Victor E. Browne stumbled across My Space. The body builder with steroid breath tracked me down on the social networking phenomena, causing the site to send me an automatic e-mail per his tweet.
“Yes, Victor,” I wrote in reply, “It is me, the heartthrob—the one who nearly caused you to slit your wrists when I dumped you.” (I used Victor for the deep-tissue massages that he charged others dearly for.)
There is no doubt that Victor Browne, the hunk from Trinidad was sent into My Space in the year 2001 for a purpose. I hardly have the time to answer him nearly a decade later. Feeling bad for tossing him aside like men sometimes do to bitches—I had not choice but to shoot off a quick response, but I will disappear quickly from his life again—like I did back when so many men wanted me as their bitch.
Victor was a lesson of sorts to me. We had sex just once. It was all I could stand. His steroid breath made kissing worse than rimming. Although my initial attraction was one of pure intrigue and fantasy—imagining him bench pressing me over his rock hard cock—bobbing me up and down like a barbell with little weight on it—yes, at first I thought he was worth a shot, so I let him do me, despite the heavy breathing and his silent, unspoken demands of remaining on the bottom.
Poor, dumb, fat-neck Victor—the Arnold Schwarzennegger of male prostitutes—how could I ever terminate him? He was one of but so many good looking men all fighting for bitch bottom ownership of my pretty white ass in 2001.
I met Victor at the gay hustler bar Stella’s in Times Square. We had both parked our perfectly chiseled asses on a bench against a mirrored wall next to the juke box and struck up conversation typical of competing male whores—
“You have great calves,” Victor said.”
“How can you tell?”
“Look at the bulge in those jeans.”
“I quickly removed my feet from a rail at the base of the bench and planted them firmly on the shiny, white floor and looked straight ahead at a disco ball on the ceiling above the bar and rack upon rack of top shelf liquor and cordials.
“Yo, listen,” I said, with a well rehearsed butch voice and attire to match, “If ya don’t mind, I need my space…”
“Oh! Ha! I know what you’re up to,” He noted, giggling dumbly. “You hustling?”
“Of course I am. Why else would I be wearing a wife- beater in a dump like this?”
Those were the wrong words to mumble sarcastically. Something ticked in Victor’s heart that very moment. He salivated while looking deep into my eyes. I quickly returned my stare to the disco ball. I don’t know what it was—a spark of love, I suppose. Nothing turns a closeted gay body builder on more than admitting that one is not gay, but engaging in the act of sodomy just to pay the bills.
Just as Victor was about to reach down to touch my leg, or perhaps it was a coin he dropped to the floor—one meant for the juke box—I don’t know for sure, but he happened to be bent over, looking down when Frank West walked by—the lover who had me arrested and a restraining order enforced—Frank had me thrown out of my own house—the very reason why I was so jaded as to turn to male whoredom. For one little bitch slap perfectly planted across Frank’s high-yellow face—I paid the price dearly.
Frank looked ferociously into my eyes—could it be that I was now selling my succulent, sweet ass for profit? It certainly must have appeared so there at Stellas.
“Do you know this person?” Victor asked.
“I gotta get the fuck out of here,” I explained, remembering the restraining order.
Both Frank and Victor chased me outside onto the busy streets of Manhattan. Frank shouted obscenities, referring to my new occupation all the way down Eighth Avenue towards Twenty-Eighth Street—
“You fucking whore! I hope you catch AIDS. You must have. Look how skinny you got! That’s right! Take it from me whoever you are—take him home and fuck him face down with his head buried in the pillow. That’s how I ripped that ass apart!”
I kept moving along on my strong calve muscles, galloping like a man whore, being careful not to swish too much. I refused to look back, knowing that if I turned to face Frank West again I would bitch slap him properly or perhaps turn into a pillar of salt right there in Chelsea.
“Hey! Hey! Wait for me,” Victor cried, nearly a city block behind. Are you alright? Who was that nigga?”
“Some John I fucked,” I said, “Now look at him—all strung out like a crack-head!”
“Can I walk you to your place?” He asked.
“It’s not my space,” I explained, “I’m only subletting…”