Google Groups Subscribe to The Spin Cycle
Browse Archives at

Wednesday, October 07, 2009

Deep Inside Mancunt, or Bucko's Adventures in Barebacking, Part 10: Party Girl

I stared at my computer screen and contemplated the message one more time before hitting send:

“You rest on my brain like a pool of anti-freeze.”

The intended recipient of this note was a man whom I’ve named B36. The riots of our first encounter, described when they were still very fresh in my mind, had passed only about two weeks prior. I was knee-deep in the doldrums and nausea caused first by the UTI I suffered in May, 2006, then the response to the toxic antibiotics prescribed to treat it, finally by the food poisoning I gave myself with Izzy’s dicey spaghetti sauce. After an enforced three-week’s time-out, I was ready to climb back into the saddle, and couldn’t think of anyone whom I wanted to ride harder or put away wetter than B36.

If my encounters with Dawg were a careful minuet of role play and control, those with B36 were a meringue of limit-shattering, excessive lust. For the rest of the summer, they acted as the twin, though hardly exclusive, loci of my sexual (and, increasingly, emotional) attention. If Dawg limited our escapades, B36 positively wallowed in them. And until Hector upped the ante considerably six weeks later, I found that B36, not Dawg, was the more considerate and inclusive fuckbud of the two.

But at the time I sent him that message, B36 was just another in a steady stream of possible fuckholes I wanted to seed, and I wanted him terribly.

He responded a few days later, while I was at work and away from the computer. Though perhaps taken slightly aback by my word-picture, he was as anxious for a repeat as I, and he came by after having phoned me that evening. I reminded him of my address, and within the hour was at my door.

Although I have described his face as “an Aztec painted by Picasso”, he was actually very handsome, with an interesting combination of angles and a roundness I hadn’t remembered: curly hair that was beginning to gray, a pleasant, round unlined face, and an ample backside on a torso where every muscle seemed wrapped in a pillowy layer of healthy flesh, just shy of six feet tall. Being neither plump nor lean, he was just naturally, sweetly full and lush. He voice was as I remembered it: soft and masculine and intelligent, without a trace of Spanish accent.

I performed a preliminary inspection as he walked into my kitchen. He was dressed for an evening out in expensive, low-rise jeans, a light-weight sweater and rather expensive shoes. I was, as usual, in board shorts and flip-flops, which I removed in the kitchen immediately after his arrival. Our deep, open-mouthed greeting kiss betrayed the fact that he’d been drinking alcohol: it was heavy on his breath and his demeanor was sluggish instead of speedy and electric.

Our facesucking continued, his hands gripping my nipples, as we crab-walked from the kitchen, down the short hallway, into my bedroom. We paused in the narrow three-foot space between the footboard of my bed and my oversized TV. Pushing him down, first to suckle on my tits, then further on his knees, I gripped my hard-on and fed it into his open mouth. Gripping the back of his head, I pulled his head toward me until I was tickling his tonsils, fucking his throat. He gasped and tried to pull back, but I would have none of it and gripped his head tightly, pulling his hair until his full lips nearly touched my pubes: only then did I pull his head back and off me, lifting his face and hurling a gob of spit on his forehead.. His eyes, though slightly glazed showed enthusiasm, so with two fingers from each hand I opened his mouth at its corners and pulled it back on my now-pulsing dick. B36 reached up and pulled on my tits, wobbling on his knees.

But this second attack overwhelmed him, and the enthusiasm in his eyes flashed into a panic. With a gurgling sound he pulled his face back abruptly. Strings of thick, gooey saliva and remnants of his dinner and several alcoholic beverages came out of his mouth in a reflex of vomit, running down his jeans and onto my Tibetan carpet in a small, chunky puddle. He turned his face up to me with a look of regret mixed with slight mortification in his enormous brown eyes and began muttering an apology. Lifting him by his armpits and assuring him that apologies were unnecessary, I steered him into the bathroom and ran a warm shower. I undressed him with tenderness and guided him into the large, two-man shower stall, pointing to a bottle of body wash in the built-in niche.

With B36 rinsing off, I moved quickly into the kitchen, and grabbing a roll of paper towels went into the bedroom to clean the (mercifully small) puddle on my rug. Throwing on my shorts, I wadded up the soiled clothes and walked around the darkened house to where the washer and drier were kept in a plastic shed around back, putting them though a light wash. Returning to the apartment, I rejoined him in the shower and we soaped each other up gently. Stepping out of the shower, I prepared two different mouth rinses: salt-water followed by Listerine. He quickly followed, leaving me to shut off the water as he stood dripping and gargling at the sink.

As I wiped his legs off with a towel, I asked him if he felt up to continuing.

“I am if you are”, he replied.

I smiled and nodded, and after he’d spit out the last of the Listerine, we kissed deeply, locked into each other’s arms.

Understanding that he wasn’t in the right state for rough treatment, I purposely kept things in a soft, romantic mood, kissing and stroking with sweeping caresses and a minimum of the type of gymnastics to which I’d been accustomed by that time. After about an hour of (relatively) gentle fucking, I let a load of seed explode up his wide, soft ass and we curled up in a spooning embrace, breathing deeply.

“Will you stay the night?”

“You want me to?”

“Oh yeah…you feel great. You comfortable?”


I got up, threw on my shorts and went out to put his clothes into the drier, returned to bed and curled up tight into his broad chest and big arms.

He woke me early, asking after his jeans and sweater. In a groggy wobble, I retrieved them from the drier and handed them to him, offering some tea. He showered my face and neck with nibbling kisses, declined the tea, thanked me for “a great night” and left as I crawled back into bed for a few more hours sleep.

About a week later, I had a rare Saturday night off from work, and had been on Mancunt for about fifteen minutes when B36 sent me a note asking as to my plans for the evening. I replied that I had nothing specific planned but would love to see him if he wanted. Several minutes later he replied that he was “at a party with some friends” and wondered if I could find my way to Plantation, a suburb south and west of my neighborhood. Contemplating what, precisely, a “party” might entail, I asked who was there and received a short list of about four screennames. I pulled up their profiles: nothing dreadful, nothing spectacular. Everybody seemed to be “real Joe” types between thirty-five and fifty with non-flashy profiles: mostly disembodied ass and dick shots. Aside from the host (B36: “my friend Jack”), they all self-described either specifically that they were poz or else leaving it blank, and as versatiles or bottoms, which meant that my dick would be in high demand. Flicking ideas around for a moment, I requested directions and called a cab after a brief shower.

The address was much further away than I’d have liked, and as I peeled thirty dollars from the forty in my pocket and handed it to the driver, I wondered what, precisely I’d gotten myself into that far out of town. The house, an enormous, rambling piece of mid-70s-vintage South Florida real estateJeep parked out front I’d have had no way of knowing whether or not I was on a wild-goose chase. Stepping up on the slab under the light, I pushed the doorbell, but heard nothing. all on one level, seemed deserted, except for the cars in the driveway. The light over the door was the only one lit, and if it hadn’t been for B36’s

Waiting several minutes without a response, I shook my head and tried again…still nothing. Fishing for my phone, I thumbed through my contacts until I saw B36’s name and pushed call, hearing several rings as my heart sunk: walking home would be at least two hours, and through some iffy sections of SoFla I wasn’t anxious to explore on foot in the middle of the night. On the fifth ring, B36 answered with his velvety soft baritone, asking where I was.

“Out front… I’ve rung the bell twice.”

“Oh,” he seemed startled, “I’ll let you in.”

Moments later he appeared at the door wearing a camouflage-print, box-cut bathing suit and black sneakers, and ushered me through, giving me a kiss and pulling me close. “Glad you could make it.”

“No problem,” I said.

His demeanor was cool and relaxed, not jittery or tweaking. He seemed genuinely happy to see me. The bathing suit was stretched tight across his wide, bounteous backside as he walked me through a number of darkened rooms, all decorated at some point between 1978 and 1985 and unchanged since; pastel brushstroke prints, oak, brass and smoked glass were much in evidence. Aside from the obviously dated décor, my immediate impression was one of complete disregard for house-keeping: what wasn’t stained with filth or caked with dust was cluttered with a mindless detritus of magazines, newspapers, moving boxes left half-unpacked and large, black trashbags as much as I could make out in the tenebrous maze we traversed. The air smelled of mold and cats.

Eventually I saw lights on at the end of a long hallway, and that’s where we headed.

Turning left, we entered a large bedroom. Against the far wall a king-sized platform bed of cheap, clear oak trimmed with gleaming brass projected into the room. The mattress was thin in a way that suggested it was either very cheap or very old and was covered in a pilly baby blue poly-blend fitted sheet. Laying on it were two entirely unremarkable men in their early forties, one deeply tanned the other ghost-white, both stark naked. We nodded to each other as B36 made cursory introductions, instantly forgotten. Neither was recognizable from the profiles I’d been sent.

I looked to my right and saw a large oak entertainment center which I recognized from my days selling the cheap shit: veneered over MDF with a heavy, rounded trim. The old black plastic TV inside was off, its rounded screen giving a distorted reflection of the room. Above it was a sixty-inch flatscreen mounted on the wall playing bareback porn with the volume turned on mute. Predictably dull trance music blared from speakers on top of the entertainment unit, tinny and without any bass.

To my left was a bank of mirrored sliding closet doors perhaps fifteen feet long in front of which was a heavy-duty, hand-made wooden frame holding a black leather sling, into which B36 climbed without fuss. Having removed the bathing suit, he slipped his sneaker-shod feet into straps and bid me to approach. As I stepped between his legs, I pulled my T-shirt off with a tug and opened my jeans, letting them fall in a puddle around my calves. I leaned in and we sucked face hard, his hands immediately found my nipples and began tugging. Bending up slightly, I noticed a round mirror-topped table to our left with several bottles of lube, poppers, and a can of Maximum ImpactEros and slicked my dick, confirmed that his hole was properly lubricated and pushed into his ass without resistance. wrapped in a blue bandana. I reached for a bottle of

I grabbed hold of the chains suspending the sling and began pulling him toward me in long, even sawing motions; nearly out then all the way back in measured strokes.B36 reached for a bottle of poppers, holding it under his nose and inhaling deeply with a soft moan of satisfaction.

After several minutes, a tall, lanky pale man in his mid-40s with a long, fat flaccid cut penis wandered in, and I was introduced to Jack, the host. Releasing the chain, I crossed my right arm in front of my chest and shook his hand, smiling. He took it, smiling, and told me to continue.

“J**** needs some good fucking, glad you came over.”

“Thanks for inviting me.”

Jack slapped my ass and bade me to continue, as B36 “never gets enough”, he chuckled.

“You want some?” I offered.

“Nah…not right now.”

Jack sauntered over and pushed his way on to the bed with the other guys, fingering a glass pipe. Reaching into the bookcase headboard behind him, he found a lighter and sparked it, lighting a mini butane blowtorch, rolling the pipe over the flame before offering it to his companions. They each took hits, exhaling the vapors into Jack’s mouth.

Looking into my eyes, B36 asked how I was doing.

“I could use a drink” I offered.

Nodding, he released my tits, pushed himself off my dick in a swinging motion and clambered out of the sling, bidding me to follow him as he pulled the bathing suit back over his butt in a moment of strange modesty. I was naked and drooling a mix of pre-cum and silicone-based lube onto the floor.

Following as he padded his way back through the darkened house on creaky parquet floors, we turned left at a round, glass-topped table (decorated with a forlorn, artificial Christmas tree, despite its being June), and made our way into one of the filthiest kitchens I’ve ever seen. The white Formica counters and cabinets (trimmed in a nameless blonde wood) were splattered and encrusted with ancient evidence of food having once been prepared there. Cat food tins were open everywhere, the congealing contents unlikely to find any takers, and piles of fast-food bags both in and out of the many trashbags and cardboard boxes piled everywhere betrayed Jack’s poor diet. An odiferous, overflowing catbox sat on the floor.

Opening the fridge, B36 pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to me. Grateful that it was a sealed container, I took it, thanking him, and suggested we have a cigarette.

“Out by the pool’s OK”, he said, pointing in the direction of several sliding-glass doors. “Jack doesn’t smoke.”

I retraced our steps back to the fuckroom, grabbed my pack of smokes and lighter from my jeans, and found my way outside to the poolside lanai, where B36 was waiting. A spotlight clicked loudly as it came on, activated by a motion sensor that I’d tripped as I walked around. The water in the pool was a dull, unhealthy green.

Offering him a cigarette, I took one and lit them both. After a moment or two looking around, we made eye contact.

“You guys have a regular thing?”
B36 exhaled and thought for a moment.

“Jack was much more fun before he became”…inhale…“obsessed.”


“His ex…” B36 gave me a telling look of disappointment. “He got hurt badly.”

“Sorry to hear it.” I was mildly curious but not enough to enquire further.

“You’ll see.” B36 tamped out his half-finished cigarette in a dead potted plant, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “It’s his drama.”

I nodded. Some things are just beyond rational consideration, and the house was obviously a neglected, inherited wreck. Undoubtedly there was a backstory there, though I couldn’t really summon much interest in it. Taking a final drag on my cigarette, I leaned in and kissed him with a full, open mouth, inhaling, as he twirled my nipples between his fingers.

“Let’s go back inside,” I suggested, pushing my cigarette butt into another dead plant.

When we got back into the fuckroom, Jack was sitting with his back on the bookcase headboard, a laptop balanced on his thighs, typing furiously.

B36 looked at him: “Who’s on line?”

“Got a couple of guys coming over.” He pushed some buttons, and the porn disappeared from the widescreen, replaced by the familiar blue and orange of a Manhunt mailbox. Tapping on his laptop, a profile suddenly appeared onscreen: a top/versatile I recognized without ever having contacted him. “Waddya think of him?”

B36 walked over and studied the screen as if it were an old master at the Prado, turned to Jack and shrugged. “I dunno…seems nice.” I had the feeling B36 was in the mood for something spicier than the bland vanilla that his profile suggested. “Who else?”

Jack pulled up a different profile, a couple in their late forties, who seemed to survive on nothing but steroids, antiretrovirals and Elbow Grease. As Jack sat clicking on his keyboard, a pic appeared with them backing up doggy-style on a double-headed dildo of impressive dimensions. Moments later it changed to one obviously taken during Disney’s Gay Days, was all beaming smiles and hair gel and sunglasses and Disney T-shirts, Minny Mouse’s gloved hands on each of their shoulders, her enormous head partially obscured.

“Cute” I moaned in my throat with a cutting sarcasm. “Why do guys include those kinds of pictures in their Manhunt profiles?”

The over-tanned guy on the bed spoke up: “Those guys’re actually a lot of fun.”

“Well, as long as I don’t have to put on a Goofy suit I’ll be OK,” I intoned sardonically, which at least got some laughs.

I approached the bed, my dick at half-mast, and beckoned the two guys over to the edge. Grabbing both heads, one with each hand, I pulled their mouths to my tits, imploring them to nurse. The tanned guy performed perfectly, with the right amount of suction and using his top teeth and tongue. But the pale guy bit down. I jerked his face back and slapped it with a light but forceful insistence: “Not rough…not yet, anyways,” I scolded, “Suck, and flick it with your tongue.” His technique improved immediately and I rewarded him with a “Good boy…keep that up, watch what happens.”

On cue, my dick rose immediately, the head pulsing, strings of pre-cum drooled in thick streams almost immediately. Pale guy stroked and tugged, spitting into his palm occasionally as I groaned, pushing my hardon into his clenched fist.

“Bucko is totally hard-wired. It’s amazing to see.” B36 remarked to the two guys busy at their task. “He really loves that.”

“Actually, I need that,” I corrected.

Spitting on my right hand, I reached past Tanned Guy’s limp, cut cock and low hangers and rubbed his perineum and lubed hole back and forth, quickly inserting my index and middle fingers into his needy gash. I pushed his head off my chest and he fell on to the bed. With sure confidence, I lifted his legs and squatted, fingering his ass with rapid, insistent strokes. Looking down at Pale Guy, I told him to continue what he was doing and inserted the head of my dick into Tan Guy’s anus. Sensing no resistance, I plowed forward and, with two strokes, buried the length of my pulsing dick into his eager hole as he moaned a low, hushed wail.

After about twenty minutes, it was time to switch out and I slipped out of Tan Guy. Telling Pale Guy to assume doggy position, I entered him roughly with no preparation. Tan Guy stood on the bed, straddling Pale Guy’s trunk and fed me his limp dick as he pulled with steady surety on my highly aroused tits. Waves of pleasure coursed throughout my body as I shuddered and twitched in a rhythm of tension and nervous release.

Tan Guy looked down with an air of slight disappointment. “Did you cum?”

B36, who’d been fucking himself with a smallish dildo in the sling spoke out. “Oh no. That’s what Bucko does. He can go for hours like that.”

Between heaving breaths I stammered “It’s what I call a full-body orgasm. It’s what happens when I’m plateauing. Believe me, you’ll know when I’m cumming.”

“He’s loud.” B36 confirmed.

Jack reemerged with the couple he’d invited over. They looked somewhat older and more portly than expected but otherwise conformed to their pix. One of them grabbed the balls from the dildo B36 had up his ass and began fucking him with it. His partner undressed first him, then himself, then squirmed onto the bed, waiting his turn, ass in the air. I reached over and diddled his ass, open and wet. We obviously weren’t their first stop that evening. I asked Tan Guy to fetch me some lube, and lathered up my right hand as I continued my attentions to Pale Guy’s quim. Not surprisingly, his ass inhaled my four fingers with ease, though I didn’t fold my thumb against my palm and go for a full fisting.

“Fuck me,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I really need your cock.”

Withdrawing from Pale Guy, I scooted to my right and inserted my hardon into his open, waiting ass. His partner came up behind me and, with fingers still greasy from his toying with B36, attempted to grip my tits. “Wipe your hands,” I said turning my head into his chest. “I hate lube on my tits.”

“Really?” He sounded incredulous.

“Yeah. It drives me nuts: it’s like I go numb. I no longer feel a thing. You,” I intoned in a deep voice to Tanned Guy, “lick this shit off my tits.”

The partner wandered off looking for a towel as Tanned guy stood to my left, sucking all the dreaded goo off my chest.

“That’s better,” I growled with yet another spasmodic quivering shudder.

Partner returned eventually, hands freshly washed, with Jack following behind holding a small camcorder.

“Don’t worry,” he said, as if attempting to read my mind, looking into my eyes. “I never shoot faces.”

“I’m not worried. Shoot what you want.” Then, with a soft chuckle: “Does this mean I’m gonna be on XTube?”

“Probably,” B36 replied from his perch in the sling. “Jack never wastes good material.”

He suggested I look at the flatscreen. Turning my head up and over to the right, I saw a close-up of his ass, just as Partner’s girthy cock replaced the dildo and slid in. I swiveled my head around to see the action in real-time, but from my perspective, all I could see was Partner’s flabby ass and the back of his salt-and-peppered head, so I contented myself in looking down at the ass I was fucking and gave it a couple of hard slaps.

Pale Guy got up off the bed and approached Jack, slipping the host’s pendulous, soft wang half-way into his mouth, jerking the rest with a dry hand. Jack tolerated this poor excuse for fellatio long enough to point the camera straight down and film a few moments before pulling back. “That’s enough for now,” he said in a flat, dull voice and shut off the camcorder. The bareback porn resumed on the flatscreen as Jack walked over to the entertainment center and picked up a tiny zip-lock bag and his mini torch. Making his way to the bed, he took the glass pipe from the headboard, and flopped down with a low sigh.

Partner withdrew from B36 and walked over to Jack’s side just as I pulled out of the ass I was fucking and approached the sling.

“Want a cigarette?”

B36 glanced over at the crowd assembled on the bed. “Yeah. I’ll be right out.”

The inference was that he’d join me after some tokes from the glass pipe.

Tanned guy was nearly finished dressing as we entered, announcing he was “done”. I walked over to give him a deep kiss good-bye, and he tweaked my nipples one last time, smiling. “See you soon?” he asked.

“Sure,” I lied casually. “You have my screenname. Hit me up.”

He nodded to B36 as he crossed the room, and met Jack at the threshold. The two walked together into the darkened house, chatting quietly.

Pale guy was getting fucked by Partner, while Hole looked absently at the porn playing on the widescreen, pulling on his Tina-deflated pud. I came up behind him and gripped Partner’s tits between my thumbs and forefingers, cupping his pecs with my palms. He reached his left hand behind me, swatting my ass, and twisted his neck around to facesuck. The pressure I was performing on his tits had a deep effect on him: his thrusts increased both in speed and intensity and his breathing became a series of laborious gulps and hisses. A low growl burred in his chest, soon replaced with “yeah, fucker” repeated like a mantra over and over, a little louder each time. Five minutes of this led to his announcing that he was close, a glaze of sweat glistening on his skin, his “yeah fucker” grew increasingly shrill until, with a series of grunts, he bucked against Pale Guy’s hips and spilled his seed into his guts and the two went face down into the pilly blue sheet. Not that I was paying much attention, but I don’t believe Hole even glanced over.

B36 came up behind me and whispered “Fuck me some more” as I watched the two panting slowly. Nodding, I pivoted on my heels and watched him scamper back into the sling. Approaching, I looked at the tiny penis resting on his abs, foreskin trailing nearly to his navel in his scrunched posture. I bowed low and took it into my mouth, sucking hard while nudging my tongue around, trying to find the opening. He grabbed my tits and pulled them up and out, a sure-fire way to get me going. Reaching for one of the bottles of lube, I poured some near his hole and slicked the opening before fucking my fist, coating it with lube. Grabbing hold of the chains, I entered him in one long thrust.

Jack came by with the camera just as B36 reached for the can of Maximum Impact and sprayed for several seconds into the bandana before placing it between his teeth and biting down. His eyes seemed to roll back into his head. B36’s face, dazed in his stupor, reappeared on the widescreen before the camera slowly panned down his torso. I lifted his balls and gripped them in my right fist, exposing our sodomy for the camera. I looked up and noticed, for the first time, that the sling’s wooden frame had a mirrored ceiling about twenty inches above my head and mused at how similar the image was to what was on the widescreen. This playpen seemed set up specifically for voyeurism/exhibitionism more than any real rough BDSM games. And I especially enjoyed how my body looked. All that illness had lowered my body fat to single-digit range, and I photographed beautifully.

Partner came up and worked my tits from behind with clean, dry hands, returning the favor I’d recently done for him. My cockhead strained and pulsed, dumping streams and threads of precum into B36’s ass as he sprayed into the bandana again, moaning softly through clenched teeth. Jack came over, pulled the bandana from his mouth and plopped in his dick, which even at half-up was immense. B36 held the shaft with his right hand and sucked hard on the head, which is what passes for fellatio due to Meth’s drying effect on the mouth. Withdrawing his dick, Jack lubed up and approached me from the left. We made eye contact and I nodded, wordlessly understanding that it was his turn to fuck that luscious ass. We completed the switch seamlessly.

Partner affected a funny walk, shoulders down/ass up over to the edge of the bed and bent low, spreading his ample cheeks. His hole winked, a fierce red flash in a sea of dark hair and dimpled white flesh. Pausing only long enough to re-lube my dick and moisten up his pucker, I cautiously moved the head of my dick into him and stopped. He was tight and hot, not wet and loose as the other guys had been that evening. Raising my right arm, I backhanded his asscheeks as he let out a gasp.

“How much do you want it, baby?” I asked sternly.

“I want it bad, daddy. Give it to me rough.”

I wasn’t thrilled with a middle-aged guy calling me “daddy”, but let it pass. I glanced over at the far corner of the bed and saw Hole and Pale Guy passing the pipe, watching the proceedings. “One of you guys make yourself useful and get me some more lube.”

Hole nodded dumbly and scampered over to the round, mirror-topped table next to the sling. “Bring some poppers, too. I think he’s gonna want them.”

I took the bottle of lube and squirted it along the top on my shaft. Once I saw Partner inhaling from the small brown bottle of poppers, I began slowly pushing in quarter-inch increments, with frequent pauses. It took several minutes of sustained concentration before the base of my dick kissed the hairs surrounding his anus.

It was difficult to judge how much pleasure Partner was getting from all this. On the one hand, he did nothing to stop me, but on the other wouldn’t release his sphincter enough to make the penetration any easier on him. I could feel his pulse beating against my shaft, the muscle gripping tight and hard. Ordinarily I’d take such resistance as a sign to stop, but he really seemed to be enjoying it. As I began pulling back, he moaned softly, saying “Give it to me, daddy” and took yet another deep sniff from the popper bottle. Knowing that Hole and Pale Guy were pretty much useless, I pulled on my own tits (always a poor substitute) and began a slow, rhythmic fuck, eventually picking up the pace as I saw that he really was blissing out. Several minutes into it, I leaned close and growled into his ear that I wanted him to flip over so we could fuck face-to-face. Nodding, he fell first onto one hip, then let his shoulder fall. As this posture allows for some of the deepest penetration possible, we stayed that way for a moment or two, until I saw his face contort into discomfort and he complained of a “bum shoulder”. He eased himself completely on his back and we tried again.

But Partner was no spring chicken. His agility seems to have left him years before never to have returned. I couldn’t get his legs up high enough, nor his hips to twist to me enough, and all the effort seemed pretty much wasted on him as he winced and complained at every contortion I wanted him to make. When I eventually pulled a deflated dick out of his ass, we both seemed frankly relieved.

As Jack and B36 were still going strong, I ducked out alone for another cigarette.

On returning, all five of them were stretched out on the bed, chatting and toking from the glass pipe. Things continued in a similar fashion: minutes of frenzy here and there, but the general feeling was one of languid lolling, despite the quantities of Meth being consumed. Eventually another guy came by, but he seemed disinterested in sex and focused mainly on the glass pipe and Jack’s never-ending supply of glassine rock. When I eventually shot my load into B36’s ass with my customary bellowing and growling, Jack felt it to be rather too theatrical and intense to be real and remarked that it seemed “too much” as I jittered and twitched with aftershocks, glazed in sweat.

B36 drove me home several minutes later, I having decided that a shower at home would be preferential to anything possible in the deplorable bathroom where I’d shake out an occasional piss. Driving east into the rising sun back to Ft Lauderdale, we stayed still, saying little. Spying a fast food place up ahead, I suggested we pull into the drive through; I dawned on me that I hadn’t eaten anything all night and was suddenly famished. B36 declined my offer of food but allowed me to buy him a cup of black coffee. As we pulled up in front of my house, I suggested he come in for a bit, but he declined, saying that he had plans to meet up with “a friend” in a few minutes. Holding the bag containing my breakfast between my legs, I hugged him tight and kissed him softly on the lips.

“Thanks, again, for thinking of me tonight. I had fun.”

B36 nodded but seemed distracted. “Me too. We’ll do it again soon.” Gripping me one more time in a tight hug, he thanked me for the coffee and suggested I get some sleep, as I was scheduled for a shift at work at 2:00 that afternoon.

Two weeks later, while still at work, I received a text on my phone from B36 inviting me back to Jack’s house for another party. I replied that I’d be working until 1:00 that morning but could take a cab there as soon as I was done. Ten minutes after I had set the alarm and turned the key at the boutique, I was standing in front of Jack’s dark house, forgoing the doorbell this time in favor of texting B36 directly. He greeted me in the same camo boxcut bathing suit as before with a beaming smile and big bear hug, ushering me into the unlit, messy living room.

The fuckroom had a different and much-improved assortment of men this time if fewer in number: younger, better looking and more muscular. But the energy was similarly low, with three prime specimens and Jack leaning against the bookcase headboard of the bed passing a glass pipe and pulling indifferently on soft dicks while the same bareback porn played on the flatscreen.

“Looks like I’ve arrived just in time,” I said in a low voice through a stretched grin as I pulled my jeans down from my calves. “You guys call this a party?”

“It is now,” Jack replied through a sly grin, extending his hand, “I’m glad you could make it.”

I took his hand and pulled his torso as close to me as I could in a brief hug. “The pleasure is entirely mine.”

With a steady gaze I met the eyes of the three guys stretched out next to him and shook each of their hands, introducing myself, listening to and instantly forgetting their names. Closest to me was a big, muscular friendly guy in his early 30s, his head shaved but sporting a red, bushy beard, whom I nicknamed Cub. Next to Cub was a man maybe fifteen years older, with a very similar affect but sporting tribal tattoos across his broad shoulders and a deep, all-over tan. His open smile exposed a perfect set of large, gleaming caps; I was instantly aware of a protective attention he extended over Cub like a kind of force-field. I named him Daddy immediately. The third guy, a gym bunny in his late 30s, made little impression on me and seemed to be the object of Jack’s special attention; we interacted very little beyond the funny stilted politesse one assumes in such intimate situations when one has no intention of actually being intimate with the other.

Jack suggested I take a dip in the pool, saying that it had just been cleaned and that the heater had been on all day. Looking over at B36, I asked if he’d come with me.

“In a minute,” he smiled, taking the glass pipe from Daddy and running a flame under the bowl at the end.

I nodded and padded though the dark house, pulling open a sliding door off the living room that led to the pool. I fumbled as best as I could in the dark until a motion detector clicked on a spotlight. The lanai of a type that is often seen in SoFla houses of this type. It was paneled in knotty pine that had been shellacked to a glossy, bright yellow hue. Parallel to the walls that made up a right-angle corner to my right stood a bar of the same material, perhaps twenty feet long, populated with seven or eight rattan stools upholstered with bright green vinyl seats. Large plastic ashtrays and candles in glass cones, wrapped in white mesh were scattered here and there. To my left were the frames of a rattan patio set (sofa, loveseat and a couple of chairs) without cushions looking rather skeletal and worn, the strapping at the joints fraying when not absent. Beyond was a good-sized rectangular pool with an automatic vacuum trolling the bottom, its flexible tubing running to a pumphouse. Lighting a cigarette, I walked over and stuck my hand in the water: cool, not cold and highly chlorinated. Judging by what I’d seen so far, the pool seemed to be the best-maintained aspect of the entire property.

Hearing the sliding door open behind me, I turned around and smiled as B36 walked slowly toward me, carrying a couple of brightly-printed beach towels.

“Thought you might need one of these afterwards,” he cooed, the oppressive mugginess of the tropical night air draped over us like a hot, wet blanket.

“That’d be great.” I looked deeply in his eyes as he squatted down next to me, giving me a kiss. “I’m glad he had the pool cleaned, but I wasn’t too confident what condition the pool’d be in,” and made a slight face.

“ Jack’s been depressed lately,” he sighed. “But he’s really a super great guy when you get to know him.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Too bad about the whole ex thing…believe me, I’ve had my share.”

B36 shook his head. “The guy was a user…real trouble. Jack’s better off, really. It’s too bad he doesn’t see that yet.”

“Give him time,” I offered. “How long’s it been?”

“Oh, just a couple of weeks. The guy still has some stuff here.”

I nodded, taking one last drag on the filter of my Parliament before grinding it into a pot containing a dead palm. Standing up, I surveyed the depth and dove in. Immediately I felt much cooler and more comfortable, swimming about ten feet before coming up for air. Behind me I could hear B36 splash in. I stood on the bottom, water at waist height, and brushed my hands over my head, wiping the bleachy water from my eyes. B36 came up behind me and grabbed my waist with a hug. Pivoting around, I grabbed my soft cock and fingered for his lips underwater. He opened them and sucked for a second before coming up for air, finding his feet and rising in front of me. He lifted me from under my arms and squeezed tightly until our heads were nearly level to kiss me again.

Pulling back his chin, he looked into my eyes and asked if I were happy I’d come.

“Oh yeah!” I smiled. “Thank you for having thought of me.”

He laughed softly. “Of course, sexy man. Let’s get back inside.”

I nodded, grinning, as he slowly lowered me back down. Falling once again into the water, I swam to the shallowest corner, which formed steps out of the pool.

We toweled each other off, stretched the beach towels across the bare bones of the patio set, and made our way back to the black reflections of the sliding glass doors. The inside air seemed chilly against my still-moist body as I followed his bouncing ass back down the darkened hallway. This time, there were two doors open with rooms lit: the fuckroom to the left and another to the right, furnished with a king-sized bed and assorted off-white lacquered dressers, clothes heaped everywhere, a flatscreen mounted on the wall opposite the bed showing the mail page from Mancunt, most messages unopened. Jack and his bud were engaged in a rather animated conversation, sitting up on the bed. We turned to the left.

Cub and Daddy were engaged in sixty-nine, with Daddy kneeling over his boy, his deeply tanned muscle ass facing the door. B36 hopped into the sling, assuming position and within minutes we were off and running with noisy grunts and sweaty shuddering. Cub and Daddy stopped what they were doing and sat on the edge of the bed a few feet behind me, watching us, deep kissing and jerking each other’s hard dicks. I suggested they feed their hardons to B36 and soon we were all clustered around the sling. Daddy and I alternated fucking B36s and pulling each other’s tits, Cub content to have his smallish dick sucked on, mostly. His attempt at topping B36 was not a success until Daddy slipped his dick into Cub’s ass and they affected a fuck-train; Daddy’s ass was too high up for my short legs to attempt a caboose maneuver, so I contented myself getting sucked by B36 while facesucking Cub, occasionally tugging on Daddy’s pencil-eraser tits.

When Jack came around with his camcorder, Cub was cool but Daddy freaked out completely and threatened to leave in a huff that diminished eventually but never really went away. I tried to break the tension by suggesting another swim, which B36 found an excellent idea even if Daddy didn’t.

We left them to the drama, clutching our cigarettes and padding through the house out to the lanai in back and pool beyond. Sitting on the edge of the pool, with our legs dangling in the water occasionally rubbing together, we inhaled from our cigarettes without any chatter, happy to merely be together away from the scene brewing inside. Near the end of our smoke, the sliding door opened and we both turned to see Cub walking slowly toward us, smiling. With a small flourish of his arms, he ran toward the pool and lept to the center, curling into a cannonball, which splashed water as far as the fence several yards away and all over us, of course.

This broke our trance and we jumped in, I splashing about and B36 swimming underwater the length of the pool. Cub came up behind me and gripped me tightly, causing us both to descend to the bottom of the pool. Gripping his arms, I pushed up with my legs until our heads were above the surface and broke free, swimming the short distance to where I was no longer over my head, sputtering and coughing.

“You OK?” Cub asked.

“Sure,” I offered, still sputtering. “I just wasn’t expecting you to do that and I took in some water.”

Walking over to me, he smiled. “I couldn’t resist.” He enclosed me again in another bear hug, this time face-to-face, bringing up an armful of water over my head that ran down my shoulders.

Standing as tall as I could, I gave Cub a peck on the lips. He responded with a better kiss, and soon we were deep in facesucking, his hands pulling on my nipples under the water, our hardons pushing against each other’s hips. I guided him over to the edge of the pool and told him to hop up. His dick and ass were the perfect height for munching, and after some brief fellatio, I was sucking hard on his freshly-fucked hole, pushing his legs up and over for maximum exposure.

After a few minutes of this, Daddy made his appearance at the pool, duplicating Cub’s dramatic, splashy antics. He busied himself with B36 much as I had with Cub, and within minutes we were back in the fuckroom, Cub and I on one end of the bed, Daddy and B36 on the other. Cub’s hole was tighter than I was expecting, evidently exercised that way at Daddy’s bidding, but he delivered a very satisfying (if totally vanilla) fuck, cool but with some passion. I looked over at B36 and sensed that he was feeling the same about Daddy’s prowess: fine, good even, but emotionally withdrawn and pretty passionless.

We eventually switched back, each more comfortable with his own sex partner than with the other, and I fucked B36 with mounting urgency and determination. We were completely lost to anything except the pleasure the other provided, and I found myself approaching the point of no return almost involuntarily. Much more quickly than I would have preferred, I found that I’d broken through the plateau I usually stay at indefinitely and was right of the edge of any explosive ejaculation. I pulled my mouth back off of our kiss enough to let out a barking grunt before flooding his rectum with volley after volley of seed, each accompanied with another bellowing grunt. Jack scurried into the room with his bud and Cub and Daddy stopped what they were doing to watch me in a nearly out-of-body sexual release of twitching and jerking of convulsive intensity. I clamped back onto B36’s lips and continued my jackhammer pounding with a deep growl as he whimpered and moaned, never letting go of my tits. Instead of my usual cool-down after cumming, the fierce urgency to fuck continued unabated until, about ten minutes later, I found myself once again approaching climax and let loose with another series of barks, grunts, spasms and blasts of spunk.

I hadn’t had a non-stop twice-came fuck since my mid 20s, and had honestly never expected it to happen again. It probably took thirty minutes before I had regained all my senses and the final shudder finally stopped. Once again, B36 and I broke though a barrier to another whole level of ecstasy.

It was probably Daddy’s innate sense of competition that made him collect his and Cub’s things so quickly and leave. There was no way to top what B36 and I had just experienced and he probably preferred not to try. When Cub was fully dressed, he bent low to deliver me a kiss and promised they’d keep in touch though Manhunt, but I knew that Daddy would never allow it, so I just smiled and wished them well. As Jack was walking them out, his bud stood in the doorway and asked us what had just happened. I let out a laugh and started speculating on Daddy’s bruised ego when he cut me off.

“No: not them…you. What really happened with you?”

“I came twice without stopping.”

“Really?” He seemed incredulous.

B36 nodded and gave me a hug. “Bucko’s multiorgasmic. It was totally amazing.”

Pulling his face close to mine, I kissed him with tenderness and gratitude. “You’re totally amazing, baby.”

John sauntered back in, his long dick slapping the fronts of his thighs. “I still think you’re too loud, but that was pretty hot.”

I smiled. “You get any of it on film?”

Jack made a silly face. “After that joker and the scene he pulled? You think?”

We all guffawed slightly, and B36 got up to get us some Gatorade from the fridge.

Jack, his bud and I all pulled ourselves up to the top of the bed and leaned against the headboard, B36 handing me a bottle of green wet stuff before sliding next to me. Jack opened a laptop and in seconds the porn was replaced once again with the familiar blue and orange pages of Manhunt. Taking a sip from a glass, he clicked on a profile and asked us what we thought of the specimen featured on the large screen. My eyes lingered on the photos for a moment before I saw that he stated his HIV status to be negative and mentioned it.

“He’s not,” Jack’s bud replied, “He just says so on his profile. He also says he’s a versatile and he’s not that either: strict bottom.”

B36 had another laptop opened on his crossed legs and was typing furiously. When he was finished, he passed the computer over to Jack and asked him what he thought of the guy profiled.

“He’s an asshole.” Jack said flatly and with an air of finality. “I’ve known him forever. We never got along.”

The profile on the flatscreen changed and JeepStudFTL’s profile appeared. “What about him?”

He had evidently been a regular at Jack’s up until recently, and everyone liked him except me. “He’s pretty dull, and those pix are really old” I ventured.

“He’s not that bad,” Jack scolded, and sent him a note inviting him over.

This dragged on for about another hour. JSFTL never opened his note, so he never came over, nor did any of the “studs” B36 tried to entice over. But eventually a young man did who was something of a prize that Jack had lusted over for months without any success, though I’d never seen his profile before. Still in his early 20s, Jorge was extremely thin and quite tall and he affected a lazy thuggish look achieved with oversized ghetto jeans and a baseball cap skewed nearly sidewise. This look wasn’t followed up with any thuggish attitude, however, and his demeanor was rather quiet, oddly sweetly innocent and quite thoroughly gay. He strolled into the fuckroom shortly before dawn, very sheepish and shy with big brown eyes. As this personality was utterly at odds with the Latino hoodlum he purported to be online, Jack’s enthusiasm cooled in seconds before evaporating completely.

During the introductions, Jorge barely managed to look up past his cap until Jack mentioned my name. Jorge’s face brightened considerably as he scanned me from face to penis and back and cooed out “Hellllllooooo Bucko!” I smiled and in a deep voice told him to climb on the bed and give me a kiss, which he promptly did with enthusiasm. His lips, though tight at first, loosened then opened as he gave me a soulful, deep kiss on his hands and knees as he approached me up the bed, gradually going from shy kid to powerbottom-in-training. Backing up on his knees to kneel on the mattress, he spied the glass pipe on the bookcase behind us and asked if anyone were “partying”. Jack’s bud got up and fetched some rock, toking first then offering some to Jorge who indulged greedily. Passing me the pipe, I shook my head and thanked him, but mentioned that B36 would probably like some.

Jorge rolled on his back at the foot of the bed, exhaling the thick white smoke, evidently pleased with himself that his late-night drive over had gone so profitably and began watching the bareback porn on the flatscreen with intensity, rubbing at his crotch. I climbed over B36 and stepped of the bed, walking around to where Jorge lay stretched out.

“If you’re gonna hang out, you’re gonna need to lose those clothes, baby.” I said sternly looking down at him, my dick twitching to life out of its slumber.

He seemed genuinely surprised. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” I nodded as I pulled off his cap and began pulling at his belt.

“Just like that?” I wasn’t sure if he was teasing me or genuinely perplexed.

“Just like this.” I pulled his oversized jeans down to his knees, exposing a pair of basketball shorts with compression shorts poking out underneath the bottom. “Are you wearing everything you own at once?”

“Nah, I just…” His voice trailed off as I continued yanking at his various layers, turning him over as I pulled down his compression shorts to display a much finer ass than I’d expected on such a skinny guy. “You work fast, Bucko.”

“I take what I want, baby.” I delivered a short slap on his ass. “Is there a problem?”

Jorge yelped slightly when my hand made contact but did not jump.

“I didn’t think so.” I said with an air of satisfaction, my dick gaining about a quarter of its full tumescence, making eye contact with the three at the head of the bed with smiles all around. I rolled him on his back with a quick spin and Jorge quickly cupped his genitals with both hands. “What? Are you suddenly shy now?”

Jorge looked deeply humiliated as he looked up at me, exciting me still further. “I’m a grower, not a shower.”

“Not too much I hope.” I smiled looking past him over to B36, who grinned broadly. “Lemme see.”

As Jorge moved his hands away, I saw a fairly hefty set of balls under a tiny flaccid penis, perhaps an inch and a half long and thin as one of my thumbs, with the foreskin rolled back exposing a bright red, vaguely pointed cockhead.

“This’ll do nicely.” I sat on the bed with my chest close to his face and pulled his head to my left tit, telling him to suck. As he began pulling on my nipple with his lips and some fairly strong suction, I reached over and pulled his foreskin back over the head of his dick, tweaking and tugging with my thumb and forefinger until he yelped again, asking me to be gentle. I maneuvered off the bed, twisting my torso until his head was nearly off the mattress. Lifting his hands up to my tits, I gripped the base of my cock and pushed as much as I could down his throat til his gag reflex cut in and caused him to sputter and be careless with his teeth. Replacing his hands on my tits, which had slipped away in the moment, I pulled back some and fell over him, putting his tiny, limp penis in my mouth, sucking hard on the foreskin and curling my tongue underneath. Twisting his hips up toward my head, I lifted his legs back toward his head and felt around his hole, which was dry and seemed clean, though I didn’t attempt analingus. Looking up at B36, I asked him to get some lube from the round table near the sling before delivering a few more playful fraps on Jorge’s backside.

Once I had the bottle of lube, I pulled my dick completely out of his mouth (he was a crummy cocksucker anyway) and squatted over his face, telling his to eat my ass. With little skill and no enthusiasm, Jorge kissed and licked around my hole without ever getting down to business. While he busied himself down there, I squirted some Eros on the tops of my right thumb, index and middle finger, rubbed a bit then set to work on his hole, which gripped and clenched in a most unwelcoming manner.

“You’d better relax, or this is gonna hurt, baby.”

He tried to talk, but my ass muffled whatever it was he was trying to say, so I stood up and looked into his face, asking him what he’d said.

“I will, Bucko. But can I at least party some more first?”

I looked over at Jack, who had been enjoying the proceedings immensely, and said that it was up to him, not me.

“Sure thing, kid.” Jack replied, clearing his throat. “Why don’t you come up here and we’ll work it out.”

Jorge sat up and crawled to the top of the bed between Jack and his bud, who was sparking up another bowl. After a few minutes of that, Jack suggested Jorge blow him for a bit, which I wouldn’t have suggested, personally, having sampled Jorge’s oral technique first hand: Jack’s cock was much longer and fatter than mine, a true monster, and I doubted he’d he satisfied with the results at all but I said nothing. So as Jorge assumed position on his belly in front of Jack’s enormous schlong, I tugged his hips up into a doggy style posture and added more lube to his upturned ass. Calling over to B36, I asked him to stand in front of me so that I could have his own tiny penis in my mouth while he worked my tits. My dick stiffened in seconds, I added yet more lube to it and slowly pushed into Jorge’s hole, which relaxed somewhat but was still extremely tight. Spit-roasted between Jack and me, his torso held fast between B36’s muscular legs, Jorge was completely unaware that Jack’s bud was filming us from a discrete distance with the camcorder.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Elliot,The Piano Bar Queen, or A Big Baloon

Ft Lauderdale, Florida, Saturday, June 7th, 2008:

I was setting up the patio at The Ramrod before the bartender arrived, as is my custom. I had already stocked the beer and water, checked the bottles of alcohol to make sure we’d have enough for the shift, and was lugging a bucket of ice when I heard the following exchange from a corner or the bar:

“Oh, my dear” I heard a voice say.” Do you remember?”
A hush fell.
“What was the name of that musical…on a train?”
Another ventured “The 20th Century Limited?”
“it starred…it starred…”
“Imogene Coca” I croaked, my voice hampered by a cold and 'Ramrod Lung'.
I looked up. Three guys somewhere beyond fifty were clustered around the bar: a bald guy, a bearded guy and an immensely fat guy.
Bald guy: looked up at me and mused, “How did you know that?”
“I was there”
Curious glances were passed between the three.
Bald guy continued: “There was a number where the chorus sang in eight-part harmony”
I nodded.
“That’s extreme, baby…. Who knew that shit?”
I looked up from what I was doing and looked at bald guy.
“88s or The Duplex?”
A strange smile crossed his face, mixed equally with curiosity and a sudden interest. “You’re from New York?”
Knowing the only place New Yorkers respect more than Europe, I smiled, opened my pack of cigarettes (despite my terrible laryngitis) withdrew a Parliament, and replied, “No.” I accepted a light from the fat one, “I’m from Boston. I lived there in 1988.”
Bald guy replied, “The 88s: I’m hardcore.”
We discussed piano bars and NYC, and the unlikelihood of there ever being a “leather piano bar”.

“I was always pretty vanilla to the piano bar scene in New York.” I smiled a wistful smile and said “I never got further than Suddenly Seymour and West End Avenue.”

We all had a good laugh, and I returned to my duties as a barback at the Ramrod.


During my year in NYC I made scads of friends, and stayed in touch with a few when I eventually returned to Boston.

One, in particular, was this marvelous, larger-than-life New York type named Elliot. I remember being entranced by the biggest brown eyes I'd ever seen. He lit up the darkened bar with fierce, July sunshine on a hot afternoon at Boots & Saddles on Christopher Street, where I was enjoying a beer after work. He was enormously tall (maybe 6'6, maybe taller) and big around (maybe 250). He had the most beautiful, mellifluous speaking voice and was fiercely bright and clever. I introduced myself almost as soon as he walked in, pausing just long enough for him to make his official entrance and be properly greeted by the many guys who knew him, before offering to buy him a beer.

We bantered the way intelligent people do in seedy leather bars: alternating brilliant and pointed cultural remarks with smutty asides. I was unable to stump him on any of my references, which is both extremely rare and extremely attractive.

One beer turned to several, and eventually one of us must have gotten hungry or run out of cigarettes (or both). I remember it having turned twilight, not yet dark but no longer daytime, as he unlocked the bicycle he'd arrived with and followed me to dinner for burgers at The Riviera on Seventh Avenue, a local hotspot.

Food, beer, conversation in no particular order continued for several more hours, I was still in my workday suit (that wrinkly Valentino linen number that Carlos bought for me at Saks), clutching the leather, hard-sided attache that was my manpurse at that time, Elliot with his bike. We worked our way down Christopher Street from Ty’s down to One Potato, Two Potato. We laughed and flirted and, occasionally got around to more serious discussions, mostly architecture or politics.

It must have been after midnight when he suggested we go to the 88s, a sing-along piano bar that wasn't exactly my scene. But showtunes will be showtunes and in we went.

The piano player knew Elliot very well (as did everyone else, everywhere it seemed), we were greeted warmly and the next number was Elliot's, as I quickly discovered. It was something equally appropriate and typical (Some Enchanted Evening, maybe, or Someone to Watch Over Me?): whatever it was, his singing voice excelled his speaking voice in excellence, but very much in that brassy, Broadwayish kind of way everyone in NYC who can sing sings.

As I recall, we were both too drunk and too tired for him to come home with me. The bike was also a major obstacle, as it was unwelcome on the subway as much as in a cab. So we exchanged numbers and went home separately alone.

Elliot called me the next day at work and arranged a rendez-vous and we became fast friends.

The next time we met, after a dinner somewhere in the West Village, was a stop at The Duplex., More than even at the 88s, Elliot's star shone there most brilliantly. His repertoire included all the standards, but his best number was, without a doubt, Remember Me, about which no mere description can possibly do justice. It was provocatively brilliant. Elliot was truly special in a city where virtually everyone is exceptional. He would nod to the pianist (who looked precisely like Nina Simone) and would begin singing the opening bars to Suddenly Seymour. A waitress, from out of the shadows, would drop her tray and belt Audrey’s part better than any touring company’s production.

Elliot and I struggled to find ways of expressing our mutual admiration more physically, but it was neither comfortable nor natural, in any sense. When we eventually did have sex, it was overly polite and stilted and totally dry in the way sex in NYC in 1988 could only have been, excluding suicidal madness. In on of our endless philosophical discussions, he'd disclosed his poz status, and it terrified me.

I was still, technically, partnered with Carlos, my beautiful, impossible Venezuelan lover, despite our separation. After the sudden demise of one of our mutual friends in 1986, we’d sworn a mutual-suicide pact: should we prove sick, we’d not end up a walking skeleton, neither he nor I. We swore that, before ending up pathetic and hideous, we’d off each other. And we meant it. There were no proven treatments, only proven suffering and a certain death. Although neither Carlos nor I had ever taken any kind of precaution with each other, I’d otherwise spent the 80s jerking off, sucking and being (mostly) safe, as had he. We hoped that the plague had spared us. It hadn't, but neither he nor I understood that for several more years, by which time our pact had become a grim, private joke.

I know that it always comes back to HIV/AIDS, but it does.

I remember having dinner at some pizza/pasta joint having a rather violent discussion regarding my feelings: Elliot's being much more intense and immediate than mine. His physicality and his enormous, cut penis assured that, no matter how brilliant or talented, I wouldn't find him sexually attractive (my "type" being short, swarthy Latins with small uncut cocks). But, at least in my universe, I have always had sex with those who stimulated me on many different levels, and I was as stimulated as much as repelled by Elliot. It wasn't pleasurable for either one of us, not that we hadn’t tried to make it otherwise.

He tried to get me to open up, but I so very much didn't want to hurt him with an idle, unkind phrase any more than I wanted to lead him on, knowing he cared for me so much more than I could return.

At the most heated point, I threw down my fork and snapped.
"Stop it,...just stop it."
Seeing that he'd struck a nerve, he asked me what he should stop doing.
"Stop trying to define me or my feelings."
"I have every right to know where you stand."
I looked away, then returned his glare. "I'm not standing right now. I'm sitting and having what should be a pleasant dinner with you."
"But it's not."
"No", I shook my head, put my fork back in my mouth and started to chew. "You're making this all..." (swallow) "...needlessly complicated."

He batted those big brown eyes with long, black lashes and lit a cigarette. "I", he pronounced carefully, exhaling smoke through his nose and waving a hand in the air, "am not the one complicating things."

I paused for just a second, keeping eye contact, curled my lip and said "Ambivalent”, then began eating again..
"I'm ambivalent."
He stopped and thought for a second. "That's not a good thing."
"It's not a bad thing." I took a sip of beer from my bottle.
"How is it not a bad thing?"

I had a moment of crystal clarity, and without thinking it through just blurted out: "Ambivalence is the root of passion."

We shared several seconds of heated eyelock.
Elliot smiled slowly. "I love it when you speak in riddles with big words."

I put down my fork and lit a cigarette, myself.

"Do you understand what I just said?"
"You understand the meaning of the word ambivalence, right?"
"It's mixed feelings."
"It's the simultaneous push and pull of emotion."
"People whom I find merely attractive bore me quickly."
Elliot looked lost. "OK"
"If there's nothing else there, then actually there’s nothing at all, it’s that unexpected something...that vague sense of unease that is the root of passion. That itch that nothing can sctrtch…”
"It's that feeling of being pulled by something you'd rather push away."
"So you're not attracted to me?"
"I find you repellent."
He winced.
"But", I continued, exhaling smoke, "I am passionate about you."
"Passionately repelled?"
"Passionately intrigued. I am in awe of your talent and deeply attracted to your mind."

Elliot’s disappointment was highly obvious as he waved his hands up and down his sides. "This ain't chopped liver, baby."
"Never said it was."
"So what do you want?"

I thought for a spell, tamping down the long ember on the end of my cigarette into the ashtray, then replied, "I want us to feel comfortable and I want to spend time with you."

"Despite your ambivalence?"
"No, because of my ambivalence."

Having reached a coda, we each took a deep breath and started talking about something else.

I saw much of Elliot for the next few months, frequently spending the night either at his Lower East Side walk-up or my apartment in Tribeca, but it was rarely sexual. Our one attempt at buttfucking (protected, of course) went so poorly that he swore to never attempt it again with me. It humiliated us both deeply.

My life in NYC imploded in the space of one week. After months of putting it off, Carlos (from whom I’d been separated for months) finally told me, over the phone that, despite having co-signed the lease on our apartment in Tribeca, wouldn't be moving to New York after all. Days later I got a confidential call from one of my sources at the corporate offices of Scandinavian Gallery that they were closing stores in the Washington region in the middle of the night. My staff got wind of that and fled in less than a week, leaving me alone in the store with just a security guard.

The AC broke, but I couldn't pay cash from the drawer to fix it and SG's credit was too lousy to have it billed. So for three months (August, September and October) I worked frenzied, 10-hour days in a sweltering store at Madison and 41st, five days a week (corporate agreed to let me close the store on weekends). It was so insanely hot in the store that I gave up wearing anything but lycra bike shorts and tank tops (it was 1988, after all). The bronze trim on the grey-washed mahogany was literally hot to the touch.

I took to filching things and cash, feeling justified somehow. This made everything tolerable, but just barely, and added to the overall madness that had become my existence. My life was a swirl of sweaty work, taxis downtown to fabulous Tribeca dinners, then clubs and parties. I was drinking heavily, but avoided drugs, getting my energy from caffeine and nervous tension. Elliot was part of it, but certainly not its focus. In the final days of all the crazy, I gave him a titanium Porsche watch, which he treasured.

SG moved me back to Boston on the last interstore truck to leave New York, and installed me as the manager of the Brookline store, swearing that they had closed all the stores they’d intended The staff was enthusiastic to have a veteran of so many battles with corporate as their team leader. But when they started closing stores in Maine and NH, the writing was on the wall and, predictably, they all left.

My last days were spent processing deposit refunds on the credit card machine alone in yet another store. One morning I called corporate and the owner's private secretary answered the phone. She couldn't help me, she explained, because the entire accounting department had just walked out, along with most of the remaining corporate staff. I found out later that, from hundreds, I was one of the remaining twenty employees.

I shut off the lights, locked the door and took a streetcar downtown, handing my keys to a disoriented clerk at the Boston store in Park Square. That ended five years with a company that I thought of as home and helped grow from 18 stores to over 80. It was also the last corporate job (excluding a disastrous few months at Ethan Allen in 1999) that I would ever hold. Thereafter I only worked for entrepreneurs.

Once I'd come back, Carlos approached me right away, anxious to be forgiven. But I was wary and pretty bitter. As was typical for the relationship, we started our "reunion" with a terrific fight...ah, ambivalence…oh passion!

We hobbled along, but with limits I’d placed on everything: he was not to move into my new South End apartment, for instance. There were no expectations of exclusivity, and separate financial arrangements were to be maintained. When I begged off plans on Valentine's Day, 1989, after a hellish day, he finally felt justified in dumping me. It was such a relief.

Elliot and I stayed in touch by telephone, and that summer called me all excited about a play he'd written. He'd found a producer who would finance a short run of several performances in about a month and wanted me there. Without even thinking, I agreed.

Arranging for that specific weekend off, I took a late morning train down with an enormous bag (I'd overpacked, as usual). Elliot met me at Penn Station, thrilled to see me again and wild with excitement over having his play produced.

I was feeling a strange sense of numbness, as if I was watching a movie of myself, curiously detached. We took a cab to his place near Delancey St and dropped off my enormous suitcase. He needed to get back to the theater, so we arranged to meet up later.

I walked uptown slowly and with no purpose or sense of direction, totally encased in this weird fog of detachment. I retraced many adventures and scenes, but in broad daylight, not the night-time darkness when they’d actually taken place I eventually made my way to Uncle Charlie's in the West Village and ordered a cocktail, followed shortly by another and another. The drinking didn't help my sense of detachment, it rather enhanced it.

At one point I remember looking up at a gigantic video screen and seeing Liza Minelli singing I'm Losing My Mind.

It was at that specific moment, that the fog began to pass, only to be replaced by a melancholy that I can only describe as chemical. I shook my head, lit a cigarette and stared at the screen in a trance of intense sadness. The further the video progressed, the clearer and more immediate everything became. I had no idea what was happening to me, but I knew that I was about to cry with the intensity of a projectile vomit. I made it out to the sidewalk just in time for wave after wave of choking sobs. The harder I tried to control myself the more I heaved with sadness and tears.

I found a payphone and fished for the number Elliot had given me from my pocket. A voice answered and, through racks of sobbing I asked for him to be brought to the phone. Moments later, I heard his voice, sounding wary:

"It's me."
His voice took on an edge of concern. "What's wrong?"
"I...I...don't know. But I can't..." deep breath "...stop crying."
"Where are you?"
"On Greenwich...near Uncle Charlie's." The words came out in punches. ""
"What's wrong?"
"I don't...know."
I'll take a cab and be right there."
Nodding, I stammered an "OK", followed by a very weak "thank you" before another wave knocked the wind out of me.
I hung up the receiver and leaned against the phone barely able to breathe and completely out of control on a sidewalk in Greenwich Village in the middle of a summer afternoon.

I remember seeing Elliot running along the sidewalk toward me with a look of sheer panic. I tried to walk toward him but couldn't get far, so I rested my hands on my knees and waited for him. His concerned face had prompted a fresh wave of tears and I could hardly move. He grabbed me and held me against his enormous body, stroking my head.

"Baby, what's wrong?"
I shook my head and mouthed the words "I don't know" but couldn't speak.
"How much have you had to drink?"
"Not...much...not...enough I...guess." I tried to laugh at my weak joke, which only made me cry harder.

I honestly don't remember much else of that day. I know that, somehow, Elliot helped me to stop crying, and we must have eaten something. I remember going back to his place to clean up and change for the show which was opening that night with Elliot directing.

The theater was a small, upstairs space somewhere in some seedy section of the Lower East Side or East Village. I remember rows of folding chairs, probably about 200 in total, arranged in concentric rows of semi-circles in the auditorium, which was separated from the foyer at the top of the stairs by double doors. The stage was about 8" off the floor and was obscured by a black curtain. The lights were simple but professional enough. Elliot sat me in the back row where he could keep an eye on me, and sat me between friends, just in case.

I have no recollection of the play itself. I'd love to say it was fabulous, but I don't recall being impressed. I do remember having several glasses of that standard white wine one always drinks at gallery openings and such, both before the show and during intermission.

But toward the end of the show, that familiar feeling returned, and before I could get out of my chair a fresh wave of hysterical sobbing seized me.

I was horrified. I had essentially stopped the show as people around me tried to figure out what the hell was happening. I remember someone next to me and Elliot himself lifting me out of the chair and bringing me to the stairs outside the auditorium, where I could sit down. I lit a cigarette and attempted to focus, but was basically a basket case for the next fifteen or twenty minutes. Elliot left me with his friend on the stairs and went back into the auditorium, the play having recommenced.

I regained something of my composure eventually and the friend brought me yet another glass of wine, then I remember hearing applause, whistles and cheers and thinking that the play must have ended. As the audience was comprised of nothing but friends and family of the cast and crew, everyone was highly complimentary, especially to Elliot. That was one of the biggest nights of his life and I was having a nervous breakdown.

I sat on the stairs, trembling and chain-smoking as the audience slowly exited the theater, some looking at me with concern, others with contempt, but most chose to just ignore me. That suited me fine, as I've never considered anyone's misery to be a good spectator sport, most especially my own.

When we left the theater, Elliot asked me if I wanted to go back to his place and crash, which I really should have done. Instead I insisted that we do what he'd planned on doing, which involved going back to the piano bar he'd always loved so much, The Duplex.

By this time, I was physically exhausted from all the sobbing, but I'll never forget sitting at that front table, seeing Elliot surrounded by all his friends and fans, the Nina Simone look-alike at the piano, my face wet with tears as he sang Remember Me.

Labels: , , , ,