Archive for August, 2007

Late August and early September is the best time to swim and sunbathe on New York’s beaches. The gulf stream that brushes against the banks of Long Island is quite warm this time of year. The surf tends to be a little choppy in early Fall, due to off coast tropical depressions and hurricanes. It’s body surfing time.

Fire Island is where I’m headed this weekend with my lover who happens to be a New Yorker yet has never set foot on that almost forbidden plot of land off of the coast of Long Island. You’ll find us in Cherry Grove on Saturday– the hidden lesbian section of the exclusive gay resort town. It’s the waterfront spot where women poets build summer homes.

My man is bisexual and I enjoy that most about him.  I prefer that he check out only the real girls on Fire Island, and not the queens who tend to hang out in the Pines, the part of gay Fire Island which is located just north of Cherry Grove.
Years ago, when I went to Fire Island almost every sunny summer weekend, I got sea sick; not from the ferry ride there, but because of the separation of the gay and lesbian communities. I did not understand why gays and lesbians partied in different communities at opposite ends of the shore. Now that I am traveling there with a partner, I’m happy that there is a lesbian section. I never liked going to the Grove when I was young and sexy– it seemed like a waste of time to go to the shore to hang out with fish.
We’re going out for just the day and we do not wish to spend the night on that secluded island with no highways or roads. There are no undercover police there, nor are there cars on the island. Visitors must take a boat or a plane. The Long Island Railroad offers roundtrip service to Sayville, and taxis offer shuttle service to the ferry terminal.

Nights on Fire Island are for the younger generation—for those not in semi-monogamous relationships like we are. The twenty-something crowd will be running around on the dunes at midnight, looking for love and quickies among the weeds and bushes as I once did.

Never again will you find me in the ‘meat rack’ in August—the infamous cruise section of Fire Island. Poison Ivy is all over the place this time of year out there—that’s how the place got its name– from far above, the island looks red from all the poison ivy.

I will not be in those bushes of my youth. I’ll be out on the white sand next to the purple shells, wearing sunglasses, reading a hardcover copy of ‘Backslidden’; holding it up high in the air so that those who choose to check out the big bulge in my tight red trunks will see what I look like from behind.

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Springs Three

I’m going back
To where I grew up
Trees everywhere
Stars at night
New nieces and nephews still wrapped in baby blankets
Handed to me
An uncle again

Crickets at night
Evenings will be cool
Mountain air
A breath of childhood
Sleeping in the same bed, the twin of my youth

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Three Springs

I’m going home
Trees everywhere
Stars at night
Nieces and nephews wrapped in blankets
There will be a chill in the air
Handed to me
An uncle again

Crickets at night
Evenings nice and cool
Mountain air
A breath of childhood
Sleeping on my twin bed again

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There was a time when men turned their backs to guys who relieve themselves in public restrooms. Senator Larry Craig is not the only gentleman in society who has an addiction to reaching under stalls and stealing peaks at our pooping neighbors. It’s almost impossible not to look at the guy next to us when he has it out. Peripheral vision can be a bitch to guys, and there is something about our eyes, no matter if gay or straight, that causes our balls to roll in their sockets and look to be sure that our feet are not being pissed upon. Men tend to check each other out in public restrooms while at urinals. A man who claims to have never looked at his neighbor cannot be trusted. But a man who peeks inside of toilet stalls is an absolute whore!

Senator TruckerSucker is an old man who is no different than the rest of men in society, but obviously, due to his busy schedule, had his head up is ass while passing those “family values bills”. He has been living in a fantasy world and has not realized that America’s policy on tea rooms has changed, mostly because of the party with whom he shares crumpets.

Public toilets have always been seedy places to be and easy pick-up joints.

Most women feel uncomfortable using outhouses. It never feels safe to sit down on a seat that could carry deadly germs and what if the horny hand of the law suddenly grabbed your leg, ladies? What would you do?

This news story sounds like CNN is playing with itself in public places to me. Even if it is true, so what? Even if Senator Craig is a closeted homo full of projection, he has every right in the world to use a bathroom in an airport, and in my opinion, the police should have been scanning long lines for real terrorists. Gay tearoom queens are harmless to society. Terrorists blow up planes not zippers.

As a gay man who has been out since 17, I can admit that sex in public restrooms has never been my thing. I have always been sickened by the presence of old, ugly men, like Senator Trucker Sucker who capture cheap thrills at the expense of bodily functions. Leaders like the senator should get prison time like George Michael, but we all know that never really works to rehabilitate those who have the urge to go.

Senator Craig’s behavior is an outrage to me, but only because of what he has done publically in Washington.

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Are you tired of writing a blog for only clicks? Here’s an opportunity to win $50 cash for posting creative writing. I’m sponsoring another writing competition at the

Craigslist Literary and Writing Forum


Here is one of my favorite stories submitted by Daniel during my most recent literary project:



Consider this project as an opportunity to have your ‘blog – writing’ critiqued, reviewed and judged by a literary genius and forum regular Old Mack

Here’s what I’ve asked writers to do:

Create and develop a character based on the names of the remainder of the storms in the 2007 Atlantic Hurricane Season.Submissions may only be posted during the hours in which a powerful storm is beyond the tropical phase– when meteorologists consider ‘he’ or ‘she’ as a Category 1 storm” or above. All entries must be made in the craigslist writers forum under the submitted title of the named storm, when there is an eye with winds above 74 mph.

Only written ‘dialogue’ from previously described character- storms may take place in the plot as the season progresses. (For instance, it’s already too late for new participants of the project to write the character of Dean into their short stories.)

After each storm has faded from Hurricane status, no longer may the characters be ‘described and developed’. No words outside of quotes may be written about that storm– only conversations with new characters in the development stage may occur in forming plots.The trick to winning is– characters developed during hurricane season must be connected through dialogue and a common plot. The best overall plot wins a soaking $50 in cash from me. It’s not much, but it’s better than a poke in the eye from a thunderstorm.


A minimum of three characters must be created by participants during the Atlantic Hurricane Season.Post your submissions under the name of the storms during appropriate times. Writers will have to register at the craigslist forum so that I can appropriately verify the winner via e-mail address.

(Unanimous posters will not be considered for review by the contest judge.)


If there are no more storms this year, then I keep my $50!







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Sissy Boy

A summer thunderstorm blocked the burning rays of an August sun, causing Jeff’s father to shift his tractor into high gear. The sudden shade from the impending cumulus cloud was a welcoming sign from the heavens. For almost five hours straight, we slaved away in unbearable dog day of summer heat. We had been working ever since the sun came up, shortly after dew had dried from hay that was scattered upon the countryside like toothpicks that had fallen from their box onto a smooth kitchen table.

My belly was churning from drinking far too much sweet iced tea made from instant granules and not real Lipton tea bags. The headache-infusing beverage was kept cold inside a large plastic Igloo thermos on the passenger side of a Ford Bronco that pulled a wagon of hay through the fields. I started counting my trips to the thermos. After throwing six bails, I needed a drink. By 1 p.m. I was sick of hay, tired of too much tea and was dizzy from the golden rays of sun overhead.

Bailing hay made me so thirsty. I had to drink an entire plastic cup full at least every ten minutes to wash down the tiny bits of wheat that had gathered onto the roof of my mouth, even though I kept my lips closed while working and did most of my breathing through my pugged nose.

We had many more bails to throw onto the back of the long wooden trailer before the rain came. If the bundles of tall dried grass got wet after being pressed into bundles, it would not have been safe to stack the harvest in the barn. Wet hay has been known to burn down ranches in the rolling green hills of the Appalachian mountains. A slight chemical reaction is caused by soaked hay. The liquid serves not to extinguish flames, but rather, heat is created as the grass slowly decomposes, often resulting in an intense flame that can devour wooden barns as quickly as a herd of black Angus cows can put down a pile of the precious greens. A form of fermentation takes place with hay that is not dried properly which sometimes causes fires. Jeff’s dad was not going to let all the good hay go to ruin nor was he willing to risk losing the barn they had just purchased on the outskirts of Three Springs.

“Get a move on boys, there’s a storm coming over that ridge.”

My father told me that Jeff’s dad was loaded and that it was a “damn shame” that the man he grew up with had so much more than we did. Dad said that the Parks spent more than $100,000 for their new farm.

“Hell, that cattle ranch is only a God-damned hobby for Fred Parks. He owns a fucking trucking company for God’s sake. Why the hell does he got to try running a ranch too?” My dad asked himself.

“Jeff told me his dad grew up on a farm, like you did,” I explained.

“Hell that’s one big farm. It has more land on it than what Fred Park’s daddy owned when he was growing up down in Hillvalley. See what marrying into money will get you boys?” He said sarcastically. My mom didn’t seem offended by the off- handed comment about the wealth of the Parks family. Mom seemed to enjoy being poor, or at least, the statement regarding the type of woman to marry didn’t phase her at all.

“Fred said he’d pay Bill and me fifteen bucks an hour each, just to help take in the hay. Can we go work for him today, Dad?”

“I suppose so. Fred’s a good man. But you tell that fucker that I was the one who made you boys strong like you are. Hell yes! Fifteen bucks an hour is good money for a kid. Maybe you boys can pay me some rent this month,” my stepfather joked while granting approval for Bill and me to help our best friend Jeff and his dad on their new farm.

“Git your asses in gear boys, I can smell the rain,” Jeff’s dad shouted.

We had our shirts off. Sweat was thick on our young slender bodies, causing pieces of the hay to stick to us. Initially, the dried pieces of grass itched, but after spending a few hours in the sun lifting heavy bails, we didn’t even feel it covering our bodies. We were like naked scarecrows, drenched from our thick heads of hair down to our cuffs on our denim jeans with golden and green pieces of sweet- smelling grass.

I could lift an entire bail all by myself. Even Jeff couldn’t do that and I was younger than he was. I saw Jeff’s dad smile at me when I carried one on the top of my head, almost effortlessly. I kept my fingers inside the tight strings of twine which was used to pack the grass. I bent my head slightly, and heaved the heavy bail above, distributing the weight evenly, as the square footage of hay was balanced perfectly atop my brunette strands. I was showing off for him. I was a sissy, but I was strong. I was sixteen now. I was tired of people calling me a sissy. I wanted to show Jeff’s dad that I didn’t act like a girl all the time and that it was okay that I was best friends with his son Jeff.

My back went out when I let that last bail down on the back of the wagon, but we made it inside the barn before the storm came. Jeff’s dad gave me $2 more an hour for my work and told my older brother Bill and my best friend Jeff that I knew how to work like a man.

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Three-Way Addie


Addie was the third wheel in my relationship with Shawn. The tall, slender Black man from Guiana wasn’t particularly attracted to white men, but he did fool around with us almost every Saturday afternoon when Shawn broke out his cameras and lighting equipment to practice his picture taking techniques. The weekend photo-shoots were my idea, and I was the one who invited Addie in front of the lens next to my nude body. Shawn didn’t want him there. It wasn’t my fault that our casual poses ended in full-fledged pornography by the time we made it to the last two-rolls of film. The two Black dudes should have known that our lewdness would not have remained underexposed. Shawn promised never to have them published, but I never said such a thing. Creating those images was hard work. I invested a lot of time, and my time is valuable. Addie never really liked me that much anyway.Addie didn’t come to the emergency room when Shawn was passing into the light. I was the one who had to wipe the dried blood from around his chapped lips on that hospital bed. That’s why I refused to hand over those rolls of film soon after Shawn was put into a dark room for good. Addie came to the house looking for them. I told him that Shawn must have thrown them out before he died and I asked Addie to leave the house.“Addie is too needy,” Shawn explained. “He’s at my place all the fucking time. I’m not into him sexy, I love you. Let me shoot just you again.”

“But the two of you have fooled around long before I came along, right?”

“Yes we have, but it has only ever been sex. He likes to fuck too, and you know Charles, I don’t like getting fucked.”

“Well, his skin tone looks nice next to my white body. You want to shoot body parts, right? I say you invite Addie over again. It’s hot and exhausting in front of those lights all alone. He makes it fun. Come on Shawn, tell Addie to come over. I want to fuck with his head again.”

He did whatever I asked him to do and Addie did what ever Shawn asked him to do, so I was the one running those sessions that produced some of the most dramatic black and white images ever to be developed from a negative. I was the one who convinced Shawn to get back into his love and hobby of photography. I was just trying to be inspirational to the guy who appeared to be just a little too sad in my view.

“If you left Los Angeles in 1999, where did you go first if you didn’t come to New York until 2001?” I asked.

“Arizona. I went to Arizona to take photographs of the desert.”

“Why did you stop being a photographer?” I asked.

“I don’t know. New York is so busy. There’s so much going on here. I guess I stopped because of all the bootie in this town,” Shawn explained.

“I want you to get back into it Shawn. Look at all this stuff you got in your apartment, hell you even got the machine to develop black and whites. That’s hot. I want to learn how that’s done.”
Shawn just looked at me and smiled as I flexed my muscles. I was proud of the hard work that I had done in the gym for five years straight, and I wanted to preserve the image of my body that was showing more than just a six pack.“I showed you the photographs that were taken of me years ago by Karen Kolberg, the German photographer, the woman who has done covers for those fashion magazines. Your work is as good as hers. Will you take some photographs of me? My body is in much better shape now.”That’s how we got started in our little three-way porn game. Addie just happened to be at Shawn’s place again that day he broke out the lights and pulled down the heavy backdrop paper. That is how these images came to light.

“I want to thank you for encouraging me to get back into my photography,” were his last words to me on that fatal day before I left for work. It was the last time I would ever hear his deep, soft voice. I’m not sure what he meant by them. Perhaps he did take all the Tylenol for a reason. Maybe it wasn’t just an accident or a bad headache. In any case, the photos are still around, and I’m still into three-ways.

If Addie happens to see himself in my blog, well, that’s just the way a love triangle works sometimes.

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