The other day I had sex with a fuck buddy in his office overlooking Rockefeller center.

It was my favorite kind of sex: just plain fun. A blowjob is a blowjob, but when it happens sitting in an office chair or leaning against a desk full of work papers, it’s just somehow more enjoyable.

I’ve had office sex a few other times over the years, and stripping down with Rocka Fella reminded me of those experiences. Some were good, some were not.

Once, years ago, I met a guy online on gay.com. Though I usually meet guys in public before just going to hook up with them, I made an exception with this one because he wanted me to come have sex in his office, something I’d never done. Besides, I figured, an office is pretty public. At least, during the day.

I arrived at 10PM and met the guy, who of course was not as cute as his pictures. His face looked a bit worn, haggard for his age, which supposedly was 25. He led me through the large workplace, and after several twists and turns we ended up at his office, more of a cubicle but with 6 foot walls that gave it a private feel. Regardless, the building was empty. We chatted a bit, then started fooling around, but in the middle something happened. He opened a drawer, and pulled out cocaine.

“Look what I’ve got!”

I was surprised, confused and a little taken aback. Having never actually done coke, I didn’t recognize it or know at first exactly what he was doing. As he spread a line across the edge of his desk it dawned on me, and I felt a little uneasy, and then a little annoyed. I may not know much about drug culture, but is it normal to stop and do lines in the middle of sex? Finally, I realized the one thing I was most feeling: turned off. The whole experience, from first discovering he didn’t look like his pictures (worn haggard look no longer a mystery) to the unannounced appearance of the nose candy, had me totally unaroused.

“Hey you know what, I gotta go,” I said.

“What’s the matter, man, don’t you want some happy dust?”

“No thanks. That wasn’t the blow I had in mind tonight.”

The next time I had office sex, it was much better, though the title “Office Sex” is debatable. I was working for a free-lance theatre producer, who was just getting started and therefore running his business out of his apartment. He had gotten a big project, so he hired me, under the table of course, and every day I went to his apartment for a few hours to work. The work frequently consisted of me filling out forms and paperwork, while IWannaBeAProducer cruised on Manhunt, often commenting “Look at this one!”

At least it was a gay-friendly work place.

He hired a few other people on and off, one of whom was a cute blue-eyed boy with a smooth, solid body. One day BlueEyes was there, having just delivered some tickets, when IWannaBeAProducer announced that he had to run some errand for a few hours. He told me that he’d see me later, and told BueEyes that he would call when he needed him again. Twenty minutes after he walked out the door, BlueEyes and I were naked on the couch in the living room. Technically we were in an apartment, but it was also an office. And because neither of us lived there and because we could have been interrupted by the boss if he’d randomly came back early, I qualify it as Office Sex.

I did have one other experience in an office, which was fantastic. Several years ago I was briefly seeing a guy who was kind of a hipster back before everyone was trying to be a hipster. Tall and skinny, with long wavy hair and glasses, he was a laid back, Seattle-Grunge meets California-Surfer meets East-Village Art Fag. Cute and fun. MyFirstHipster worked for an advertising agency, and one night brought me to his office, an amazing loft on the edge of TriBeCa. It was total New York new-money chic: enormous open space, taking up half a city block. Hardwood floors, lots of floor-to-ceiling glass walls, trendy modern furniture. In the huge lobby area was a full size pool table, and near the door were leaning six silver scooters.

“C’mon, I’ll show you around,” he said, grabbing one of the scooters.

I looked at him blankly.

“What? We ride around the office on scooters!” He pushed off and glided down the hallway.

Office Sex with MyFirstHipster was really entertaining. We fooled around on his desk, in the kitchen, and in the lobby. And then we had sex on the pool table. It was really hot, but also the kind of fun, relaxed sex that you can laugh through. We did, the whole time making puns about sticks, balls, holes, felt, “in the pocket”, “breaking” him in, and things happening “right on cue.”

Last week, unfortunately, Rocka Fella did not have a pool table in his office. But we still had a great time.

When it was over, Rocka Fella walked me out of the building. As we parted ways on Fifth Avenue, he said, “You better not blog about this!”

I would never.

I was chatting with my friend Travelocigay as we enjoyed dinner outside at HK. We were having one of those deep intellectual conversations that only trendy gay New Yorkers can have.

“So you like your Blackberry?” he asked me.

“Eh, it’s OK,” I replied, “I’m thinking about switching to the iPhone. Either way I hate AT&T.”

“By the way, have you seen the Facebook app for Blackberry?”

“Yes,” I said. “I downloaded it, tried it for about 15 minutes, found it stupid and annoying, and deleted it.”

“Oh, nooo,” he countered. “It’s fascinating!”

“Fascinating?” I mocked, sharpening my wits to ridicule his Mr. Wizard choice of word.

“Yes!” he insisted, before I could say more. “Listen to this. Once you download it, if you do the permissions and settings and whatever, it will scan all the contacts in your phonebook while it searches for friends.”

“So?”

“So,” he continued, “think of how many guys you have saved in your phone as... Guy from Splash or Hot Bartender or...”

I nodded, recalling that through the years I’d amassed several dozen contacts like Chris MH or Matt MH or Steve MH - their last names the same not because they are brothers, but because they are all part of the brotherhood of Manhunt.

Traveocigay went on excitedly, “So it scans all those numbers, and then matches the numbers with Facebook profiles. Because lots of people actually fill in their phone number on Facebook.”

“Wait,” I said struggling to put it all together, “but I’m not Facebook friends with those people.”

“No, but what it comes back with is information that you probably don’t know – like their full name, and often their main profile picture!”

I stared at him. “That IS fascinating!” I exclaimed.

“Watch,” he said, taking out his own Blackberry and searching for my name in his Contacts. He held up the screen, and there next to my name was the picture I had just uploaded to Facebook days prior.

“It continually updates them?” I asked, shocked.

“Yep,” he replied. “And look, it lists your work as well – I never would have put that in. It’s from Facebook.”

“It’s true,” I replied in awe. “I don’t list a lot of personal info, but I do have my company name listed as public. Amazing...”

“So now when I scroll to the trick I just saved as Big Cock Carl... wah lah! His full name, a thumbnail of his face pic, and look! He went to the same college as I did, and he’s a doctor!”

I said nothing, processing exactly how life-changing this could be for my social life.

“You’re downloading it immediately, aren’t you,” he said smugly.

“Immediately. Fascinating.”

New York is a cupcake city. And of the dozens of stores and bakeries that offer their own delicious versions, my all time favorite is Crumbs. Imagine my surprise when one day, returning to my apartment at 5:15pm, I spotted a basket wrapped in clear cellophane sitting in the hallway outside my apartment door. Looking inside, I could see 6 huge Crumbs cupcakes, along with a sleeve of cookies and an envelope. On the envelope were written only 2 words: To Orlando.

I picked up the basket and looked for an apartment number, a delivery slip, anything with a clue to its correct intended owner. Nothing. I brought the basket inside. My first thought as I set it down was, “ I can’t eat all these cupcakes, I’ll get fat.” My second thought was, “I can’t eat all these cupcakes, they don’t belong to me.” I debated what to do as I searched the package again for any indication of its intended recipient. Nothing at all but the envelope which was inside the basket, wrapped in the cellophane, To Orlando.

As much as I wanted to jump right to the conclusion that fate had left the delicious morsels for me outside my door, conscience took over and I decided to do the right thing. I googled the number for Crumbs New York, and dialed. As it rang, I thought that I would simply tell them the building it was delivered to, and they would know the correct apartment number. I’d deliver the basket myself, and the true recipient might be so thrilled that they would reward me with one of the 6 heavenly cakes.

I thought this all out as the phone rang. And rang. And rang. Finally, a voicemail. : “Crumbs is currently closed. Our hours of operation are….” I eyed the cupcakes hungrily. “If you’d like to speak to the operator at our main branch, press 1.” I pressed. It rang. And Rang. And Rang. “Thank you for calling Crumbs. Currently we are closed. If you’d like to leave a message…” I hung up, thinking, Well, I tried.

I left the basket on the counter and headed to the gym. When I returned 2 hours later, my roommate, MuppetDinnerTheater, was home. He was sitting on the couch, eyeing the basket.

“Who’s Orlando?” I asked as I walked in the door.

“I don’t know, but I love Crumbs,” he said.

“Ok, I’ll have you know that I tried to do the right thing,” I said, and told him about calling the store.

“Well,” he replied, “I’ll have you know that I came home at 11am, and the basket was already outside our door.”

“What?”

“And since it obviously wasn’t for us, I left it, figuring that somebody would figure out the mistake.”

“So,” I said, adding things up, “the basket sat there from 11am til 5:30pm. Nobody claimed it, and whoever left it didn’t realize or wasn’t informed of their mistake. Then, we tried calling Crumbs, and they are closed.”

MuppetDinnerTheater nodded, hungrily.

“So now,” I went on, “It is 7:30pm. We tried leaving the basket, we tried calling the store. We don’t know who Orlando is. What else can we do?”

“Well, I guess we can just leave them til tomorrow. Then either we can try calling again, or probably whoever sent them will eventually call when they realize they weren’t delivered.”

“Yes,” I said, “but here’s the thing. Clearly it was Crumbs' screw-up. Why would they just leave them in front of a random door? But more importantly, even if they get told their mistake – what will they do? Will they really come here tomorrow, get these cupcakes that will then have sat in the hallway and our apartment for 24 hours, and re-deliver them? Absolutely not. They already screwed up, they won’t correct it by sending day-old cupcakes. They’ll just send Orlando a new batch.”

“So...”

“So...” We looked at each other.

“WE SHOULD EAT THE CUPCAKES!”

We tore through clear cellophane and inhaled the delicious scent of the sugary frosting. There were 6 different flavors, one more delicious-looking then the next. We finally decided to choose 2, cut them in half, and each sample two different cake-icing combinations. We each took our first bite, and had that euphoric moment of tasting a truly delicious dessert.

“Mmmmmm.”

“Amaaaaazing.”

“Soooooo goooood.”

Our mouths were filled with the moist cake and creamy frosting. In minutes we were on a sugar high. As he stuffed another bite of cake and glob of frosting into his mouth, MupperDinnerTheater said, “Hey! Read the card!”

I reached for the mysterious envelope, leaving a smudge of chocolate frosting over the “To Orlando” as I tore it open. Inside was a simple white card. I opened it, and almost spit a mouthful of cupcake across the room as I read the 4 handwritten lines.

Hi Orlando,

Hope you are feeling better and the surgery went well. Get well Soon!

Best, Joanna

MuppetDinnerTheater stopped chewing, and stared at me, half-eaten cupcake in his hand. I stared back, and for a moment we were silent. Then he said, “We are going to hell.”

“Totally.”

Another minute of silence passed. Finally, he spoke again. “Do you want another?”

“Totally.”