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Archive for August, 2006

Vogue

It’s hard to throw away things which belong to those who have passed on. They can’t take it with them, or do they?

One of my favorite black and white photographs in my deceased lover’s portfolio is a snapshot of two naked Mexican guys.

Two models pulled down their pants and leaned over a sofa while he captured their tanned asses on film.

There’s nothing that erotic about the photo– it’s not appropriate to hang in the living room, but is too personal to just toss in the trash.

“Did you screw them?” I asked.

“Of course, all the time,” he shared.

“Tell me about them.”

“They were double trouble. I took them with me to a friend’s house warming party. It was a party thrown by my friend Diana. Those two little heathens ended up luring her boyfriend into the bathroom and took turns blowing him.”

“What happened when she found out?”

“Oh, she didn’t find out. I was the one who caught them in there,” he explained.

“What did you do?”

“I made them leave the party immediately. We came back to my house and I made them take this nude photograph.”

“So, you gave them a spanking with your camera,” I noted.

“Yes I did! But that was long before the appropriate form of punishment was a time-out,” Shawn explained. “Now go get on the sofa for
me.

“Like this?”

I haven’t developed that roll of film yet. I can’t decide if I should throw it away.

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Marina Buckley

Marina Buckley is as big as a house. She’s always been, ever since high school. She’s one of my few high school friends who have come to the Big Apple to visit me during my 20 years of life here.

In high school when I owned a pinto, I was afraid to drive up

Tussey
Mountain to pick her up. The entire car leaned towards the passenger side when she was in that green piece of junk.

Those snowstorms were pretty bad in the
Appalachians, and I excluded her from Nerd Night Out Friday Nights from time to time, for the sake of my life and other nerds who traversed in the pinto.

She sometimes smelled pretty bad, in a feminine kind of way. After movie nerd nights out watching “Footloose”, “A Chorus Line” and “Flashdance”
Marina was the last to get dropped off. Even in December I had my car window all the way down.


Marina didn’t beat around the bush like the rest of Our Gang when we were left alone in that Pinto.

I had Ole Bessie in first gear, praying it would reach the top of the ridge and also dreading the thought of a break outage as Marina seductively said– “Are you gay Charlie?” while she rubbed my nuts and threatened to tell the world that I was a homo if I didn’t put out.

“No!
Marina! I’m a Christian for God’s sake. Stop stealing my virginity!” I screamed and rode the breaks for a 2.5 mile downslope. Yellow signs warned me of dear crossings ahead, slippery when wet, speed limit 25, and watch you don’t get lost in these hills.

Marina and I attempted to go out to a big
New York City club when she came to visit. When we got out of the cab and tried to go inside to a gay club in
New York, they turned us away.


Marina cried. But I suggested another club called “The Tunnel”.

They let us in for free there.


Marina was the star in that gay disco when she took over the dance floor.

I clapped with the other guys when she voyaged.

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Berlin Walls

A group of guys from the barracks twisted my arm and convinced me to come bar hopping with them in
Berlin.

The military’s ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ policy was getting old and tired. The only way for me to get laid while in the Army was to hang out with the straight soldiers. We’d go from bar to bar chasing girls all night long. Handsome men like Pvt. Tamburro would usually end up bagging a chick and a handful of lonely troops would remain in the bar doing shots of this and that. That was when I could make my move– we’d stumble back to post, arm in arm, holding each other up on those cold, cold nights in a foreign land.

The trip to the bars in
Berlin was different. My fellow solders wanted to go to the red light district and visit a whore house when the girls at the bar were playing too hard to get.

I went along because that’s how the buddy system works.

They all disappeared into small rooms and I was left alone standing in a hallway waiting for the guys to get off so we could share the expensive taxi ride back to Ansbach.

A beautiful woman peeked from her room and smiled at me. “Would you like to come inside and sit down,” she asked.

I did the thing with my hand that Catholics do while praying and told her that I was a virgin.

She laughed and replied, “No you are not. You are gay. But you can still come sit with me until your friends are done.”

She did to me what I did to my fellow soldiers when they were simply too drunk to realize what was going on. I had to pay her for it, but didn’t even want it.

What goes around, comes around.

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Proposals and Pimps

Shawn may have been a crack head, but he was smart as a whip. He taught me everything I need to know in order to survive here in the afterlife. After his release from a California state prison, he immediately went home and started selling weed.

He was a bad boy and that’s how I like ’em.

“What else was I supposed to do sexy? Fill out a job application and check that box only to be turned down for $5.75 an hour?”

“I see your point.”

Who was I to judge him for selling drugs to make an honest living? At least in recovery, he had moral values. He refused to sell any of the hard stuff, just grass.

He sold and saved up just enough to get him out of Cali. He purchased cameras for thousands of dollars each and read up on the subject. He took his wads of cash and moved to Arizona to live out his days.

The cash dried up quickly in the desert.

He no longer sold drugs when I dated him– he was fully recovered as far as I’m concerned. He had an honest job- he worked for the Balm in Gilead, a New York not-for-profit. He designed their computer system in the office from scratch, with skills he learned from books while in jail.

They told him he was HIV positive while in prison for crack possession on the third offense. He never told me that, night after night, while sticking his ten inch Black cock up my tight round white mercedes bends.

The news about the AIDS in his blood was like a heavy drinker being told his liver was going and whether he or she stopped or not, death was imminent. So when he got out, with approximately 10 years to live, he found grace in Jesus, marijuana purchased in Mexico and a safe in his momma’s bedroom

Surprise, surprise, guess who stepped into the big picture as soon as the money in the safe ran out?

Yours truly.

Yes, that’s when all hell broke loose– he fell in love with the thing he hated the most, a white man, but it wasn’t for my money, because I like him, worked for charity.

Sure my bootie was as round as a sista’s– how could he resist? When the end is near, color is not an issue until after the burning.

But it was his last opportunity to live it up, have some fun and get his revenge.

(To be continued….)

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Shedding

As we grow old, our hair not only turns white one by one but the texture also changes. It grows limp and lifeless like a penis facing the hands of time.

We masculine men don’t have to live our lives like dandy lions that have turned to seed. If you suffer from colorless limp hair, I urge you to try the new and improved Just for Men products.

My straight father colors his hair. I don’t feel one bit gay as I reinvent myself and go back to my roots.

Please be realistic about your color choices. Just because you always thought you would be a pretty blonde does not really mean that you can pull off the challenge. I tried using one of the products made for the ladies described as “winter wheat” and came out looking like a late spring frost.

I was forced to buy another box of ‘winter wheat’ and change the color of my pubic hair too. Men hate it when they learn you are not a real blonde.

If you are white and drink too much and your skin turns red when frustrated, stay away from the lighter tones.

I suggest the shade “Autumn Sunrise” for Caucasian drinkers.

Blondes should never have to color their hair– they do have more fun. I nearly lost my life in the bedroom when I was blonde.

Always use Just For Men, all other products are just shoe polish— just ask my dad. He told me about his trip to the chiropractor hours after coloring his hair with Loreal.

After getting up from his clinical massage, he left a black mark where his head rested on the table covered with white paper.

He said he was really embarrassed and he almost got laid in that exam room until the female doctor figured out his hair was not the natural shade of jet black.

“Just because you are getting old and gray does not mean that the fun stops, son. Just keep on coloring it. No matter how distinguished they say you look, you’ll never get any pussy if your hair is white.”

I haven’t colored my hair since.

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me 

I have popped inside porn shops for years, just to pick up lubrication and other odds and ends sex tools. On rare occasions, I’ve hopped inside the buddy booths in the back, just to preview some of the porn being played in those 99 channel modern day telephone booths.

One may be surprised who frequents those places.

The queers are always lurking around outside of buddy booths, waiting to suck on my fat, long and juicy, circumcised pecker. They steal glances of my record breaker under the three inch space at the bottom of the curtain that rises and falls inside those booths—mouths wide open waiting to be fed like goldfish in an aquarium.

Mine cannot even squeeze through that space, perhaps that’s why I haven’t caught the bug after all these years,

“Cum dumpster, leave me alone, I’m only here to preview,” I shout like a virgin on my side of the glass.

I’ll never forget the day the place was empty on a Friday evening after work.

“What the hell? Are the cops patrolling this place or what?” I asked the Middle Eastern man who offers change to customers. He pretended like he didn’t understand my English and kept repeating his same old line, “Use dollar bill, use dollar bill!”

There was only one booth occupied and nobody standing around which was unusual for the Friday rush hour.

“Use dollar bill, use dollar bill,” the Muslim at the dick museum kept yelling.

Oh, what the hell, I figured. Let me see who the poor lonely soul is playing with himself today before I head home.

I stole a glance under the glass and saw a Hassidic Jew in the Buddy Booths at the porn shop on 22nd Street and Eight Avenue in Chelsea.

I stood up and watched my private screen with my mouth hanging wide open until my money ran out.

Since then, I have never felt guilty about what it is God blessed me with, or my porn addiction.

At least I always keep the machine running in those kinds of places.

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Buffalo Guys

 donald

Donald leaned out the third floor window and watched as I watered the garden. I squeezed the trigger on the hose gun and squirted and thick stream of water to the back of the yard and managed to reach the tomato plants without getting out of the lawn chair.

The staked plants were at least five feet tall and had started to produce an abundance of little green fruits. I aimed for the tops of the plants covered with yellow blossoms and knew that eventually some of the water would work its way down the plush green leaves and be absorbed through the roots.

“Hey Charles!”

I leaned my head back and looked up at him standing in his bathroom window with a towel wrapped around his lean American Indian body adorned with stomach muscles as perfect as kernels on an ear of corn.

“Hi Donald, Wassup?” I replied pretending not to be lusting for him but I kept my head resting on the back of the chair as long as he was willing to hang over me like that.

“Do you mind if I use your grill? I caught a bass yesterday and want to cook it over flames.”

“Where did you catch a bass?”

“The East River. I have a lifetime fishing license for the rivers of
New York. I am an American Indian.”

“I know you are an Indian, Donald. I hear you up there dancing and beating those drums every night. Do you think it’s safe to eat a fish out of those waters?”

“Probably not but I’m going to eat this one.”

“Sure, no problem. Help yourself to the grill. Anthony and I are having guests over this evening. Do you remember Michael and Sunil? Well, they are coming over for dinner. You are welcome to join us.”

“I’m having company tonight too. She’s a school teacher. She’s not coming over until around 10:00, so maybe I’ll come down and hang out with you guys for a while.”

I lifted my head and readjusted the aim of the water and smiled. Donald was practically our roommate he spent more time in our apartment and backyard than his own place. All our friends adored him. He was, after all, as beautiful as a buffalo on the plains and thanks to his culture, he accepted homosexuals as civilized people, worthy of eating dinner with almost every night.

I heard a splat and looked behind me. Donald dropped the fish wrapped in newspapers from his third floor window and disappeared into the steam of his bathroom.“I’ll be down in a minute,” he shouted from behind his shower curtain.

I picked up the fish, lit the gas grill by pushing a red button and adjusted the nozzle on my hose.

Our dinner guests, Michael and Sunil were two flamboyantly gay bottoms who somehow found happiness under the sheets despite the fact that both fought for the right to be the one who got done each evening. Sunil, a member of Sri Lanka’s royal family, or so he claims, smelled like curry even when he didn’t drag one of his rice dishes to my back yard picnics. His lover Michael was a North Carolina native and gave the Dixie Chicks their idea to become a cross-over band. Michael honestly believed that he would one day become queen of Sri Lanka.They were fun to have over on weekends to share bottles of wine in the back yard. There were not many twenty year old couples in New York City who were in committed same-sex relationships in the mid ‘90s. It seemed like the rest of the town was busy buffing their bodies at gyms.The American Indian, Donald was really the reason why we all got together religiously on Saturday nights in SunsetPark,Brooklyn.

Even our straight friends, John and Linda, a Jew and a Muslim couple were mesmerized by the man who was likely the last Mohican. They all came to my cook- outs as if the vegetable garden were the Holy Land.

Donald entertained us all with his stories of American Indian ulture.

“He’s cute but he’d have to take a bath before I played around with him,” Michael explained with a cigarette hanging loosely from his pointer and middle fingers as we all sat around the picnic table waiting for the Indian man with thick black hair and perfect white teeth to join us.

“You’re boyfriend smells like curry,” Anthony rebuffed jokingly. “How dare you dis’ Donald like that! I know you suck Sunil’s stinky goat meat every night. Donald is fine and you know it!”

Linda, the only female at our parties would giggle hysterically and try to change the topic from Donald to her plans to re-enter college and obtain her masters degree in communications.

“Linda, it’s not about you tonight,” I would explain to the woman who claimed her Jewish boyfriend had a cock bigger than Donald’s.

“Can we all be gay here for a moment—you two have the rest of the world to run freely in. This is my home. Let’s talk about Donald!”

Donald was a tease. He didn’t come downstairs until he saw the food was being served and when all the lustful gossip among the queens had ended.He certainly was breathtaking. Even Linda stood up as he entered the back yard. We knew that royalty was in our presence and we fought over the right to be the one to pour his first glass of wine.

Despite the fact that I had a lover, Donald flirted shamelessly with me over dinner in the back yard. I couldn’t help but blush and flirt back when he told me how tasty my cooking was. It seemed as if he envied my homosexual relationship with Anthony and although he was straight, wished I lived with him and cooked all his meals.

My kitchen skills and seductive frying over a hot flame have always been my secret to finding the path through the intestines into the stomach of handsome men. Women, like my friend Linda never cease to baffle me with their insecurities relating to losing their guys.

“Linda, come spend a weekend with me– just you and I alone in the house and the kitchen. Let the guys go fishing. I’ll show you how to cook for a Jewish man and keep him monogamous,” I offered. She never accepted my offer.

Donald laughed hysterically as I offered to teach Linda how to cook for her man.

They all craved my food. They came back almost every Saturday, especially Donald who was downstairs at our place almost every night for a free hot meal. I never grew tired of cooking for them. And my garden, my beautiful garden in Sunset Park with the bird bath surrounded by egg plants– it truly was paradise back then when the world was at peace.Anthony, my partner of nine years and the soldier I fell in love with in
Ansbach, West Germany was the social butterfly during our notorious dinner parties. He did all the talking and I did all the broiling. It was a marriage made in heaven until the night I cooked Donald’s Stripped Bass– the one he caught in the East River.

Anthony always teased Donald and his mysterious sexuality. My lover was just as turned on as I was– constantly flirting with him and suggesting that he cross the line and let us ‘touch it’. Donald didn’t resist the gay passes. I dreamed of being done by both of them.

“I’m totally comfortable in my sexuality,” he said. “In my culture, gays had a purpose, a very important purpose,” he suggested.  Sunil noted that he had read somewhere that in American Indian culture, just as in Sri Lanka and among Far East Indian cultures, effeminate men often served as the liaisons between the females and heterosexual males—they were the mediators, the ones who kept the peace in a world dominated by our reproductive instincts.

There was something about the stripped bass I cooked for Donald that was the last straw and the end of my nine year relationship with Anthony.

The recipe just came to me, as if I had cooked it in a past lifetime, as a squaw on the prairies of Nebraska.

I took one of the fresh green tomatoes from my garden and made a stuffing for the bass Donald caught. I fried the savory fish right next to the T-bone stakes on the outdoor grill. I swear, and so does Linda, that there was something about the fish we ate that night that changed our outlook on the world.

After melting a stick of butter in a cast- iron skillet, I threw in a chopped onion. With the flavoring of three mushrooms, I waited until the batch wilted. My last few remaining sprigs of parsley from the garden were also minced and added in as well as a few handfuls of bread crumbs.

After the salt and pepper were grinded, I blanched the tomato and squeezed out the seeds and added it to my stuffing mix.

Donald hadn’t cleaned the fish he caught and asked me to cook so I used a knife to scrape the scales off by moving the blade from the tail towards the head. The guts came out easy. With one little poke in the pee hole and a delicate slice of the knife, I caused the uneatable portions of the fish to spill onto my cutting board.

I added a little Chardonnay to my tomato stuffing and squeezed in a lemon to take out the taste of the sea.

I stuffed the belly of the fish, sewed it shut with tooth picks, wrapped it in aluminum foil and threw it over the flame.

Donald never stopped looking at me that night as he ate the fish he caught. I’ll never forget those brown eyes undressing me under the moonlight– right in front of my lover, in my vegetable garden right next to purple egg plants.The other guests loved it too. Sunil suggested that the next time, I flavor it with a little more curry. Michael disagreed, told him to shut his trap and take him home and ‘do him’.John looked at Linda and told her to take a few lessons. She burped and asked when he was going to ask her to marry him.My lover Anthony asked everyone, including Donald to leave because he had the urge to fuck me up the ass until I screamed his name. “He’s my bitch you gluttons. Get out of my house now! We’ve had you,” he said as he made them paper plates filled with leftovers and sent them on their way.

Donald thanked me and headed upstairs.As he was leaving he told me he was making a vest from porcupine quills and he wanted to give it to me as a gift.

That evening as Anthony plowed me all I could hear and think about was Donald dancing in circles above our heads while he pounded on his drums. He danced for hours, even after the love making with my partner had ended. His chants were mysterious and he sang them in a tone much lower than his speaking voice.I sensed him channeling to me from the apartment above us.

Anthony was already sleeping, sedated with at least five glasses of wine. Despite the fact that we had just made love, I was erect yet again thinking about what Donald may look like in his head dress and porcupine quills.

His drumming stopped and I could hear him walking around on his floor above us. I crawled out of the bed and went into the spare bedroom. There was a door in that bedroom which we never opened. It led to the stairway to Donald’s place.

His date with the school teacher must not have worked out. It was already Midnight and I knew she was supposed to arrive at least two hours ago. I would have heard her walking up the stairs if she hadn’t stood him up.I decided to open the door to look into the hallway, perhaps just to be a nosey neighbor or maybe I was just so hot I had to do something to ease my nerves.

“Why do you look away when I smile at you,” asked my Native American neighbor standing in the doorway.

“I feel guilty I suppose. Honestly, I’m hot for you,” I whispered.

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Did you know that you have a gift? My people say you have been granted two spirits in this life. Want to come up to my place and talk?”

Sweat was pouring down his body from the dancing and he still had his feathers on. A small leather jock-strap like bikini covered his torso but it was not enough to disguise his tomahawk which fell way below the leather skirt.I thought of my lover sleeping and tempted him to come downstairs in my house for a just cup of coffee.He reached out and grabbed my hand and told me to let go of what I did not understand and that he would show me the way of his people.

I had never been inside the apartment on the top floor. All the walls were removed from the original structure of the brownstone and the only privacy offered was a door to the bathroom. Donald had candles lit throughout the place and all the windows were open. Despite the subtle August breeze the place smelled like stagnant smoke and his armpits.

A dainty woman with black hair tied in a bun sat on a futon in the middle of what was his living room.I was confused.“Cheyenne, this is Charles from downstairs—the excellent cook I was telling you about.”

She stood up and walked slowly across the room with her head held low. I reached out to shake her hand but she feel on her knees before me.I turned to my friend and neighbor not knowing how to properly introduce myself to her.Donald began circling us while lifting his legs high and once again moaned his chant. He slapped his thigh hard and spun in circles while moving around us.I reached both of my hands out to her and she took them and I helped her to her feet while the alpha male of our trio put on his head dress.

“We ask that you give it to us,” Cheyenne requested while holding her stomach. She was obviously pregnant. I remembered Donald’s remarks regarding the extra spirit my soul had been blessed with and concluded that I was somehow supposed to hand it over to the child in her womb.

I started to laugh realizing that the entire situation had spun of control and I was in the home of a mad man and his crazy pregnant girlfriend.

“Sure, it’s yours, take it,” I said sarcastically.

He took us both by the hand and led us to the futon and lit a long pipe and handed it to me.

My spirit was pure. I had never smoked a peace pipe in my life. Even after serving in the United States Army during peacetime, I was not a heavy drinker or a substance abuser. I hated the feeling I got after having more than two glasses of wine at dinner. I didn’t feel pretty when booze opened my third eye so I avoided the disease that many of my friends and family had married.

The substance in the pipe was obviously an illegal one. Anthony never wanted to smoke pot– too much drama in his family too. We tried it one time with our friends John and Linda. The taste was horrifying. I immediately ran to the bathroom and brushed my teeth and gargled with three capfuls of Scope.

It felt as if I were sitting in a field in Woodstock the first time I got high with John the Jew, Linda the Lady fromLebanon, and Anthony, my Black army lover.

John and Linda were a cute couple. His hair was as blonde as a white boy from Nova Scotia and she looked as much Muslim as I did. John’s theory on the reason why the Holocaust happened made sense as did Linda’s hypotheses on the future of theMiddle East, its peace and a world where we will all live as one.

Their mouths ran more than usual when the four of us got stoned together and the night I first lost my substance abuse virginity.My high with my upstairs neighbor and his girlfriend was a totally new and gratifying experience.

I couldn’t resist Donald’s authentic Sioux peace pipe. I just had to try it as he started to perform what he called the “friendship dance” in front of his pregnant girlfriend and me.

After the first puff I started to laugh hysterically as he lifted his leg high just like actors did in old Hollywood films from the wild, wild, west.

The school teacher didn’t take part in the sharing of the pipe.

“It’s so cool you don’t smoke while you’re pregnant,” my high, hypocritical ass said to Donald’s girlfriend.

“I want my son to have two souls too,” she said while smiling at me and offering more of the peace pipe.

Donald untied the peace of leather deer hide wrapped around his waste and started dancing nude in front of us.She clapped her hands and shouted “Yeh, Yah, Yah Yeh. Yeh, Yah, Yah Yeh!”

“Are you a Shaman, my friend? I remember you, do you remember me?”

“Shaman?”“A prophet, a healer, a visionary.”

I looked away, embarrassed by his nude body and huge brown cock swinging to the beat.

He lifted my head by the chin and smiled at me delicately and started to dance his friendship dance again.

“In most native American Indian tribes, the men, the hunters often developed relationships with other men. Their lives were spent away from the women and children on hunting expeditions. People like you served as the mediators between the males and females.”

My head spun in confusion as the school teacher lifted my white tank top and rubbed my chest.“This dance was used to express the love that two hunters had for each other. It was called the friendship dance.”

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