Depression was severe this morning. Phantom pains haunted every muscle below my neck. I had no tears to cry; it seemed that if I could force tears to stream from my eyes, at least I’d feel sorry for myself. Three cups of coffee did little to stimulate a purpose in me, so I dashed across the Hudson River and into Times Square where at least I knew there would be male whores lingering in the peep shows at 6 a.m.
A lack of sex since moving to Jersey has instilled a certain low-self esteem in my depressed head. I don’t feel sexy at all if not attending the sex parties I once frequented in the late 1990’s. Life seemed to have so much promise when men went crazy over the guy at the end of the train—me—the one with a bubble butt and a heat too big to pop. Well it has; my head has popped here in my mid-forties. When my faith in God has faded, I head out to where men live like it once was in Sodom.
Every white man in a well pressed suit who was hanging out in the peep shows this morning seemed to be craving me as much as I currently crave a strong anti-depresant in this endless sadness that is the gay golden years. I have a theroy that states that men, gay ones in particular, can sense a whore and they can sense someone who hasn’t had good sex in weeks, if not months. For a gay man in New York, finding a man who isn’t tainted with the strong scent of cock all over them is like going to the high school prom with a Baptist chick. These men in suits seemed to sense that I was close to being a virgin again. They grabbed their erect penises and headed into buddy booths, hoping I would jump into a booth adjacent to theirs and fool around through the big holes that have been drilled between the stalls.
I didn’t though. I just stood there in the porn shop watching a video of a George Michael in concert, which was being broadcast upon a large flat screen television located just outside the buddy booths. My disinterest seemed to anger the white men terribly. One gentleman insisted that I follow him into a booth (which is highly illegal here in New York). I approached the door to the booth, looked down in a sad way, and simply turned and walked out of the porn shop.
I headed up 8th Avenue to another porn shop—the one located between 48th and 49th Street. The same host of scary, desperate white men milled about along with several over-weight black dudes who often wear so much perfume that their cocks taste bitter.
A young spanish guy caught my eye—the sign of a true male whore—I seem only interested in men who are male prostitutes. My therapist, Diane Schneider, told me after 8 years of intensive, one-on-one therapy, that the reason I am so attracted to these male hookers was because I once sold my body for sex and I am seeking a remedy for the pain that I inflicted upon myself. I wondered what college gave the bitch the degree. I regretted ever having shared so much with a woman who can never possibly understand how it is the mind of a depressed man works.
The Latino whore was a bit bashful. He stood several cubicals away from me, making eye contact only frequestly. Finally, I licked my lips while looking at him. He smiled and slowly approached me—
“Where do you live?” He asked.
“Far away from here. New Jesey.” I replied. I was shocked as I stared at the young man up close. He was missing at least five teeth in the front. The teeth that were remaining in his mouth seemed to cave in towards the middle. He reminded me of the children so common in the ads for the charity—“The Smile Train” where donors are asked to provide dental work for children with deformed smiles. This deformity made me fall madly in love with him. He had the most beautiful brown eyes—almost like a Mexican’s, but this guy was from one of the islands—probably the Dominican Republic. His long black eyelashes were prettier than any girl’s. When he wasn’t talking and showing his teeth, he was as beautiful as a model, and when he did smile, I seemed to melt. For a moment I understood why it was Jesus was so attracted to those on the fringes of society. He had an angelic glow about him—whore or no whore.
“Oh! I’m from Jersey too. West New York,” the sexy Latino explained.
“Get out of here! I live in Union City.”
“Do you live alone?” He asked.
“No, I don’t live alone. I live with a guy. Forget about it. If I took you home with me, Papi, I’d fall madly in love with you.”
“Is he gay?”
I just looked at the young man when he asked me this, then I rolled my eyes and laughed.
“How old are you?” He asked.
He seemed surprised and slowly grabbed his crotch before explaining that he was there in the peep show trying to make a few dollars so that he could eat. Eat what? Baby food? I wan’ted to ask, but didn’t. “I’m broke too, Papi,” I said, using all the Spanish that I know. “But I’ll tell you what. I’ll go right over here and have one of these old white dudes suck my dick. They’ll pay me for it. Then I’ll take the money they give me, and I’ll give it to you. Will you be my chulo pimp?” I asked.
The lad seemed truly shocked and turned on before repliying, “You’re fucking crazy, man.”
“I’m as serious as a heart attack, and the word is ‘loco’ in your funny tongue. Now watch this,” I said before vanishing into one of the buddy booths. I could hear the white queens in their fancy dress shoes scamper across the floor, attempting to get into the booth next to the butch dude with the salt and peper hair.
When I cane out of the booth, the Spanish guy was waiting for me—
“Here Papi,” I said as I left the buddy booth café. His beautiful eyes sparkled. I felt like a million bucks and I was no longer depressed.