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Archive for January, 2012

The son of New York’s police commissioner was charged with sexual assault. The news anchor son not only failed to use a condom during his “assault”, but he picked the loose woman up in a bar and had sex with the paralegal in her office.

Only once have I had sex in an office building here in New York City. For some, the atmosphere lends to a thrill during intercourse that can only be compared to shoplifting candy and eating it before leaving the store and setting off alarms. The man who blew me high above Times Square was some sort of designer, a total bottom who would stop at nothing to make me reach my climax. Finally I said to the man, “Hey, that’s enough. Where’s the elevator?”

The queen got off his knees and quietly showed me out of the building, never once demonstrating the masculine mannerisms that he showed in a buddy booth in a porn shop just outside.

The police commissioner was the man, who, years ago, cleaned up Times Square, got rid of all the low price male hookers who could be had in a buddy booths for a mere $10, and rebuilt the neighborhood into a sprawling Disney mecca that makes an old desperate queen puke when walking the streets there.

I feel for the police commissioner’s son, the news anchor, who both my lover and I adore watching on Saturday mornings. I respect him for being so carefree in a city where most girls ‘hook-up’ on facebook and rarely ever find themselves bent over a desk and taking it like a man, high above the city that never sleeps, but always has kinky sex.

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Susan died in her sleep a year ago. The family insists that a chicken bone was the cause, but my lover thinks she may have taken one too many Soma pills. 

I really miss Susan and the Soma pills. She had the best weed on the Upper East Side. Hanging out at her large apartment with her younger sister was the best of times. 

I haven’t thought too much about Susan since they burned her to ash, but my lover is still grieving. What he saw in that old Jewish broad is anyone’s guess, but yesterday, it seems Susan sent a gift to my lover and I from the light. 

Susan’s younger sister, upon hearing that I am unemployed and out of unemployment insurance benefits, demanded that her new boyfriend, an Italian with “connections”, help to get me a job at New York City’s most famous bakery. 

I’ve always wanted to be a pastry chef– perhaps that’s my true calling. Say a prayer for me and perhaps Saint Soma Susan will do something nice for you as well.

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Slutty Army Chicks

I was assigned guard duty with Specialist Faith Ann Sipes one Christmas Eve. The blonde female soldier wouldn’t hurt a fly. If ever she had gone to war, her only real weapon would be her southern charm with accent to match. Her hazel eyes could have lured enemy men from Russia into her foxhole. When she blinked, she appeared to be flirting. Her long blonde hair was almost always pinned under her Army hat, but when it was let down, curls cascaded down a freckled back and the smell of strawberry conditioner was enough to overwhelm even the gayest of closeted service men.

We were responsible for answering the phone and keeping an eye on things in the barracks, that Christmas Eve. The cold German barracks were empty; the cement corridors were silent; hallways were not buffed with wax as was the order. We didn’t even bother picking up a broom.
The Berlin Wall had just come down and it was a time of peace.. We took turns taking naps in the recreation room atop a dusty pool table. Most soldiers were away on leave– ski trips to the Alps or bar hopping in the red light district of Frankfurt.

It was a long day– a twenty-four hour shift of absolute boredom, but there was not a more charming person on Fliegerherst Kassern that I would have rather spent that cold Christmas Eve with.

“I read the letter you wrote to your friend, Anthony– you are gay, aren’t you?” Sipes asked as I returned to the desk from napping. I was horrified. I realized then she had read from a legal pad that I left next to the phone on the CQ desk.

“No. I’m bisexual,” I replied casually, as if everyone in the Army knew I was gay. “Anthony’s in jail. I’m writing him a letter in jail. You just misunderstood my words, that’s all.”

“What’s he in jail for?”

“Shoplifting at the PX.”

“So that’s where you got all the nice civilian clothes,” she said, reading me, as they say.

Faithann offered me a blow job, as if to ease the tension that had grown between us that cold Christmas Eve. Perhaps she wanted to see if I was telling her the truth about being bi. I took her up on the challenge. It was almost Christmas I was lonely, and the dark room with the pool table and vending machines was just steps away from the CQ desk and the phones that had not rung all night.

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. I was so sad my lover was locked away and it had been weeks since I had even masturbated. Faith Ann, with her pretty green eyes, managed to call my dick to attention while her cherry red lips bobbed like a sleigh.

The tips of my jump boots were still spit shined, despite the long 24 shift. I watched her reflection from a view from under her chin, from the tip of my toe. I was mesmerized as she slobbered in hunger.

She took down her camouflaged pants and showed her vagina to me while in a perfect pre push-up position atop the pool table. I made my list, checked it twice and was prepared to venture into the Christmas pudding. She tempted me like a reindeer with an ass poked high. It was then that I remember that she was engaged to Specialist O’Connor, a fellow soldier who I both respected and admired.

I held my man pen with both hands and told her to lean upon the vending machine for something sweet. She crawled from the table and wiggled across the room almost tripping in her pants and boots.

“Does he fuck you as good as this?” I asked.

“Who?” the plump blonde with red marks all over her rear asked.

“Never mind.”

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Jersey Phoenix

Every firetruck in North Bergan rushed to a fire on Bergenline Avenue early today. At least seven structures were burning as men with hoses attempted to douse the ranging flames at twilight. Ice quicky formed from water pumped from hydrants all over the neighborhood. Across the Hudson River, the Empire State Building lit with a multitude of colors appeared as a ship in the fog, yet no one in Union City cared about skycrapers this morning.  

 

A westerly breeze carried the fumes away from New Jersey and into the heart of midtown. News choppers from every station except PBS hovered high overhead, streaming live video of the tragedy into the flat screen televsion at my feet.

 

Six AM, meditation and prayer time—following instructions from great Christian mystics, I slipped away and stopped every thought in my head, even of the raging fire just outside my door.

 

Perfect silence.

 

The choppers fade as if the emptiness inside my head was what put out the big fire up on the hill.

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Circle of Marines

Shirtless men gather upon the sand dunes of Fire Island. A full moon is high overhead, the smell of the Atlantic is a mix of salt and sweat and there seems to be a purpose to this mating ritual where seed is cast upon sand still warm from a summer sun.

Eyes shift in the darkness from one torso to another. In a moment, in unison, the mermen moan with delight, but no sooner than the last drop of nectar reaches the earth, they run away in shame as if they simply took a piss together.

Mermaids will never know the secret delight that men of war share with their tentacles in hand. There is a rush greater than the waves in the Atlantic when men play at war.

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Best Choice Staffing

Competition is fierce in New York’s not-for-profit job market. It has been months since I was last offered an interview, despite hundreds of email blasts sent to ads that often were simply a scam, and I was asked to complete a credit score prior to my application being processed.

The last face-to-face interview was with a temp agency called BC Staffing. (The BC stands for Best Choice), but obviously, I am more of the AD type of worker personality. I was so sick of the game, ready to say fuck it, like so many others have done.

Soon I may fall into the category of those who have simply ‘stopped looking for work’. The interview process has become so insulting and degrading, but at least yesterday, I made my interviewers laugh— and laugh they did—so hard that I think I may just get the job.

I’m always prepared for the question “Why did you leave your last job and why did you leave the job before that one?”

Yesterday, I was asked why I left the Army if I had considered it such a “good experience.”

I looked the executive director of the non-profit in the eye and replied in a cold jaded tone, “Because I could not be openly gay in the Army, and besides, the fellow soldier who I was dating got out of the Army, came to New York and insisted that I leave the service too, otherwise, he threatened to tell them I was gay.”

My interviewers were shocked. The look in their eyes was worth a million dollars, or at least the $6 in subway fare it cost me to go all the way uptown to the Columbia University Campus.

The men laughed. They laughed hard in a way that only gay men laugh when they are alone together, making fun of the rest of the world.

I had to say something to stick out of a crowd of thousands. I’ve always said the right thing in interviews, never making potential employers smile. Yesterday, I believe the truth may have set me free and perhaps all those years I spent in the Army may not have been a waste of this gay man’s time.

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The Exxon gas station outside the Lincoln Tunnel has American Spirit menthols for $8.05 On the other side of the tunnel, cigarettes are approaching $14. It’s hard to stop smoking when one finds such a bargain.

A young Spanish man who works behind the counter gave me a stroke when I purchased a pack yesterday. The lad is a new employee at the busy Exxon station and has never heard of American Spirits. I pointed the rack above his head and said, “The dark green pack”.

“Daa Green,” he replied with a slight twist of Spanish added to his English as he reached high above for my addiction. His beautiful, hairless, tight stomach blinded me for a second.

His ‘innie’ was enough to cause me to lose my composure and simply stare until he returned from his tip toes, when finally, his shirt went back down. When he asked if I needed matches, I simply held out my hand as if for charity—a slight touch would be all I needed – fuck the cigarettes!

A woman with broad shoulders who was in front of me in line had confused the poor boy terribly. She bought a ninety-nine cent pack of mints, handed the ‘papi chulo’ a ten and demanded, in a deep manish tone, nine singles in return. It took him forever to count those singles—I just watched and waited my turn. He shook his head covered with a carpet of black curls and gave her what she wanted.

I knew I had eight singles in my wallet, so I give the young man the wad that I purposely keep in my wallet to make it feel fat, and thus, myself, richer.

He counted the singles. There were eight. I was sure of it. That was all that was in there anyway. I watched him count them, but he insisted that I had given one too many.

“No!” I said when he tried handing me the dollar.
He graciously placed the dollar in a plastic tip jar and smiled at me like an angel. Now I’ll never stop smoking.

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