Archive for September, 2006

Pigeon Love

My boyfriend and I now limit ourselves to just one lunch together each week. For five years we ate together everyday at 1 p.m. Our jobs are a stone’s throw apart.

“I need my space, Bruce. I don’t want to look at your face every moment of the day.”

“You are fuckin’ around on me, I know it,” he pouted today as we sat in a park along Third avenue and tried to feed the little sparrows without the big pigeons discovering of our gift of potato chips.

“I’m not cheating on you, but believe me if I wanted to, there are plenty of options out there for me,” I warned.

“Yes, and there is for me too. And now that my lunch hours are free, who knows what I’ll get into,” he threatened like a bird ruffling his feathers.

“It’s just not healthy for us to be in love like this. I mean really, I don’t like it at all. It’s not natural. Even straight people are not like we are, Bruce,” I said as I dumped out the last of the crumbs from my little blue bag of Weis potato chips.

“What are you making for dinner tonight?” He asked.

“I don’t know. You tell me. Last night you didn’t want the turkey sausage I brought in.”

“It will not go to waste. You know nothing goes to waste at our place. Bring in some steak, it’s Thursday.”

“It’s only Thursday—steak night again. The week drags without having lunch with you.”

“Can we have one more pizza Friday together before we implement our new separation agreement?”

“Of course, I love you and pizza,” I said as the pigeons stormed in to take what was left of our Thursday afternoon lunch.

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You Can’t See Me

My neighbors here in Bedford Stuyvesant, Brooklyn have been yelling “You Can’t See Me” when I leave the house to go to the corner deli. They also wave their hands in front of their face while they say it.

I look just like the professional wrestler, John Cena. The catch phrase, “You Can’t See Me” is our motto.

I lost 30 lbs. when I stopped taking Lithium and Zyprexa, and I’m looking pretty damn good these days considering how fat my ass was a few years ago.

My body bounced back into shape rather miraculously after coming off the medications. I guess eight years of life as a gym queen wasn’t wasted time after all.

I don’t mind the celebrity status John Cena has granted me after my great come-back. But people expect too much from me.

Men in New York City are obviously big fans of WWF Wresting. They stop me to strike up conversations and to let me know I look just like John Cena. I don’t know what they expect me to talk to them about. Perhaps I should pretend to care that John lost his title belt. I muster up the deepest vocal tone I can, grab my crotch like thugs do and say something stupid, like “Yeah, so wassup man?” just to play out their fantasies.

Women are all over me thanks to John Cena’s ability to body slam– not just desperate women, but the sexy ones with nice asses and big tits. I never thought I would say this after living 38 years as a gay man, but I’m considering testing the waters. I tried it once when I was 19, and never dived back in since. But what the hell? When they throw it at you, why not take them down for the pin? I’ve done everything else for heaven’s sake. Besides, women don’t expect me to wrestle them just to have sex.

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What Child Is This

The day the police came for me they had to call for back-up. “Breaker 1-9”, he said on his cruiser radio—“We have the Messiah here. Send an ambulance.”

Finally, someone was acknowledging my importance and understanding what was happening there at the sleazy motel along a stretch of highway in Patterson, NJ. I was, after all, Jesus in the flesh and my time was at hand.

Being a chosen one of God, a prophet, a visionary and a savior is not as glamorous as it may sound. How I arrived there at the hooker hotel is anyone’s guess, but it was my destiny.

I remember standing in a long line at the Greyhound Bus terminal in Newark, NJ, prepared to purchase a one- way bus ticket to Los Angeles when suddenly it occurred to me—that is one hell of a long bus ride, so I changed my mind. Why not fly? Pregnant women shouldn’t fly so I wasn’t going to take the chance.

I was so damn tired; too tired to go back to Manhattan on that Path Train with all its thought control devices hidden behind illuminated advertisements. And they were after me—those agents who knew I was the first man in the world to get pregnant. They also knew I had to get to California to have the baby.

I was smarter than they were. I was prepared to out fox them yet again. I had the protective instincts of an expecting mother and the pride of a strong father rolled into one pregnant package.

How did they know I was escaping Manhattan via the Path Train and bus to L.A? There was no way in hell they were going to abort my fetus with those taser guns disguised as cell phones, I was certain of that.

“Christ! How many of you does it take to bring me down?” I cried inside Penn Station, Newark.

It had been weeks since I slept last. I wanted to sleep forever and never wake up again. I knew the lack of proper rest was not good for the child inside me, so I went outside and walked up to a taxi stand and asked an African cab driver to take me someplace, anyplace where I could rest—“A hotel please. Any hotel is fine. I need someplace cheap if you know of one. Hell, a manger will suffice. I only need it for the night. Hurry-up please; and don’t worry, you will have your reward.” I promised.

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Dick the Halls

I was assigned charge of quarters duty with Specialist Faith Ann Sipes on Christmas Eve 1989. The blonde female soldier and I were responsible for answering the phone and keeping an eye on things as the cold German barracks stood silent on the far from festive night.

The Berlin Wall had just come down and it was a time of peace. Not a creature was stirring and the two of us took turns taking naps in the pool room as most of the soldiers were away on leave– ski trips to the Alps and bar hopping on the streets of Bavaria.

It was a long day– a twenty-four hour shift of absolute boredom.

“I read the letter you wrote to your friend– you are gay, aren’t you?”

“No. I bisexual,” I explained.

She offered me a blow job, perhaps to see if I was telling her the truth. I took her up on the challenge. It was almost Christmas and I was lonely.

It went beyond a subtle suck on my thick cut cane, hanging almost to my knees from the button-fly opening on my battle dress uniform. She got it to stand at attention while her cherry red lips bobbed like a sleigh on the icebergs of the North Pole.

The tips of my jump boots were still spit shined, despite the long shift. I watched her reflection from a view from under her chin and was mesmerized as she slobbered in hunger.

She took down her camouflaged pants and showed herself to me while in a perfect pre push-up position on a wooden Army issue desk in my room. I made my list, checked it twice and was prepared to taste the Christmas pudding. She tempted me like a reindeer with an ass poked high. It was then that I realized that she wanted me to write about having sex with her.

I held my man pen with both hands and told her to come over to the twin bed for a quick draft. She crawled from the table and wiggled across the room still halfway in her pants and boots.

The green wool blanket tickled my muscular ass cheeks and the abrasive touch to my balls caused my cock to salute her.

I removed the blanket so the cotton sheets would feel soft on her rather chunky body. Her belly bounced like jelly when she giggled and moaned. I went into her like smoke up a chimney– jabbing it from side to side and I found my way under a Christmas tree that I never took the time to trim before.

She never mentioned my writing again.

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Only In New Yorkleans

I hear New Orleans is nice. My gay cousin and his Puerto Rican lover have moved to the Big Easy following the recent man-made disaster in New York City known as “Hurry up Katrina, I don’t have a trust fund like they do.”

He was washing laundry in his very own house when I called.

“What’s that sound?” I asked.

“I have a washing machine. Can you believe it, girl? Oh God, get the fuck out of that town before the terrorist take away what little money you have left with their $7.50 cigarette taxes.”

They have already found jobs and a nice quaint house in the French Quarter. Jose is working as an assistant pastry chef and my cousin is a palm reader in the Ninth Ward.

“It’s so much better down here, Charlie. My neighbors are really nice, they drink just like Jose and I.”

“What’s that sound,” I asked again.

“I’m breaking up the empty wine boxes from last week,” he explained while I thought the levies were coming down again.

“They sell wine in boxes?”

“Of course they do, and we recycle here.”

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Washington, B.C.

Earl Fox, M.D., Bill Clinton’s apointee to head the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration was introduced to me at a dinner at Chez Josephine, the four star restaurant in mid-town run by the gay, adopted son of Josephine Baker.

Earl was not a fox but for some strange reason, perhaps because of his powerful position, believed that I should be falling all over him because of who he was.

It wasn’t Earl’s birthday and he was far from being worthy of bedding with me, considering he had a lover and was a skinny psysician with really bad breath.

A former co-worker, Patrick J. McGovern, Executive Director of Harlem United Community AIDS Center, invited me to the dinner party at Chez Josephine. It was his birthday bash. I’m not one to pass up a free steak dinner and Patrick explained to me that he was trying to squeeze a few more federal dollars for HIV services out of Dr. Fox and that he wanted to ‘pimp’ me for the evening.

The staff at Chez Josephine seated me next to Earl. It was a set- up, an attempt to get the powerful physician laid while he was in town and I was the hot, hung bait.

The Democrats had just lost the White House and Earl was practically starving at dinner, wondering if he would still have all that power after Bill Clinton, the man who appointed, him left office.

“He’s an M.D., Charles,” my friend Patrick whispered in my ear as I reached across the table to shake his hand.

I wanted a new job, a government job, with good benefits and lots of perks. Ideally I wanted to move to D.C. and find a position as close to the Oral Office as possible, so I let Earl fondle me under the table at the chic midtown restaurant.

Oh to be that young and beautiful again with all those powerful men fussing over who was going to pass me the bread at Chez Josephine. Quite frankly, I wasn’t impressed and could tell that Earl was full of bologna, just like his boss Bill Clinton. I sensed he wanted nothing but to suck me off and head back to Washington to find a new position to hold him steady until the Democrats won back their rightful place at the top.

I tuned out all the useless chatter in that special little party room on the first floor at Chez Josephine, so I tried sneaking away to see what was happening at the bar while we all waited for our filet mignons to finish cooking.

Josephine Baker’s son, Jean Claude was sitting at the bar. He owned the place and asked the cute bar tender to pour me a free one.

Oh, to be young and beautiful again with all those sons of famous women fussing over who was going to pour me my first gin and tonic at Chez Jospehine.

Earl came out to the bar and looked at me as if I were Monica the intern standing in a forbidden zone at Hillary’s end of the White House. He rushed me back to the party room because the steaks were being served.

I never had the chance to thank Jean-Claude for that free cocktail. I thought for a moment I would get to hear a story about the ‘Toast of Paris’ that nobody else knew– a bite into the life of a true star.

I lost my appetite when the director of SAMSA handed me his home-made personal business card– the little paper rectagle contact form did not have a telephone telephone number– only a post office box where we could communicate with the man who offered to pay me $200 to suck me off at his hotel room.

He promised me a good job if I slept with him. So I did, wouldn’t you?

I wrote the man who headed the nation’s mental health service organization several months later, ready to cash in on my favor.

He sent me form letter that he used for reaching out to the masses to whom he still owed favors.  

“I’m away in Europe,” the Xeroxed postcard from the edge informed me of my dear friend, Earl.

I didn’t care but he could have at least paid me the $200 for sucking my cock.
I remembered how Josephine Baker lived her life and decided that it wasn’t worth trying to call in all those favors from my friends who had lost the White House.

I put down my bananas, picked up my ballot and watched from my living room as the Fox jumped over the moon and the Democrats under Al Gore, lost the election.

Earl is still waiting for the Democrats to take back the White House, but as long as I’m around shaking my banana, he’ll never sing on stage again.

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Cafe Con Leche

I pulled on my lover’s three legs and begged him to go to the Steamworks sauna in Old San Juan.

“We’re not going there to have sex. I just want you to see what a gay bath house is like,” I explained to my bashful boyfriend.

We were the new faces and fresh meat in town. I felt irresistible as the men chased us around the sexual playground in Old San Juan.

“Why do they shave their pubic hairs?” My partner asked.

“It keeps the crabs at bay,” I explained.

“Oh, I see,” he said while we entered the S & M chamber like kids in a haunted house at an amusement park.

“What are those holes for?”

“Those are glory holes. Stop playing the Virgin Mary! What do you think they are for?”

“I’m leaving. Don’t talk to me like that. It’s my first time in a place like this.”

“Shut up and put that big mouth over here and watch what happens.”

We giggled as love rods of different shapes and sizes came from the other side of the wall, like groundhogs searching for their shadows.

“Let’s go back to the room,” I suggested.

A Latino albino with hair as white as snow and pubic hair unshaven followed us down the hall into our small room.

He asked me if I wanted his leche.

I told him that I didn’t get off by placing blood sucking parasites on my skin.

My lover said, “No stupid—his milk. Do you want his milk?”

“Si! But not too much. I’m lactose intolerant,” I explained while imagining what color albino milk may be.

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