later, and we were all set.

******************************************************************************

Scenes from The Housemaid rolling through my head, I arrive at the hotel and check into the suite as directed before my spa appointments. There are pink peonies, a note, and a small turquoise box containing the ball necklace from Tiffany’s I’d been wanting for two years.

Jews don’t have saints, but we do have men like this. As I put on makeup and lingerie, I looked at my phone. He was early.

“Sorry,” he’d texted. “I’m just so eager to be with you.”

I told him to come up, my heart pounding.

I pulled him into a warm hug that quickly turned into a standing-up makeout session. He had something in his hand. Non-alcoholic champagne. A man who reads!

I pulled back, smiled, and thanked him for being so thoughtful. “I love that you don’t drink,” he said. “I thought this might be festive.” I poured some out for both of us, took his coat, and pushed him down on the bed. I pulled off his stiff shoes and slowly rubbed his feet. He pulled me on top of him, and suddenly, I might as well have been nineteen again myself.

That’s the thing about dead bedroom guys. There is so much pent-up sexual energy waiting to be released. Soon we were both naked, a tangle of tongues and fingers and sheets.

As I slid the condom over the large, firm head of his cock he groaned. I knew he was closer than he wanted to be.

“It’s okay,” I whispered, “You can just get the first one out of the way, we have time for more.”

My pussy was throbbing, my panties so damp I’d need to carry them out in my purse. My legs over his shoulders, he started to slide inside of me, then immediately yelped.

“OHMYGOD it’s so tight.” His first orgasm arrested us both at that instant, the contractions so powerful I could feel the hot cum shooting into the condom. How badly I wished it was shooting deep into me. His orgasm kept going, pushing me into having a mini one of my own. I stood up and held my hand out.

“Shower?”

He sat on the bench in the large rainfall shower while I massaged his scalp and washed his body thoroughly. He slid soapy hands all over my body, and when we started kissing again, I felt his dick stiffen and rise.

“We should get out before we get too pruny,” I whispered.

Before I knew it, I was on my back on the bed, fluffy white robe laid open while he pressed his fingers into my G spot and tongued my clit gently until I came, slowing down to give me a minute before ramping it up again. I came four times in quick succession, each orgasm stronger than the last.

Bending me over the side of the bed, emboldened by his success, he exploded deep inside me two more times before we took a break to breathe.

“Wow, shit, sorry?” he stammered. “It’s been a while since I’ve…you know…my wife…so tired taking care of the kids.”

“I completely understand,” I said as I stroked his chest. “I’ve never wanted children. But I’ve always enjoyed sleeping with men who do.”

As I kissed him goodbye, I thought, “Eat off that, you fucking bitch.”

Atlantis. The lost city. The mythic city. I’ve always loved the way “Atlanta” sounds — like a place you’re searching for.

I spent a summer here when I was 19, working at a Jewish camp outside the city. I got in trouble for sneaking out to see a boy who wouldn’t commit, so they reassigned me to horseback staff as punishment. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.

The horseback staff was this feral little family that everyone at camp was afraid of. We had total freedom. Every morning I had chicken, egg, and cheese biscuits with sweet tea — I’d never had either before. On my days off I’d wander around Buckhead and eat queso for the first time. I was surprised by how many Jews there were. I fell for a cuter boy while the first one was camping in the Blue Ridge Mountains. At the end-of-summer talent show, they roasted me — someone pretended to be my boyfriend, a unit head, saying “I’ll show you MY unit head.”

I came back to Connecticut wearing cowboy boots, a cowboy hat, and saying y’all. My friends shut it down. I put it all away.

I’m ready to put the cowboy hat back on.

This isn’t just a tour stop — it’s a scouting trip. I’m looking at neighborhoods like Kirkwood, Grant Park, and Ormewood. I want craftsman houses with screened-in porches. I want to be two hours from Charleston, three from Savannah, close to everything instead of five hours from the nearest city like I am in LA.

But mostly? I’m excited about building something here. Ongoing relationships. Regulars in my own backyard. A ragdoll kitten when I have the space. A life.

Here’s what I’m hoping to do while I’m there:

The High Museum of Art

Over 20,000 works in this gorgeous Midtown space — everything from African art to American classics to contemporary pieces. Could be a lovely afternoon together.

Walk the Beltline

22 miles of trail connecting 45 neighborhoods, with restaurants, street art, and the Botanical Garden right off the path. Nothing strenuous, just exploring.

Southern comfort food

Busy Bee Cafe has been serving legendary fried chicken since 1947 — MLK and Obama have both eaten there. Paschal’s was a Civil Rights gathering place. I want the real Atlanta soul food experience.

I’m in Atlanta January 18-20. I’m ready to fall in love with this city all over again — and I’d love for you to be part of that. 😏

Book before the end of the year and I’ll add extra time to your appointment. P411 members get even more.

DateAvivaRuse@proton.me | DateAvivaRuse.com | P411: P269584

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I’ve always been drawn to Savannah. The word itself is beautiful — soft and romantic, the kind of name you’d give a novel’s heroine. And then I learned it’s known as America’s Most Haunted City, and, yes please!

One thing California doesn’t have? Other cities nearby. The next major city from LA is a five-hour drive minimum. Meanwhile, Savannah is two hours from Charleston, three hours from Jacksonville, four hours from Atlanta. The South is spoiling me, and I haven’t even landed yet.

I’ve never been. I’m ready to fall in love so hard I name my next cat after this place.

Here’s what I’m hoping to do:

Ghost tour

This is non-negotiable. Hearse Ghost Tours lets you ride through the haunted streets in an actual converted funeral hearse. Genteel & Bard has been named one of the spookiest ghost tours in the world. I want the full experience — Colonial Park Cemetery, the Sorrel-Weed House, all of it.

Wander the squares

Savannah has 22 historic squares draped in Spanish moss. Forsyth Park with the iconic fountain. Cobblestones and live oaks. This is the city where they filmed Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, and I want to soak in every bit of that atmosphere.

Southern comfort food

Mrs. Wilkes’ Dining Room is legendary — family-style fried chicken, collard greens, sweet potato soufflé. The Pirates’ House has pecan fried chicken in one of the most haunted buildings in the city. I’d also love recommendations.

I’m in Savannah January 17-18. It’s a short trip, but I’d love to be tempted to extend it. I’ll have a car, so feel free to reach out if you’re in the surrounding area.

I’m seriously considering moving to Atlanta in early 2026, and I am hopeful to make this a place I can visit regularly.

Book before the end of the year and I’ll add extra time to your appointment. I hear they like to take things slow down there.

Subscribe now

DateAvivaRuse@proton.me | DateAvivaRuse.com

I only knew one thing about South Carolina before deciding to visit after Charlotte in January, and it was that the prettiest girl in my prep school had a vacation home on Kiawah Island. She was the first girl I was ever attracted to, so I figured it was similarly delightful.

Then I heard buzz—a client here in LA told me that Charleston is the new Austin. When you are hearing about something from that far away, that’s not nothing. Then, when I posted my first tour announcement on Twitter, someone poo poo’d the Coastal South as not “real South.” I was even more intrigued.

Having never been to the state, going in with beginners mind is a joy I don’t often have.

I’m so excited. The accents. The manners. The gentlemen.

Here’s what I’d love to do outside the hotel:

Indulge in Lowcountry cuisine (sans sea meat)

Fried chicken in a haunted Victorian home? Fuck yes Poogan’s Porch. Whole hog BBQ? Okay Rodney Scott. Your favorite place? Best option yet.

Meander through time

A slow afternoon, maybe a break from bed, stepping carefully through cobblestones, watching the sunlight filter through the Spanish Moss decorating the Oak trees. Rainbow Row. It will be nice on my own. It would be even better with a proper guide.

See Art

I won’t miss the Gibbs museum, that’s serious history, seeing as it was founded in 1905. Then the local galleries seem full of beautiful possibilities for unexpected moments that hit pause on the brain in the very best way.

Take in the waterfront

The park. The pineapple fountain! Pitt Street Bridge. Your favorite swimming hole? No challenging hikes, just slow beauty.

I’m in Charleston January 15-17 and I’ll have a car, so if you’re in the surrounding area, I’d love to hear from you.

All bookings confirmed before the end of the year will get extra time added on to the date.

DateAvivaRuse@proton.me

DateAvivaRuse.com

I added Raleigh to the end of a New England tour last September, and it was a smash. I hadn’t been to North Carolina since I was 22 — over a decade. The first thing that hit me was that green. If you know, you know. North Carolina has this electric, almost psychedelic shade of green that doesn’t exist anywhere else. The trees, the grass - it’s more alive than green has any right to be.

I’d been craving Bojangles since I left all those years ago, so naturally, that was priority one. The errands were simple—lube, deposit cash, get chicken—but they took all day. Later, scrolling through DoorDash, I realized it’s nearly impossible to order vegetables in the South without breading, cream, cheese, or oil. I had pulled pork and broccoli casserole. It was fantastic.

I had plans. Maybe hit a museum. Explore the city. But then Hurricane Helene started rolling in.

I watched the weather channel from my hotel. The storm tracker showed Helene barreling toward us. My evening flight to Charlotte got canceled. The airline kept sending notifications—rebooked, delayed, rebooked again. On the TV, a man stood in ankle-deep water. I looked at the screen, then at my phone, and made a decision: I don’t trust an airline that charges for WiFi.

I called, got rerouted through Philadelphia, and snagged the last seat on an early flight out.

By the time I got to the airport the next morning, every single flight to Charlotte was canceled. By 9 AM, I was eating cheeseburger egg rolls in Philly. By evening, I was home with my dog and cat, safe.

Song of the South

I’m coming to Charlotte January 13-16, at a Raleigh lover’s suggestion, crossing my fingers for fewer natural disasters, renting a car this time, and continuing after to Charleston, Savannah (ghost tour, baybee), and Atlanta.

Here’s what I want to do:

Break My California Diet for Carolina BBQ

I’m mostly plant-based, but I eat meat occasionally–and if there’s anywhere worth making an exception, it’s North Carolina. Where should I go?

I keep hearing about Mac’s Speed Shop.

Take me on a leisurely nature walk. I want lake views, flat trails, tree cover, nothing that reminds me I used to smoke or that there’s a hole in the ozone layer. McDowell Nature Preserve? Little Sugar Creek Greenway? A secret trail not many know about?

I also want to immerse myself in art and history. I’d love to see the Bechtler Museum, the Mint Museum, and the NoDa neighborhood. It would be so fun to go together — then we could talk about it afterward.

I’m also curious about Camp North End. A former Ford factory turned creative space? Okayyy.

I’m staying in the Arrowood area, about 15-20 minutes south of Uptown.

I’m available for dates January 13-16. Email me to book at DateAvivaRuse@proton.me, or fill out the form on my site, DateAvivaRuse.com

Now that I have a car again (I bought a Jeep Wrangler in cash a few months ago after a year without a ride), I’ve realized it’s cheaper to park near the airport than to Uber from West Hollywood. I left a bit late, but my flight was delayed by precisely the amount of time I was running behind.

Then I almost missed it anyway because I was waiting at the wrong gate—one of those A, B, C dealies that can be so confusing.

I ran onto the plane, started reading a book of essays called How to Fuck Like a Girl, and just like that, I was in Denver.

Arrival was late, which messed up my schedule—it was straight to an airport hotel, then on to an actual hotel. In both instances, you guys beat me there. Then I discovered that I also messed up my schedule—a client for the following day had changed to this one, and I forgot to note it.

Embarrassing! However, he was happy to wait across the street and have a few cocktails.

The Coaching Session

I generally don’t discuss what happens on dates, but I’m going to bend my rule for this. This gentleman had written on P411 that he really likes to smoke weed during dates, as they are his escape from life. When he offered to bring me whatever I wanted from a dispo, I realized I DO still microdose psychedelics and suggested we do that instead. That way I could maintain my sobriety while also delivering the experience he sought.

He arrived full of joie de vivre and with plenty of shrooms, so we took some and settled in.

While the mild effect worked great for me, it got him existential. Our two-hour date became a neurodivergent coaching session. A profound one. I was so honored to help and hold space, and grateful that I have the skills, wisdom, and training to do so.

I love when you tell me things you don’t tell anyone else.

Because of my schedule snafu, within six hours of landing in Denver, I was done with prebookings, so I made a custom I’d been putting off on the cool hotel platform bed.

Settling In

I’m on a pretty restrictive diet right now per my acupuncturist, and I was still being extremely rigid about it in September. I hadn’t had the opportunity to eat anything I could yet that day, and by nightfall I was HONGRY. I walked to a natural market as the sun set, which was both beautiful and regulating. I then attempted to cook a gluten-free vegan pizza on the stovetop (the cute lil boutique hotel had a whole kitchen!) and it was exactly as awful as it sounds.

Expenses be damned, I threw the sad-faced mess in the garbage, took an Uber and my book to a vegan restaurant, and promptly had a meltdown over undercooked fries, a cold Philly sub, and chairs being put up around me. I talked it out with the manager like the Karen I was born to be and got 50% off my meal. My Jewish grandmother would have been so proud.

Back to the room to eat blueberries, drink chamomile tea, and watch Seinfeld on the projector TV.

Internet Friends

The next day, I set off to meet a sober buddy at Denver Central Market. I’ve only met her in person once, but we’ve stayed connected via Instagram for six years. It was a beautiful day with just the right amount of wind and chill to temper the cloudless blue sky. I got a matcha, put on a murder podcast, and walked the few miles.

We grabbed food—surprisingly easy in Denver to stick to my dairy-gluten-sugar-coffee-chocolate-hot pepper-free diet. We walked for a bit after, and she pointed out a coffee shop she thought I would like, Crema, which I very much did. I journaled there after she went home, enjoying the counterculture vibes. I walked back, stopping to take photos of street art, then spent the rest of the afternoon at my hotel’s rooftop lounge writing about my restaurant meltdown.

The Poetry Reading

That night I did something I’ve never done while touring—read my poetry. The Pearl (formerly the Mercury Café) is Denver’s oldest venue. There’s a Friday night poetry open mic there that’s been running for over twenty-five years. It’s now a sapphic-focused space as of last spring. Even better. Alan Ginsberg, a poet I’ve identified with since college, performed there years ago.

Ginsberg and the Beats were the reason I wanted to get out on the road in the first place. I thought comedy was the vehicle, but it was actually you guys. Even better. The writing of him and his cohort showed me that alternative lives were possible. When I studied under the Beats expert Ann Charters, I finally saw myself and something I wanted: to make art and live free.

Ann had me read a poem I wrote after Howl to the entire 250-seat lecture one day. When I finished, she said, “Ginsberg would be proud.” It was one of the most fulfilling moments of my life.

On to the vegetarian restaurant City O’ City for dinner. My driver was self-deprecating in the most ideal way, making a joke about being on the wrong side of the street from the jump, which led to a really connected conversation—the kind that can only exist between two strangers who are never going to see each other again.

I’d been craving a veggie burger and fries for days, so that’s what I had. The bartender was kind, the people at the bar were cool, and I felt cozy and included. My fries were cooked correctly, as the restaurant wasn’t trying to close and take my money in the same breath. I also saw this quote scrawled in chalk above the bar: Give me everything mangled and bruised, and I will make a light of it to make you weep. And we will have rain & begin again. —Deena Metzger

On Stage

The Pearl was huge. The poetry was in a separate space, which is so crucial for performance. It sucks to be baring your soul to people who just showed up somewhere to drink with their friends.

The room was packed, and they gave you five minutes, two entire minutes (a whole poem) more than you get in places like LA or NYC. I watched a bit, went into the other room to sit on a red velvet couch and answer inquiries, then decided I didn’t actually want to work after this.

I was nervous enough that I ordered a soda water at the bar (which they didn’t charge me for), walked away from it, and didn’t remember it existed for ten minutes. When I went back, the bartender had put it behind the bar for me. Tiny acts of kindness can mean so much. Sometimes I think more than big ones, as they are more pure and easier to receive. If you really want to get on my good side, mix self-deprecating humor with small kindnesses. I’ll melt.

I made sure to tell some poets I liked their work. Then it was my turn. It was the biggest crowd I’d ever performed poetry for—definitely over a hundred people. I thanked everyone for staying and mentioned that I was like, 27th, and got a big, unexpected laugh.

I started in a small and quiet voice. This happens during karaoke sometimes now and used to in comedy: a feeling of being locked inside myself while also outside myself, dissociating. A crowd can make or break a performance, and this one made me. Poetry crowds are so much kinder than comedy crowds, especially when it’s colleagues. There’s nothing really to win in poetry so it’s not as competitive. We’re all in it for the love of expression.

So many eyes looking at me with kindness brought me back into my body; my voice steadied. I got my first big laugh. I’d started with my funniest poem—that was the move. By the time I finished it, I felt stratospherically good. Mile high city, indeed.

I opened to the moment and the mystery, and the poems poured out. I got an applause break—a big, long, packed room, the sound of two hundred hands clapping applause break. I was so in it I don’t know what it was for or even what poem it was, just how good it felt to stand there and soak it in.

Alan Ginsberg would have been proud.

Many people came up to me after, followed me on Instagram, and messaged me the next day asking where they could read these poems.

Not yet, I told them. I haven’t published these. They are new. Soon, I hope. I reflected on the fact that I’d only really started writing poetry again seven months earlier and started entertaining some grandiose ideas about my talent that would be smashed when I bombed in Baltimore two months later, a thing I hadn’t even realized was possible with poetry.

I briefly considered going upstairs to the dance party—a cute girl with angel wings had invited me when I was ordering soda water. Maybe that’s why I forgot it?

Outside, I noticed a group of people talking and felt a familiar sense of exclusion. Transitions can be really challenging for me—going from the thrill of being on stage to just being me again, all by myself in the world, is always jarring. That’s when it hit me that the only reason I feel like that is from doing stand-up for so long, a world in which people talking to you outside the bar after the performance actually does impact your career.

I felt so much lighter realizing that. Neuroplasticity is real.

The Morning After

The next morning, I decided to go to a 12-step meeting in person, a thing I rarely do since there’s been a Zoom option. I ended up at a pretty cool place—The York Street Club, which was founded in 1948. It’s an enormous Victorian mansion built in the late 1800s. Inside there was such a deep feeling of hope and magic—and an insanely stale reek of cigarettes which made so much sense it didn’t even bother me.

There was someone at their first-ever meeting, which was cool to see—the way the group rallied around to help. There was also a disruptive person off the street, and it was just as cool to see how their structure kept things in control.

History. Structure. Joy in groups. Unexpectedly guiding someone through a processing journey about the private pains he never speaks of. Hugging my internet buddy tightly. An applause break during a PO-EM.

That was Denver. I will definitely be back to Colorado.

I’m only going to Philadelphia for one night to see one of my best friends. I mostly know them from an online Autism/ADHD workshop we did together a few years back, but we talk almost every day via voice note. I really want to see their new apartment and whether or not the gentleman will be calling in Philly, so I book a first class train seat.

I am so excited for this train ride. The ones I took on my last trip east were such teases. Somehow I thought “first class” meant some Sandals-style adults only situation that it was most definitely not, but I broke my 45 day no drinking streak at the casino already so it’s bar car for me. Beer! The other noise-canceling headphones!

It’s good weird to go through the entire length of my home state. I look up just as I’m passing the station for the town I grew up spending summers in. My mother still lives there. I look up again and I’m in the town I did stand up for the first time in. The club isn’t there anymore, but the pizza street is.

My train had an electrical problem a few stops in and we are sitting for an hour or so, which is fine, I slip off to get high. As I write this I am planning on quitting weed and being completely sober for a while, just to see how bad it is. I’m fine and all, but I feel like I could go further.

And by go further I mean strengthen the muscle of all my other coping mechanisms. I miss sober clients, though. And I am always forgetting that some clients don’t like when you smoke weed during the date. I don’t need to be high, I guess it’s just something to do for a minute to settle in and get to know or acclimate to someone. I guess I’ll just do jumping jacks when I get back from Hiatus. See how that feels.

So despite the electric and the children and the long long day I am deposited in Philly with daylight remaining. I haven’t been here since I lived in NYC and I was traveling for stand up. I took the Mega Bus then and I liked it! (She did not like it)

Philadelphia has it’s own vibe. It’s a bit like New York without all the money. It’s a bit like Vegas with absolutely no rhyme or reason for that (just a lot of neon). It’s a little bit like an unracist Boston. Most importantly, one of my favorite people on earth lives here.

And now I get to see the apartment that he’s been painstakingly decorating for the past year. I do laundry even though I’m going home tomorrow, exclaim over the houseplants and art.

Soft summer evenings take on a particular kind of magic when they are in a city that doesn’t have them all year–much like dinner at La Plage in Mystic. We walk across a park to a French bistro with excellent reviews and sit outside. I can’t remember the restaurants name so I find the reservation in my phone. It’s even called Parc. Parfait.

The French Onion soup is perfect. I’m so glad I haven’t given up meat yet and that I never tried to be a food writer. I’d get way too philisophical about it. Even now, I’m thinking about how Plato said that nothing is perfect except the idea of perfection.

And, you know, my boobies.

While we wait for our entrees a marching band led by Elmo rolls through the street we’re on the sidewalk on. You know, Elmo. Because that’s what Philly is really known for.

After dinner, the best guy friend on earth (gay) walks me to my hotel. In the lobby there is a sorority reunion so loud I scan the banquettes for Elmo.

I say nothing, but put on my noise canceling headphones while I wait to check-in. The woman at the desk disappears, comes back, and hands me a key for the penthouse floor.

The room is elegant and hushed. I smoke while dancing around the bathroom and fall into a dreamless sleep until the sun rises.

In the morning I have time before I have to fly, so I head over to Reading Terminal. It’s a lot like LA Central Market but more overstimulating. I buy coffee, I’m still working my way through, and a donut, and almost buy some hard-to-find medicinal herbs but the teens working there don’t want to ring anything up or admit they work there, so I left them.

If anyone spots milky oat tops, send them my way! I had pretzels for breakfast because that is the law.

Flying home is so nice because it’s always early in the day in a way that feels surprising.

That and all the cash I’m sitting on provides a nice cushion on the plane.