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Archive for November, 2007

Pimps and Ho’s

 

 

Chill and Tina Sanders met at my Christmas party in Harlem. Something told me that the fake nail wearing, hair weave throwing Black princess from my job would be the kind of girl that Chill would be into. Tina had a history of dating men in prison. Chill liked sistas with big tits and succulent lips. It seemed to me that they were destined to be together.

 

 

“Come to my party, Chill. It’s not going to be an all gay male party. I want you to meet my friend Tina.”

 

 

“Word? When is it?”

 

 

“On the Saturday before Christmas.”

 

 

“Alright, Chaz, but da bitch better be what you say she is.”

 

 

“Oh, trust me. Tina is fly.”

 

 

It was my first Christmas in Harlem. I had been a vagrant for nearly two years; living from sublet to sublet and staying with friends on and off while waiting for construction to be complete on the house that my close friend, Patrick McGovern was building. I couldn’t wait to move into the remodeled brownstone on 121st Street. The walls were fresh and not a scuff mark was on the hardwood floors. I was the first to live in the apartment—quite a change from the homes I had in Brooklyn and Jersey City over the years where when moving in, I often found myself spraying for roaches and cleaning clogged hairs from sinks before I could even take my coat off.

 

 

Finally, I got my keys, paid the deposit and made myself at home. I was just around the corner from Maya Angelou’s New York City dwelling.  The evergreen tree that I put up that year was decorated in purple lights and expensive velvet ornaments from Macy’s. I just had to show the place off and wanted a good turn out for my unofficial house warming party.

 

 

“Tina, I am inviting you to my Christmas Party.”

 

 

“Oh, for real? When is it going to be?”

 

 

“Next Saturday. A friend of mine who just got out of prison is coming. I want you to meet him.”

 

 

She looked at me suspiciously and asked, “Oh really?”

 

 

“He is jail trade, girl. I wish he was into my kind, but he’s not. But he’s a good friend and he needs to meet a girl. He’s been in prison for more than fifteen years, you know…”

 

 

She pretended to be disgusted by my suggestion, but I saw a twinkle in her eye—one that little kids have on Christmas morning when they wake up knowing that Santa had been in their home.

 

 

“What can I bring?”

 

 

“Feel free to bring a bottle of booze, oh and be sure to have a baby sitter for the entire night.”

 

 

“I don’t know about that,” Tina said.

 

 

“Trust me girl, you are going to want the evening to yourself and Chill.”

 

 

The party was fierce. There must have been at least sixty people who dropped by that night. They were mostly people who I did not know—friends of Tina’s from the projects and others were co-workers of my roommate, Anthony Owens. It didn’t take much work as matchmaker to establish the bond that I had imagined for Tina and Chill. The two spent most of the evening in a corner of the living room, next to the front window where my wooden rocking chair once sat.

 

 

“I like her, Chaz,” Chill whispered when Tina ran into my bathroom—the ladies room.

 

 

“I knew you would, Chill. Consider her your Christmas present from me.”

Chill just smiled.

 

 

Soon after, I appeared in my Santa suit and stopped the rap music that the strangers in my house had been playing on my stereo—music that I had not authorized but refused to change because of my charming hospitality. I placed my “Music from the Edge of Heaven” disc into the CD player and began to strip for my guests.

 

 

The mostly straight crowd began to gasp. Not at me, but at my selection of music—“Last Christmas” by Wham!

 

 

Shawn quickly grabbed his camera and we completed our mission. He wanted to capture not more photographs of me, but rather of the audience and the looks on their faces when they saw my big white bootie up close.

 

 

It made my holiday that year when Chill put a $20 in my g-string. Tina thought that was cool. She was surprised that a thuggish ex-con could be so gay friendly like she was. The act was enough to convince Tina to break her dating rule. She took Chill home that night, even though she typically never even kissed on the first date.

 

 

“How was it?” I asked Chill weeks later, after watching the two leave my brownstone, hand in hand that evening.”

 

 

“It was alright. Not bad,” he said, looking at me as if I may have some other plan to help make his transition to the real world a little easier.

 

 

“Thanks for the twenty dollars.”

 

 

“Hey, I want that back. I’m broke again,” he said.

 

 

I returned his money, feeling a little embarrassed by my holiday exhibitionism and besides, it was part of our original plan. I did tell him that Tina was a gold digger and he had to do what a man has to do…

   

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Teenage Jesus

As a child, Aunt Martha reminded Jesus every day that he was the one. After he finished his chores, pulling grains of wheat from long green stems, she sat him down on her lap and told him the story of how he became the bread of life.


Wise men treaded from the East and found him as a newborn in the stalls of Bethlehem – the place where those without proper Jewish fathers were secretly brought into the world. There were several children in Israel born on Christmas Day. Some have said a dozen, others thirteen. They all were spit forth from the bowls of Bethlehem on the night of the giant nova. According to unpublished, ancient legend, flamboyant men dressed as women crowned more than one child as “Christ,” the savior of the world, on the first Christmas day.
There was never such a commotion in all of Israel as the evening the drag queens came into town, offering their gifts to the children born in the ghetto. Jews wondered who these children were and what they meant to their culture. They did not understand why the queens were making such a fuss over the children who were born out of wedlock. There was, as scripture had promised, so much commerce pouring into the lands ever since the night of the giant star’s appearance and the sudden birth of so many fatherless children. Some started to believe that a savior had returned, but most never imagined that he would return in the form of a child. Most thought he would be a warrior. The three men from the Orient knew more than the Jews about the signs in the heavens, for they understood astrology and time in a three dimensional level.


The three queens found the child moments after he came out of Mary. They washed the blood from between his mother’s legs with expensive perfumes and oils, stood in unusual contorted positions and chanted languages that Mary and Joseph did not know, but thought was kind of cool.
“Why did they do that?” Jesus asked his aunt.

“Because you are the One,” Martha explained. “They said they wanted salvation too and not simply be just fabulous and gay.”

“How fierce,” Jesus shouted while sitting on her knee even though by then, the boy was twelve years old.
Martha, like the homosexuals, knew that Yeshua was the son of God. Her grandfather once told a story over a fire about how that one day, the son of David would be born as a child and in her family’s bloodline. It all started to make sense as the boy started to grow older.

Following the birth of her nephew, she started having vivid dreams. She, like so many, started to believe that indeed the son of God had been born in Israel. They waited so long for a king. Martha knew she would hold him as a baby in her arms, she was told that in a dream.

“The child will need a surrogate. Mary has done her part,” the angel Michael said to her in a dream. “And remember this— he is the son of all, not just yours.”

She knew it was not proper for her to feed the Christ child with her own breasts. She once tried though, just to see how it would feel. Mary wasn’t around and Martha knew that there was no real milk in her bosom, but she let the child pretend to drink from her. She wanted to bond with the babe. Michael’s heavy voice threatened her in her dreams, telling her not to breastfeed the child again, but she did anyway, simply because she wanted to.

Martha was concerned for her nephew as he got older. He killed a playmate by wishing him dead. The boy dropped the very instant Jesus prayed for the brat’s end. Nobody would go within twenty feet of Jesus after the silent murder. There was no question as to which of the thirteen boys would become the savior of Israel. He brought his playmate back to life though, after his aunt Martha insisted that he do it. Jesus didn’t realize he had such powers until the moment Martha pulled him from his Father’s bosom.

“Touch him and say one of your prayers, Jesus. Bring him back to us.”

He did it. The boy savior prayed for his dead playmate and returned him to life, but the task had taken nearly all energy from the young man.

The high priests of the temple confronted Joseph about their son and demanded that he be placed in their care, following his first official resurrection. Joseph refused their demands.

Jesus heard the priests protesting to his father Joseph. The young boy played in the mud, not really concerned about what the men were discussing, but after noticing anger in Joseph’s face, he made twelve balls of clay and tossed them in the direction of the priests.

They were terrified of the boy and the mudslinging. They knew that Jesus could kill them if so he wished.
The clay balls turned into sparrows and flew away, not harming the priests.

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Calls of Duty

Private Williams was as unwelcome in the military as a ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ homosexual with bleached blonde hair. He was as cute as an E-2 stripe, but as straight as a Marine’s back in the push-up position.He was a cocky guy who almost everyone wanted to knock down a peg or two.

I saw through his troubles with authority figures and adopted him as a friend– one of the few I had while living a top secret military lifestyle.

“So tell me– do gay guys really fuck each other up the ass or do you just give blow jobs?” He asked when I came out to him over a beer one evening in my barracks room.

I laughed hysterically but didn’t answer his question right away. It was nice to have a friend to be ‘out’ with. Williams was someone who I could confess my passions to. He had an ear to bend and served as a outlet for my own repressed military frustrations. I knew it would be safe to tell him about my hidden sexuality because he hated the military and its officers so much that he would view my lifestyle as a slap in their faces. Besides, Williams was quite the woman’s man. He had a thing for German females and the girls that he picked-up at local pubs gave him the respect that military leaders did not.

When I first arrived at 141 Signal Battalion’s Barton Barracks in Ansbach, I was placed in a room with Williams and another solider, Specialist David Davitch. Our tour as roommates lasted for just two weeks, but while in the top bunk on the other side of the room, I was granted the opportunity to witness what it was that caused Williams to be envied and despised so much by other male soldiers in Charlie Company. I understood why frauleins moaned like generators running in high gear when he was in them. I saw him in the shower every morning and his gun was more like an M-60 than an M-16. Other guys saw his ammunition too. It was hard to ignore. His penis was the reason why other soldiers were threatened by him and gave him a hard time while on duty.  “It’s little now,” a pretty young blond girl whispered in broken English shortly after their love-making had ended on the far side of the room. 

“Well of course it’s little now,” Williams responded, not aware that I was awake and listening to every moan and thrust. I buried my face in my pillow as I tried not to laugh. They heard me laughing. It was forbidden to have guests of the opposite sex in our rooms after mid-night. He quickly showed the girl back to the fire escape. I didn’t report them which may be why Pvt. Williams accepted me as one of his few friends in the military.

Billy was in my platoon. We worked side-by-side on military maneuvers. He was a skilled generator mechanic and could repair a malfunctioning machine with his eyes closed. As an operator of an Army radio/ teletype rig, I understood the importance of being on good terms with the platoon’s only mechanic while on training exercises. We were often called on ‘alerts’ in the middle of the night.“Alert, Alert, Alert,” our commanders shouted while pounding on our room doors in the barracks. We had to pretend we were going to war with Russia, jump out of bed, grab our M-16 machine guns, load up all of our supplies and travel in convoys to the heart of Southern Bavaria in the dead of winter. Snow was often up to our asses and we slept in tents. We had to dig holes in the drifts just for a place to build our shelters. The tents were warmed with diesel stoves that often ran out of fuel in the middle of the night and it was easier to remain snug inside of thick, down-filled military sleeping bags than to go outside to change the fuel cans. Lower ranking soldiers in squads were the ones who were ordered by their commanders to wake up, get dressed and go outside to place a new can of fuel on a rubber hose that connected to steel heaters that sat in the center of our tents.

“Taylor, get your ass up and change the fuel can,” were the most terrifying orders I have ever received in my life. We were not permitted to use bright flashlights at night. It was part of wartime training. Our green flashlights had red lenses that were as dim as the Cold War itself. By the time I got promoted to Specialist, I could change those cans with my eyes closed and in less than five minutes flat.

Often we were on maneuvers for more than thirty days. We went without bathing. Our generators also ran on diesel fuel. By the time the frigid exercises came to an end, we smelled of diesel fuel from head to toe. I never minded the hard work and training, but not having the opportunity to take a shower and wash the smell of fuel from my body nearly ruined me as a homosexual. Being dirty all the time made me moody and angry.  The Army’s strict disciplinary codes did nothing to covert me to being butch and comfortable in filth like Private Williams seemed to be. I found ways of surviving in a civilized manner while in the woods. My secret was a percolating coffee pot, which I could plug in inside my communications rig—as long as my generator kept working. The hot water I made inside that yellow, plastic urn was used not only for cooking dehydrated military meals, but also, I could take bird baths and even wash my hair every day. When my generator went down, Billie gave me priority on his repair list and I rewarded him with cigarettes.

As a mechanic, he had no rig to work in. He spent most of his time outside in the cold German winter, changing belts, jumping batteries and reconnecting loose wires inside of the massive generators. Working inside teletype communications rigs was an easy job compared to the duties of a generator mechanic. There wasn’t a lot to do once communications had been established with other battalions scattered throughout southern Germany. Every so often, we were required to test the lines of communication by sending typed messages over radio waves. That’s about all there was to do, with the exception of brushing snow from our tents and equipment.  We worked in 12 hour shifts and I spent most of my time reading and masturbating.  One cold January night in the middle of a European blizzard, Billy knocked on the door of my radio teletype rig. Without waiting for him to speak while standing outside in pelting snow, I asked, “If you know you smoke, why do you come to the field without a supply of Marlboros?”


“Can I come inside and get warm? I thought I was going to quit smoking, but it’s too stressful out here in the woods, Taylor,” my half Italian, half Irish friend stated while standing outside of my camper-like rig which was decorated almost perfectly with nets of camouflage netting that I draped over my machinery like a window display for bedding at Macy’s. 
I heated up some hot water and made him some instant coffee which I served to him in my own canteen cup. It was so cold outside. I wondered why the tear drops covering his face did not freeze upon his freckled cheeks.He was crying uncontrollably. He said his section chief, Sergeant Greer was fucking with him and he had enough. He claimed he was going to take a screw driver and kill the ‘black bastard’ that night. I believed him and had to do something to stop the impending murder. I leaned against a typewriter encryption machine as he sipped his coffee. The steel machine with a seemingly endless supply of ticker-tape paper made a few clicking sounds because I had accidentally pressed a few of the keys with my back while resting myself. I listened to my friend intently. He was visibly upset and red in the face.

“I don’t think you should let them get to you, Billy. It’s not that serious.”

“I’m going to run this fucking screw driver up his big fat nose and stab that fucker in the brain.”

“And what will that solve, Bill? You’ll end up in a military prison somewhere and spend your life rotting away over someone who really does not matter anyway. Choose life,” I said while handing him a pack of Newport’s.

“I’m tired of them saying I’m a stupid mechanic, Taylor. I’m tired of it! Thanks for giving me another pack of smokes,” he said while unwrapping them while looking through his battle dress uniform for a lighter or match.  “Here you go.” I said while flicking my Bic. “It’s no big deal. You can buy me a carton when we get back to base. You should let me heat up another pot of water so that you can wash yourself. That will cheer you up a little and being clean will make you feel a little better. We’ve been out here for three weeks. Cleanliness is next to godliness,” I reminded him.

He calmed down a little and wiped off the tears from his eyes with his greasy hand.

“Stop that! Your hands are dirty. Don’t rub your eyes with them. Use this,” I offered while handing him a clean brown t-shirt from my duffle bag.  “Take off that greasy uniform and relax a little. It’s nice and warm in here.”

He rubbed my crew-cut hair– his way of showing me affection without being gay. “Mother fucker, get your filthy hands out of my hair. I just washed it!”

He laughed. “Taylor, you are such a big pussy, do you know that?” “Fuck you, ass wipe! Stop messin’ up my hair!”I poured him a little hot water to freshen up the coffee he had cried tears into before refilling the coffee carafe with more water from a ten gallon jug that sat on the floor next to a small space heater. We spent the next few hours talking about life back home in Pennsylvania and preparing for his bath. He seemed a little hesitant at taking off his clothing. He said he didn’t want me to have to smell his stinky feet. “Do you think I’m queer or something?” I asked. “I know your feet smell. So do mine. We’ve been working like animals for weeks. Take them off and wash them. I can deal with the smell.” My bar of Dove soap seemed to ease his worries as he carefully wiped between each toe, dipping a cloth in a bowl of water made from a helmet turned upside down.  

“Has anyone seen Williams? My generator just went down,” our platoon leader yelled over the intercom.

“See what I mean?” He asked.

“You’re just being paranoid. They’re not making you run around for nothing.” “How is his intercom working if his generator is down?” Billy asked.“Just stay calm, Billy. Stay calm. He’s probably calling you from someone else’s rig. You can crash out in here with me tonight. They’re too lazy to walk up here to look for you.”“Are you sure?”

“No problem. Your feet don’t smell all that bad,” I whispered.  

“Thanks Taylor.”

“Just relax,” I said while turning off the florescent lights.

“Do you remember that girl you banged out in the room on my first night on Barton Barracks?” 

“Not really, why?.” 

“Well I do.” I said. “I want you to pretend I’m her, alright?” 

“What the fuck are you talkin’ about Taylor?”

“Then put out that cigarette!” I ordered.

He rubbed my head again while lighting another one of my cigarettes and said, “You’re a good soldier, Taylor.” 

“No, I’m just being all I can be,” I said.

“Me too, me too,” he moaned.

Taylor, is Williams with you?” The platoon leader shouted over the intercom system.  

“Don’t stop,” Billy begged.

“I didn’t have the chance to respond to the intercom.”

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Amishism

The recent crash of the housing market is the best thing to happen to America’s bread basket since sliced bread. Sure it’s scary now, but stop and smell what’s cookin’— even the rich will lose the roof over their buns soon in this broiling recession.

When I was a child, my mother received state Medicaid health care for her kids, not to mention tasty blocks of cheddar cheese. The only commerce in Huntingdon County was a shoe factory. My parents both worked there. I’m a true believer in public assistance.

“Renters will soon face the repercussions of a failing housing market,” news radio in New York City reported this morning. “Banks are not in the business of renting,” the DJ said. My parents never had it as bad as I do. They may have worked at a shoe factory, but they owned their own home.

Is it really that bad? The market dropped below 13,000 again today.

Remember when the stove doors were opened in New Orleans?

Massive layoffs at Walmart and the Home Depot will burn us all.

What will middle America do? Can we eat that much cheese?

Society must change and it will. It is not necessary for everyone to work a 9 to 5, just to get by.

The world would be a better place if we all lived like the Amish.

Capitalism requires that we all work hard to reach the top.

Socialism promises us that we will get there together.

Neither is right.

We need Amishism in America.

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Sweet Chuck Taylor Pie

piequeen-e.jpg 

Sweet potato pie is a rich delicacy than can be made inexpensively. The auburn tinted, tuber- based dessert is more than just soul food. It is a fresh alternative to pumpkin pies.

It is insensitive to be a guest at a Thanksgiving meal and show up with a dessert purchased at a bakery or a simple bottle of wine. Add fresh whipped cream to this dish and friends and family at this year’s holiday dinner may think you are gay.

One should NEVER use store bought, pre-made, frozen pastry shells when a fresh crust can be whipped up with just Crisco shortening, flour, salt and water. Making fresh pastry is not as difficult as it looks and if done properly, hand rolled crusts taste much better than gristle like shells sold in frozen food sections.

Directions for making pastry are still printed on cans of Crisco shortening. Follow them:

Measure out the flour first

Add the salt

Stir with a fork

Add the shortening

Break it down with a fork until the pieces are the size of peas

Add the water a little at a time, and stir after each drop

Don’t own a rolling pin? Use a bottle of wine.

Make a ball

Throw flour on the work surface

Push the ball flat with hands

Sprinkle flour on the top of the hand- flattened pastry

Flip it over

Roll it out

Place in a pie pan and fill it with this filling:

2 cups of or approximately one huge, peeled Yam–cut into large chunks boiled for exactly 30 minutes and mashed like white potatoes sometimes are. (I use an electric hand mixer because I care.) The beaters of the mixer will gather the string like substance that sweet potatoes often have and make the pie like a cake.

½ stick of butter, not margarine

A small can of Carnation condensed milk (not evaporated).

A handful each of brown and white sugars

Enough molasses to masturbate comfortably with

Cinnamon, nutmeg, ground cloves and ground ginger– three heavy dashes each – – –

and my secret ingredient– Cardamom – just a little.

Pour it in the shell and bake at 350 for an hour.

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History Channel International aired a documentary on the Mayan calendar this evening. The world as we know it is going to end for mankind on December 21, 2012, according to the premium cable channel.

Rather than view time in a straight line, the Mayan’s understood time in cycles. With mankind’s most thorough understanding of the heavens, the extinct civilization understood thousands of years ago that the day of reckoning with God occurs four days before Christmas, almost five years from now.

The day corresponds with the rare moment in time when our star, the sun lines up perfectly with the center of the Milky Way galaxy. The moment happens only once in a blue moon– every five thousand years or so. We move face to face with that big ball of matter, stars, black holes and other material that make up the eye of the hurricane we spin within.

What most viewers like me may have misunderstood prior to watching this wonderful show, regarding the Mayan’s 2012 prophecy of doom is this–

They had an impeccable obsession with astrology. They truly understood the cycle of time. Mayans knew that time never ends– it goes on and on – like eternity, repeating itself, over and over.

It’s not a line with the end but rather a constant repetition of greed and cleansing, woven like a string of yarn into a ball. Every so often the ball becomes unwound by the nature of eternity before in can be rolled back up again.

The History Channel has gone beyond the psychic clairvoyants that Larry King had on his show this evening. They showed us the real meat and potatoes of the future in almost prophetic form with cold cutting facts relating to how the Mayan Calender clearly pinpoints specific dates in a three-dimensional time line. Days like September 11, 2001 stick out like knots. These events were written in the stars, long, long ago.

Scientists are still trying to understand the complex thinking of that primitive civilization of so long ago. There isn’t much writing that survived the times– just four manuscripts and some hieroglyphics. What makes their scripture so special is that it wasn’t tampered with like most other cultures.

The Central American Pyramids are of course calendars, comprised of four sides with 91 steps each equating to 364 days when added to the top deck gives us a year, but they are not writings– the only real connection to our lost pasts like those precious Mayan manuscripts. I must go out tomorrow and buy a book on the subject and I hope History Channel International re-airs that show tomorrow.

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I was in a private suite on the far side of Mount Morris Bath House where walk-in rooms are located. I insisted that Shawn go for a walk–

“Give me some time alone. Go find us a Puerto Rican to play with.”

“Do not let anyone else in here until I get back, Charles.”

“Alright. Just let me chill. I’m rolling right now. Go have some fun. Play around for a while. I belong to you. You know that.”

He insisted on kissing me before he ran to the other side of the underground bathhouse where most of the action inside of Mt. Morris takes place. Surely he didn’t believe for one moment that I wasn’t going to sneak in a quickie while he was getting off elsewhere. I knew while he was away he was going to get his ten- inch black tool sucked dry by all kinds of gaping holes. It really didn’t matter to me. No longer was I worried about having my lover stolen from me. We were in a gay bathhouse after all. It was just sex. What harm is there in anonymous sex if both parties agree that monogamy is not worth the effort?

I’m no fool. I knew he wanted to have fun with the other guys too. He left for the far of the sauna where the rooms are darker.

Shawn thought I would remain his bitch while he was off romaing the musty, athlete’s foot infested carpeted grounds. Perhaps he took serious the things I said to make him cum. Shawn thought of me as a loyal virgin; belonging to just him and permitted to fool around with others only when he was there to supervise the action. He liked to demonstrate how to properly poke the great abyss.

“He will cum if you fuck him on his back. Don’t do that yet. If he busts you ain’t gettin’ no more. He will clamp his hole tight and you will not be able to get back in for at least twenty minutes. Here, do it like this first! See– take your time and go in deep.”

I’d just moan.

I learned to accept the fact that none of my men leave me despite how whorish I am in their presence. I needed time alone in Mt. Morris.

I felt guilty for leaving him on Saturday nights all the time. I didn’t want him to be home by himself crying because I went out to get some strange again– such a big cry baby. I informed him on the day that we met that I love getting done my lots of men, especially all at once. Feeling sorry for him, I granted him the right to come with me to another ritualistic, sexual escapade in Harlem.

“That place really means nothing. It’s just fun. Trust me, you will like it too. It’s wild there. You are gonna love it, Big Daddy Kane. We can go just to watch the other people. Come with me, please. Get out of this house for a change. Stop feeling sorry for yourself simply because I am comfortable inside my insatiable skin.”

He laughed.

“That’s exactly why I love you so fucking much, Sexy!”

He headed off to the heavy cruise area beyond the television room where re-runs of the HBO series OZ were shown to bored patrons. Tops sat with white towels over their private parts and watched an overhead television while bottoms waited for them, face down, on white sheets with little bottles of poppers laying next to their heads like visions of sugarplums.

He was gone for just two minutes. I opened the thin plywood door. A trainer I knew from Crunch Fitness was outside. He was a guy I had watched and lusted over for years in the free weight area of gym. He would show others how to get pumped and buff. I learned workout secrets from watching him so much. I could never afford a private trainer. If I could, I would have hired him in an instant.

He smiled.

I showed him my naked ass.

He came in and had me. We never spoke a word. Just deep quick thrusts. He busted in less than a minute.

I came too.

Shawn was standing outside the door.

I felt like such a slut.

“How could you do that? You swore to me you wouldn’t.”

“Fuck you, Shawn. You said that. I only agreed, but never promised.”

I didn’t realize that they knew each other. They were former lovers. Shawn was so angry with me that night.

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