Archive for October, 2011

Gillie Wells the Third did not look like a gifted artist and cartoon illustrator. Infantry men are not known for using the left sides of their brains. The Gillie Wells I served with wore military- issue, ‘birth control’ glasses that were as thick as a slice of bread; with vision so poor, he risked military discharge for being visually handicapped, yet despite his visual impairment, he could draw better than anyone I ever knew.

Gillie Wells wasn’t wearing glasses in the gay club in Frankfurt on the night I met him. Inside the club, under the neon lights and disco balls, the green contact lenses he was wearing seemed a bit extreme– so gay, I thought. Few black men have green eyes like mine, but his were sparkling like emeralds.

We spent the early hours of the morning together in a hotel on a military post at Division Headquarters in downtown Frankfurt, Germany after leaving the club. With the dollar losing its purchasing power, it was expensive to rent a room in a guesthouse in Germany. As gay service men that no one knew were gay, we were entitled to a huge discount at a four- star hotel that dignitaries and generals slept in. For only $20 a night, guests with military identification cards were permitted to relaxed in the comforts of plush white cotton comforters.


There were at least a dozen other gay Army men in the sprawling hotel room. Gillie made love to me in a room filled with them. They all slept, or pretended to be sleeping. Our encounter under the heavy blankets lasted for nearly an hour. Gillie, after kissing me hard, insisted that I follow him into the bathroom.

Inside the brightly lit room with white tiles running from floor to ceiling, Gillie asked that I straddle in the toilet, facing the opposite direction that one normally assumes when using a latrine. I did as he asked. Moments later, he held a small bottle under my nose and instructed me to inhale. I did as he asked. It was at this exact moment that I lost my anal virginity—with not a care in the world and my mind spinning down what felt like a tunnel, for the first time in life and after numerous failed attempts at taking a man, it seemed that Gillie Wells III could not do it hard enough.

“That’s some good boy-pussy,” he yelled.

I froze briefly, aghast at how he referred to my ass, but after another whiff of the small brown bottle I realized what it was that God had given me. All my life I felt like a man trapped in a woman’s body, but that night, surrounded by nothing but mirrors and white tile, I felt that finally I had made love to a real man, the right way.


“I’m taking a taxi back to base. I wish you would come with me,” he casually asked as he packed his things inside an overnight travel bag. I had things to do. Our barracks was due for an inspection on Monday morning and my room was filthy, but I took him up on the offer. No one had ever made me feel such release. I had enough cash to take a taxi back to my own duty station and didn’t feel like riding the Germany trains. At least I wouldn’t have to try to figure out the train maps back to Hanau.

He introduced me to two white service men who shared his barracks room as we walked to a far wall near a window where his bunk was located. He pulled a Canson Esquisse sketchpad from under the mattress of his bed and showed me his drawings. I was floored. The details of his sketches were intense. They were cartoon strips, as one may see in a newspaper, but done in exquisite detail– science fiction at its best—what Picasso would have done if he had ever drawn cartoons. Without reading the captions he had written, the story had been told. The drawings spoke for themselves. The superhero captured in the detailed images looked strikingly like me.

I felt guilty for assuming he was a grunt with no artistic merit. When he told me he was infantry I thought I had a dumb stupid straight-like guy who I could easily mold. But Gillie was incredibly gifted, in more ways than one.

“I love to sketch. This is a story about a superhero with the power of mind control,” he explained. I carefully peeled each piece of linen-like paper and adored the mediaeval theme which graced the pages.
“I like to take photographs too. There is a dark room here on base that I use. Here are my cameras,” he said while pulling a large black bag from his wall locker.

I wanted to tell him about me, about my writing, but it didn’t seem important at the time. He was so far out of my league. It wouldn’t have mattered what foolish words stumbled out of my red, worn out lips. Why was he showing me so much about himself, I wondered at first, but moments later realized that he was perfect and incredibly sexy out of his contact lenses. I wanted to kiss him again, right there, in front of the men who shared his barracks room. Finally I could see his golden brown eyes through the magnification of his Army glasses. As the morning sun streaming in the small window of his room, I almost melted. The eyes are windows to the soul and he sees everything through a cloud, I thought.

I felt a glow all around me and the moment seemed as if it were predestined. Had I met this man in a previous life? The stories he had created– his art– it was shocking. I looked just like the character of a knight that was sketched within his art.

He realized I saw the connection. I felt like he was God who spoke the name of Adam in the Garden of Eden and I was Eve with sore ribs.


I remained silent and didn’t say much. My ass seemed to be throbbing. I just took it all in. To be in the presence of such a master. My head was still spinning from the little bottle, yet somehow, I felt more free than I had ever in my life. There was no misinterpreting what was in his sketches though– the detail on the lips of the character in the drawings was impeccable. Tiny bits of hair could be seen under the lower lip of the superhero, just as with my own mug. The gap in the teeth that existed behind the perfectly drawn lips; the ones that could be seen only when the character smiled, were a perfect image of my own.

“I want to be with you again,” he said, as if we had done something sinisterly evil, yet worth doing again just to test God. I sensed his fear that he may never see me again, so I agreed to pose for a photograph on his Army bunk. I somehow knew that I would never pose for a real drawing by the master, yet it felt good to be captured by him on film.

I never did pose for him, yet we spent every free moment we had together, somehow sensing that there was not enough time in life to paint what is real.

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Halloween 2011

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I met Captain Webber at the gym on Fliegerhorst Kaserne in Hanau, Germany. Fliegerhorst was a rather secluded military base due to the military air traffic that flew in and out of the compound. When payday was weeks away and there was no money for a taxi available, I often went to the gym. There was a dry sauna at the gym that for a while seemed like my own private spa.

One evening, just after chow, I headed to the most peaceful and silent corner of the base to meditate upon the hot wooden benches inside the Sauna.

My sweaty ass nearly slipped from atop the top row of benches upon which I was meditating when the cedar door with a small glass window creaked open. A tall black man wrapped in a white towel sat quietly near a bin filled with hot lava rocks. After splashing water upon the stones, he laid his head back and closed his eyes.

I watched as beads of sweat slowly formed on his slender body. Not an inch of fat surrounded his belly, yet a droplet of sweat slowly rolled down from his protruding Adam’s apple and collected as if in a pond inside his belly button. The cool sensation caused him to suddenly flinch. Captain Webber stood up, removed his towel and retightened it around his waist.

My face must have reddened even more as I stole a glance of what was beneath his towel. I rested my face in my hand in order to assure him that I was not hanging out inside that sauna just to pick up a man. I had been there many cool evenings in Germany to get away from the drunkards in the barracks and never once did I share space in that sauna with anyone else.

Nearly a half hour passed. I could not wither inside the room any longer. I stood up, stretched my hands upward and slowly bent over to touch my toes. When I returned to a normal standing position, I noticed that Captain Webber was stealing glances my way.

Without speaking a word, he slowly lifted his towel and motioned with his chin that I should approach the erection that reached his nipples. Too hot to be hot, I just stared. He stood and slowly moved toward my pink, nervous body.

Fearful of someone looking inside the small glass window, I carefully placed my hand there and motioned with my chin, over my shoulder, for the man with coal black skin to approach me.

Without offering any penetration, as if such a pleasure was even an option for a man such as Captain Webber, he simply held my right ass check in his large right hand and masturbated, looking steadily in my eyes.

I screamed with him when he reached his climax, not from pure inner-excitement of my own, but because I was so aroused by the wedding band upon his left hand that seemed to create an illusion of fire as he moved his grip rapidly moments before my freckled back came under attack.

During the remainder of my tour in Hanau, I had numerous encounters with Captain Webber. We never engaged in any acts that involved the sharing of bodily fluids, and never did we speak a work to one another until the evening before I departed Fliegerhorst Kaserne for the last time.

“I ETS tomorrow. I’m leaving the Army. I wanted to say good-bye to you before going and let you know my name. I’m Specialist Taylor,” I said as I offered my hand to be shaken.

“Captain Webber at your service, sir,” he replied. “It was an honor to serve you,” he said as I looked deep into his eyes. He was so my type—quiet, yet forceful and married—the perfect cover. He blinked with a blush and smiled. His eyelashes were longer than a spider’s legs, and upon one of the long strands of black lash there rested a droplet of sweat that I wanted so desperately to lick with my tongue, but never was I permitted to kiss him—only to offer up my ass in a twisted game of real-time porn where I simply stood and watched carefully out that little window.

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One encounters the craziest people while working in an adolescent mental health clinic along Park Avenue. It was my personal observation and professional diagnosis, while serving as the Office Manager for the upscale, state funded loony bin for kids of New York City schools, that professional staff in the mental health field suffer from an acute form of demonic possession. The kids who came to the clinic for treatment had nothing wrong with them, in my view, with the exception of a handful of teens that suffered from an addiction to ADHD pills.

While covering the reception desk one evening, after collecting a twenty-dollar co-pay from outpatient, Melonie Mare, I was asked a question by the pretty girl who changed the color of her hair from pink to blonde at least twice a month–

“Is ‘she’ in with someone?” Melonie asked, referring to the gay male psychiatrist who was treating her. I continued to work at my computer, noting Melonie’s cash transaction upon an outdated software program, One Write Plus. I took Melonie’s receipt from a printer behind me and motioned her to approach the bulletproof glass. I handed her the paper and responded, “Dr. Udarbe’s in there by himself, voicing his thoughts aloud as he responds to millions of e-mails. He will be with you in a moment,” I said, not cracking a smile and maintaining a seriousness that enabled me to survive in such a job for more than seven years.

Melonie smiled as she returned to a large sofa in the waiting area. She seemed upset because I did not respond as most gay men would to such a campy comment. It was not wise, I reckoned, after encountering odd children over the years at the Youth Counseling League, to become too friendly with our clients, even if they were fag hags. I was the one in the clinic who ensured that outstanding co-pay balances did not accrue too much. Melonie’s NYU Chickering Insurance denied most of her clinic visits, and very well the subsidiary of Aetna should have—Melonie was at the League at least three times a week—often crying hysterically in the waiting room, her mascara running like that of a sweaty drag queen.

“They say that mental-health professionals have issues of their own. I bet Dr. Udarbe talks to himself all the time,” Melonie remarked while folding up her receipt and sticking it in the rear pocket of her tight, skinny-leg jeans, “and they say I’m the one with borderline personality disorder. Go figure,” she commented while plopping down on the couch and picking up a copy of ‘US’ weekly.

“Watch out! She’s got on a ton of that awful cologne again today. You’ll have to hold your breath the entire time you are in there,” I snipped. The look on Melonie’s face turned from seriousness to surprise, and she smiled brightly. Her shiny gapped teeth looked like Chiclet’s gum from my side of the glass.

It was common knowledge at the clinic, among both staff and crazed kids, that Dr. Udarbe had a crush on me. Melonie’s obvious reference to the “rumor” pissed me off, but I didn’t let on. Teenagers who came there twice and sometimes three times weekly for group sessions, individual sessions and medication management became as adopted kids to the staff. Teenagers have a way of knowing everything that goes on in a house, and ours was a house of true madness.

If there had not been so many college kids in need of prescribed speed, I would have had sexual harassment charges brought against Dr. Udarbe and the other staff who started the rumor in the clinic. He curbed his wants, never once making his passes far too obvious, but always hinting that he could offer to my mind what his disturbed, fat body lacked.

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My husband woke up at 4:15 am this morning, fifteen minutes sooner than on a normal day.

I watched him secretly from beneath a pillow wrapped across my face as he stood at the foot of our futon mattress at the window. I continued breathing as if with a slight snore, not wanting him to know that I was wide awake too. Without turning from his stare of the dark morning, he asked that I make his espresso coffee.

I rushed out of our apartment in order to feed the wild kittens that have made the lot below our love nest their home. I noticed that Juan and Lucy’s apartment door was open. How odd, I thought. Juan and Lucy often leave their apartment door slightly open, but never so early in the morning, and always there is a florescent kitchen light glowing from inside their place. After scattering a handful of dry cat food, I turned toward 23rd Street and noticed that Juan was standing near his car, speaking to a man. I paid the old man no mind, and quickly rushed back upstairs to start a cup of espresso for myself.

My lover departed for work at his normal time—5:30 am. Two minutes after he had left, he returned to our door and shouted, “Charles. Come out here and help Juan.”

“What happened,” I asked, looking at the old Puerto Rican with silver hair as he stood in the hallway glaring at me with dark eyes like those of a demon.

“I don’t know,” my husband said as he turned to run off to work. “He lost his keys and wallet, or something.”

“Did you lose something, Juan?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I thought I did. I woke up in my bed and thought I left my keys in the car. My wallet was gone, or at least I thought it was gone,” he said, holding up his wallet to show me. “My God! I couldn’t think of who I was, but somehow I knew I lived here, and then I turned and saw your friend, and then I remembered everything,” he explained, smiling. I looked down and noticed that Juan did not have any shoes on, just black socks that were pulled up his skinny legs to his knotty knees.

“You had a bad dream. That’s all,” I said to reassure Juan.

“Do you think so?”

“Yes,” I said. “I dreamed I was riding with a fat woman on a motorcycle. We were going to drive all the way across the country. I’m not sure who she was. I think it was my step-sister, although I’m not sure. Yes, last night was a night for weird dreams,” I expressed, wanting somehow to assure him that his Alzheimer’s was not as bad as his wife Lucy had once mentioned

“Oh no! My wife is going to get up now,” he said as he turned and quietly started to re-enter his apartment.

Just then, Lucy appeared, her hair, now bleached a pinkish red, was matted down. She looked like a Spanish Baby Jane Hudson.

“One day you will get us all killed,” Lucy yelled as she pulled down the kitchen window in their apartment.

“We found him outside,” I explained. Lucy pretended not to hear. Juan pretended not to be listening. He quickly undressed down to his underwear and seemed happy again as he made his way across the kitchen toward the end of the apartment where the bedrooms are. He told me he was going back to bed know that he knew for sure where his keys and wallet were.

“Do you want some coffee, baby?” Lucy asked me.

“No thanks,” I replied, turning toward my own door. For one moment, I forgot how sad I was today when I first woke up, not wanting my lover to worry so much about me not working. I was happy to be here in this sad state of major depression. There are some who have it so much harder.


More writings on don Juan are here:



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Upon hearing news that Wall Street protestors are planning to march along the Upper West Side of Manhattan today, I immediate went to work creating a sign to carry in the march.

The protest has thus far failed to spark my interest, but learning that angry mobs plan to storm Jewish neighborhoods today, I could no longer sit in front of my television, fasting not in celebration for Yom Kippur, but because my unemployment benefits have been exhausted.

Unlike other protestors who cannot find the right words to express who their anger is directed at in these Wall Street gatherings, my sign certainly will point a finger at the true cause of our current national financial demise.

I hope you see me on television this evening. I will be one of the shirtless marchers running for the television cameras, holding up a sign that reads—

“This is why the holocaust happened!”

My sign will be painted with a silver glitter marker, one I stole from a towel head owned and operated Dollar Store in Jersey City. The cardboard box is an inverted Pamper box.

(I cannot wait to show off my six-pack abs—abs that I reformed during three years in the desert without work.)

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How Jesus Walked on Water

It was willed by Him that I remain until He returns. Being the one whom He loved much comes with many incarnations and much longing for the Bridegroom’s return. Resurrection after resurrection, I AM here, seeing him again in different wineskins, and always too late waking up in love to realize it was He all along, that same man who held my hand when we walked on the Sea of Galilee

He taught all twelve lovers to walk on water. Looking back, it was no miracle, in the sense that the world demands special signs. It seemed as natural as breathing following nights of perfect silence when the air in the mountains was so cool, when we sat in silence and felt the full-moon pass overhead. The freshwater sea was where we headed upon becoming One; we walked together in perfect bliss and stood in perfect formation, in unison with twelve bright stars that had not been overshadowed by the moon’s full glow. Soon afterward, when He had gone, we so easily lost faith, and wouldn’t dream of trying to walk out alone. We doubted the miracle of how so many were fed upon the grassy dunes that surround that great lake of the Jordan River.

Just as we had gathered all the was left, piles upon piles of stinky fish—fish that had been baked upon fire, nonetheless, and seasoned with the very salt that so many gathered at the foot of the Jordan and cook with every day– it was not easy to be convinced that God had made so much food appear from the very sky.

“They who followed us had this food with them all that time, and yet were starving themselves,” Simon Peter professed, his long strands of woven hair falling down his shoulders and coming to rest upon the woven baskets that he sat doubtful upon as the boat rocked gently, with only me behind the oars. “They were too greedy to share, so they kept their bread hidden. How often has he told the merchants who wish to follow us the same thing? ‘Hold onto nothing!’? Why insist that we keep just one tunic? The moment he broke and passed the first hard Barley rolls, in an effort to keep their own faith in God, the peasants took what was girded under their clothes and passed their own secret stashes along—and now look at all this food. Now He wants us to take it to the other side of the lake, and what for? As bait, that’s what for. We are ‘fisher’s of men! Ha! That’s not a miracle,” Simon boasted—pointing his finger toward heaven and forgetting so easily the night when we all walked with no clothes upon the cool lake after He told us who we really were, as men.

Just then, the sky darkened and it started to rain. I knew it was Him—I felt my lover near me…

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