Sorry Boys. Suzy Went and Got Herself a Man.


Sometimes, people come into your life, depart and you remember them fondly. Sometimes you think about past relationships and feel anger. In the case of my “new” boyfriend, it was a mixture of fondness, anger, and wonder.

Where did he go?

Why didn’t he ever try to contact me?

Why did he treat me so badly at the end?

Does he still think about me?

It was hot. I was pissed off and angry at being dumped by my lover of two years and eight months. Blindsided. Furious. Pained. I was walking in a very crowded Herald Square, 34th Street and 6th Avenue to be exact, when I heard his voice.

“Hey, I know you!”

I whipped around, recognizing the voice immediately and scanned the crowd. There he was. Twenty years later. We spoke for about two minutes. He was working, I had an appointment. We embraced and I said “I never thought I would see you again.” He looked me up and down, touched my colorful arms full of tattoos  and said “I like…” His partner was resting against a subway entrance and becoming impatient. We spoke a few jumbled words and made plans to try and find a way to get in touch with each other. I’m “friends” with his brother and sister on Facebook, so I told him I would contact one of them. I didn’t have to. He called his sister right away and said “You have to get her number for me.”

Several hours later, I logged onto Facebook and there was the message from his sister. She wrote that he had contacted her and wanted my phone number. I gave it to her and then the communication began to flow.

He wanted to get together that night. I didn’t really care. I was in the midst of a broken heart and had just started online dating. I did know that I wanted to see hims and that we would have fun, platonic or not.

We learned a lot about each other that night. He apologized for his asshole behavior twenty years prior. We spoke about the scandal, started catching up, never quite finishing a story. I was drinking a bottle of wine and smoking my cigs. He was doing his own thing and we were having a great time. I got up to use the bathroom and as I was about to turn around to shut the door, there he was. Our faces inches away. He asked if he could kiss me and I said yes.

And twenty years later we kissed again.

The night flew by, we ended up in bed and it was almost as if no time had passed at all.

The next morning we had coffee in his backyard and I left. I was confused. I really liked him. I couldn’t help it! He was my first great love! However, I was ready to start going boy crazy again. He seemed to be eager to start right where we left off and it was something I pushed to the back of my mind.

We started hanging out more frequently and it was only a couple of weeks before he told me he loved me. I was reluctant to reciprocate that sentiment. I didn’t know if I loved him in that way. I was hurt and I was holding back.

It’s been three months and yes, I have reciprocated those sentiments to him. I mean it too. It’s so strange. We had this intense love affair in 1993 and 1994 and we’re in the middle of another intense love affair in 2015, but it’s different. There’s a level of comfort from knowing him and where he’s from and his family and finally catching up on his past, but it’s more than that. He’s a wonderful man. A kind, generous, romantic lover and someone I can imagine spending the rest of my life with.

I’m still not divorced (so ridiculous, I mean, really…) and I know that bugs him never being engaged or married himself, but I introduced him to my girl this weekend and it was perfect.

I feel like it’s perfect.

There is much more to the story than I want to bore you with in this post, but I had to let everybody know that Suzy has a boyfriend! And she’s happy.

To read a bit more about our past together, check out

The Departed: Part I

The Departed: Part II

Great Loves #1


Suzy Queue




Oh God, No. He’s Gay?

I had it all planned out. I was chatting it up with this awesome and totally cute tattoo artist  on Instagram and it turns out he’s moving to Brooklyn this month. Whaaat? Can you say opportunist?? I had been following his work for some time and it was a perfect fit. I love girl tattoos–girly tattoos, but also tattoos of girls and he does both perfectly.

Like I wrote before, I had it all planned out. I was going to make an appointment with him here in Brooklyn, we would hit it off instantly. I would make another appointment with him (I like tattoos) and at that point he would say “Let’s just get to it, I like you and you like me–let’s go out.” And we would live happily ever after.

I tell my older sister who is the anchor to my cloud my amazing fantastical opportunity for everlasting love and she responds, in her usual deadpan way “I think he’s gay.”




How could it be?

After I had told her my plans for the future, she took a gander at his Instagram and noticed a couple of photos where a conversation took place between my dream tattoo artist and another artist we know and who he will be working with right here in Brooklyn. “Yeah, she said, I can’t remember exactly, but it was something about can’t expose name being the queen of tattooing and I noticed there were a few of those comments and in one of the photos, he even called himself a queen. You should read the conversations more and stop looking at the pictures.”


I’m going to spend the next hour or so searching through his photos and looking for these supposed conversations, and I’ll still book an appointment or two with him because I just adore his work, but c’mon man…

It was the perfect match.



He was the one I saw across the bar with a smile and laugh that penetrated the seedy, smoky, vomit scented air. He was the one I was too scared to approach. He was the one I made my sister strike up a conversation with just so I could have an excuse to talk to him. He was the one I went home with that night. He was the one who told me it was my smile that could light the entire world. He was the first one I dated who lived in his own apartment. He was the one who encouraged me to stop fucking around in dives and with drugs and to get my shit together. He was the one who gave me the ultimatum: cocaine or him. He was the one who took me by the hand to fill out my college applications. He was the one who read my poetry and told me I should be a writer. He was the one who told me I was smart. He was the one who gave me my first orgasm.  He was the one who I could depend on, no matter how much time had passed, to give me his strong shoulder to cry on. He is the one I still call whenever I need a shoulder to cry on. He was the one who made me feel as strong as I know I am now.  He was the one who saved all of my love letters.

He was the one.

The Departed: Part II (Kurt and Courtney)


If you missed part one, you can read it here.

Summer was coming to a close and The Departed was thrown out of college with no aspirations to enroll in a local school, find work or doing anything other than drink and do drugs. I was entering my senior year of high school and only had a few classes to finish up before I earned my diploma, so I had a fairly short schedule. I was considered part of the “stoner” crowd in High School” (this was after my short stint as a cheerleader during my Freshman and Sophomore years) and I didn’t mind at all hanging out with The Departed and the rest of his junkie friends. They were fun and adventurous. We did some crazy shit…

The Departed and I began to become super close. We started spending all of my time after school together until about midnight each night. It was becoming increasingly harder for me to concentrate on my school work, but I said “fuck it!” It was my senior year! We smoked pot all day, drank a few beers, and dropped acid or ate shrooms and just laughed and wandered and fucked our teenage brains out. (

The Departed and I taught each other how to fuck. Fuck. Smoke. Fuck. Smoke. Fuck. Smoke. Acid. Fuck. Smoke. Fuck. Shrooms. Fuck. Acid. Beer. Fuck. Smoke again. Fuck again… You get the idea…

Before The Departed I had never really FUCKED. We experimented like sexual scientists. We played games. We made bets, the loser had to do this, the winner got that. Since I had my attic “apartment” and a Mom in the early stages of MS who would never venture up the two long flights of stairs to check up on me, The Departed and I turned that attic into a drug and alcohol infested love den. It wasn’t long before I was ditching school altogether just to hang out with him. His parents worked, so we could hang out in his house or outside during the day and in my love den at night. Of course, we went out a lot too. I had friends with similar drug and alcohol interests and MB was still dating The Departed’s best friend, so we weren’t locked together in solitude. We had our circle, but everybody knew that The Departed and I were tight and together we were in trouble.

It was a cold night in the late fall or early winter of 1994 when we were hanging out at the teenage dive bar Vic’s.  The guys all wanted to take a walk and The Departed asked me to tag along; he wanted to show me something. We arrived in a backyard or an alley when one of his friends pulled out a small bag of white powder and a key. They passed it around, each taking two scoops–one for each nostril. When the bag came around to me, I was scared, I had never done cocaine before and as adventurous and fucked up as I was, I knew this was big. I shook my head side to side when the key came around to me. The Departed pulled me over and asked me what was wrong, didn’t I want to have fun? The sex would be so good and he promised me (I will never forget this), he promised me that he would never do anything to hurt me. I took the key. I took the blast up each nostril and from that night forward, we became Kurt and Courtney-holding each other up in a drug and sex fueled relationship that was, looking back on it, wild and dangerous.

It wasn’t long before The Departed and I added the white powder to our regimen of weed and booze. We still fucked around with the hallucinogens, and we still kept our friendships with our respective friends somewhat in tact, but that white powder had us handcuffed to one another. His good friend Toby, was a major coke head and had all of the connections we needed to get our fix whenever and where ever we were.  As two unemployed teenagers it was difficult to afford the white powder. A lot of of it was “gifted” or shared, but most of the time The Departed just stole money from his parents. They never noticed, and if they did, they didn’t said a word. So many dollars up the nose and filling our lungs, fucking with our brains and transporting us into a world of beautiful illusions.

Back to the sex. We fucked like rabbits and in our 420, white powder, boozed up, hallucinatory state, we became increasingly less cautious about our lives. One night we after a few straight days of powdering my nose, I started riding him in my twin bed. I had just done a few lines right before I hopped onto his cock and started writhing and pressing and moaning. I dropped my head down to find his lips and we swirled the taste of the powder around each other’s mouths. I threw my head back in ecstasy, still grinding my pussy into his cock when I looked down at his face. It wasn’t a face of ecstasy. It was a face of fear. “Baby, baby, stop, stop…your nose…” I reached up and touched my nose and felt a small drip of blood. A few seconds later it was a gush. His dick was still inside of me and my nose was splattering blood all over our naked bodies. He gently lifted me off of him and laid me on my back, propped my head up with pillows and squeezed my nose with one hand, frantically looking for anything to stop the bleeding with the other. It WAS the scene from Pulp Fiction, only my heart didn’t stop.

“That’s it, baby, we gotta stop. This is outta control.” He said to me with blood splattered face and a bath towel pressed up against my nose. I nodded weakly. We were gonna stop. We were gonna stop. We were gonna stop.

For two weeks.

Two weeks in the life of a teenager is like two years. The inside of my nose had healed up, we were being very good–just smoking weed and fucking and holding hands and loving each other, but the addiction was there. We 17 and 18 years old and drug addicts. Fucking drug addicts. And we were known for it. We were revered for it. It was 1994 and we were Brooklyn’s own Kurt and Courtney. Everybody knew when we showed up, the party would be a good one. Everyone knew how much we loved each other and everybody knew we were fucking junkies. They loved us.

For all the wrong reasons.

Stay tuned for the ending.  “The Departed: Part III: The Departure” coming soon.

The Departed (A Love of My Life in Three Parts)

I was 17, and besides my first and short relationship with The Beautiful Puerto Rican, I was still shy and terribly inexperienced sexually. (Besides a one night stand with an older guy who took complete advantage of my 16 year old drunkenness…I still cringe when i think about what he did to me…nothing perverse, but nothing I wanted either…I suppose it was date rape, but that’s a whole other post.) There was a local dive that all the teenagers went to. Vic’s Moonbeam. It was a silver building with no fire exit and a few windows. Crowded from wall to wall with drunk teenage Brooklynites. They didn’t card a soul and I’m not even sure if the bartenders were of legal age.

I had gone there a few times with my girlfriends, looking to get drunk and possibly hook-up, but like I wrote, I was shy and didn’t realize how to use my sexuality or appearance to attract boys. One night as I was sitting in one of the three torn up booths, a guy approached my sister and me. He was 18, just graduated from one of the most prestigious Catholic BoysHigh School in Manhattan and I didn’t know it then, but a completely wild and self-destructive male. He asked us if we had any rolling papers, we responded that we did not, he said a few slurred words and was off.  Watching him walk away, I saw the danger and I wanted it. And him.

The next weekend came and went and there was no sign of The Departed. Another weekend flew by and I still couldn’t find him. The next weekend we met again. My mind is so foggy from all that I’ve been through, I can’t remember how we started talking or what happened to get us to leave together, but leave together we did. Much like The Beautiful Puerto Rican, I found myself on the hood of a parked car, making out like a mad woman with someone who would become a person to forever change my life.

The next week, unable to go to Vic’s for some stupid reason or another, i found out that he had made-out with a classmate of mine. Christina. I hated her. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but she was super smart, fun and had all of the confidence that I lacked. The next morning, my best friend MB, called me and broke the news. “Christina hooked up with The Departed.” I WAS FURIOUS. This girl had already swooped in on another guy in school who I was too afraid to approach and I wan’t going to let it happen again. I never got to thank Christina, for helping me find that confidence and aggression that  I was severely lacking.

Another week passed and another weekend at Vic’s was planned. The Departed was there. Christina was not. I sat with The Departed for most of the night, drinking and talking when he asked if I wanted to go for a smoke. Of course I did! We left Vic’s and turned onto the same corner where we had kissed a few weeks earlier. I pulled out a pack of Newports. He pulled out a perfectly rolled joint. I was, at that time, a smoker and a stoner, so that’s what we did. We smoked and got stoned and sat on the sidewalk and laughed and before we knew it we were on the soft row of grass that lines many Brooklyn neighborhoods (in the nicer areas) wrestling with each other, kissing and then back on top of another hood of someone’s car. (I can only imagine the imprints they awoke to as they blearily walked over to their vehicle, dreading work or bringing the kids to school or what ever it was that “grown-ups” did inside their cars as opposed to on top of them…)

A few days later he called. He wanted to hang out and bring a friend. I called MB. She was a known slut, so of course she was down to keep me company. The four of us sat on a park bench, getting stoned, telling stories, one upping each other and then we separated into the vast darkness of Marine Park.

He pressed me up against a tree and wrapped his arms around both of us. We were already in love. It was electric. Sparks were flying everywhere. Before I knew it, I had one more sexual act to check off my list. My first blow-job. Oh, man, I had no idea what I was doing, but he seemed to like it, so I figured I was doing it right. He came and I jumped away from the surge like it was toxic waste. He laughed, pulled up his pants, looked at his watch and we saw it was close to 3 AM. MB and her new friend were nowhere to be found. The Departed told me he would walk me home and he did–halfway. I remember thinking “I just gave this guy my first blowjob against a tree in Marine park and he can’t walk me all of the way home? What kind of shit is that?” I suddenly became conflicted.

“He’s leaving for college in a few weeks anyway, and I’m going into my senior year of high school, so fuck him!” I thought to myself. Until the next day when he called to apologize for not walking me home all the way. He admitted it was a dick move and wanted to know if I wanted to see him again, just the two of us. So we did. Back to Marine Park in the daytime, getting high, holding hands, and then of course, well…I don’t have to repeat myself.

When you’re a teenager, there aren’t too many places you can have sex with your boyfriend, I mean it’s not like “you’re place or mine?” Luckily, my Mom had converted the attic of our home into 2 bedrooms. One for me, one for my brother, separated by a hallway for privacy. My Mom was pretty naive herself and all she had to hear was that he was an Irish-Catholic and he was approved. I told her we were going to listen to music upstairs and she said she would call us down for dinner. That’s the first time we had sex and that was, non technically, my first apartment. That’s where we hung out. It was in the attic, so we could smoke out the windows and the smell wouldn’t travel down the attic stairway, secured by a door on the outside. We could roll around in my twin sized bed, throw blankets on the floor if we needed more room and man, it was fun. It was the first “real” sex I was experiencing.

Heartbroken, he had to leave for college a couple of weeks later. MB was still fooling around with his friend and I hung out with their group for a while. My “Gang” was still around, but there was football camp and new boyfriends and girlfriends and we were on our own that summer. Onto our own new adventures with out each other’s  protection or approval.  We said goodbye to each other and while he was away, I kissed one of his friends–ugh–this guy was a complete jerk. It’s a kiss I’ll regret forever.

About ten days later, I get a call from The Departed.

“Hey! How are you? How’s college?”

“I’m home.”

“What? For how long? For the weekend?”

“No, forever, I got thrown out.”

Classes hadn’t even started yet when The Departed attended a big Freshmen and got it into his mind that it would be a great idea to drive around campus, completely wasted in some girl’s car. Crash. Boom. Bang. Drove right into the Statue of some Saint standing right in the middle of the quad. Expulsion was immediate.

We were back in Brooklyn. And the stories continue…

Crash. Boom. Bang

Stay tuned for part two.