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Archive for February, 2013

Homosexual sex parties were popular in New York in the late 1990’s. With the rise of on-line “hook-ups”, as they were called when coordinated through America On Line, and later through Facebook pages and streaming video where anyone could be a star, the popularity of group sex parties faded like Catholic congregations are today. 

It does not seem possible that a group of gay clergy at the Vatican were tricked out of millions by a bunch of gay male hookers at some sort of sex party. The sex parties in New York City were a bore; rarely did one go to these so-called sex parties to get laid. The events typically were filled with rooms of old men hoping to join in with a duo of much younger thugs, but never did it happen—not even in far way closets in the private houses in which these pay-at-the-door parties took place. 

Secret reports and ancient letters stored deep in Vatican archives must say so much on the topic of sodomy, yet unlike the book of Matthew, we may never get to read about the path of Jesus, his disciples and the one he “loved much”. 

The sex scandal reported by the Italian media will not kill the church, but only strengthen it, as man in his search for enlightenment wakes up to realize that all life really is is a big sex party waiting to happen.

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Steve Casey had holes in both his shoes. Most messengers at the Lasership wear tennis shoes, but Steve wore black dress shoes. The streets of Manhattan are tough on one’s feet. 

I became friends with Steve one evening at the warehouse after my cart of Barns and Noble boxes had been ripped off. A man with red hair ran off with three of the boxes on my cart. I was upset over the incident, but Steve told me not to worry because it happens to everyone who delivers boxes in Manhattan. 

We went out for coffee after work that evening. I learned while inside a Starbucks that Steve does not drink coffee. He also explained that he does not drink alcohol. He claims to have a mild form of autism. 

I told Steve that he seemed quite normal to me, but he was convinced that something is wrong with his mind and he explained that he had not had sex in a very long time. I told him as a professional in the mental health field, and not just a messenger, that often individuals are over-diagnosed in a mental health setting and that sex was overrated anyway. 

After learning of my sexuality while inside that Starbucks, Steve had a change in his outlook on life. He told me, without blinking his beautiful green eyes, that he ran into a transsexual while on the streets at work. The trainee asked for his number, and Steve, being autistic, gave it to her.

Steve had sex with the drag queen. I asked if he was well hung. Steve said she was. 

Weeks passed before I ran into Steve at work again. He was crossing Seventh Avenue early one morning as I was on my way to 210 East 23rd Street to drop off a large shipment of paychecks. 

Steve had on a new pair of shoes and a swagger to his step. 

“I called in sick yesterday,” Steve explained. “Issac told me on the phone that if I did not come in, I would get fired today. I think I’m going to get fired. If I get fired, can I follow you on your route?” 

“Sure,” I said, “But you are not going to get fired. Not from a crappy minimum wage job like this. This job sucks anyway, Steve. You’re too good for it.” 

He smiled. He seemed to believe me.

Steve called me on my cell phone on Thursday, just as I was stepping out of a high rise building in Soho. 

“I got fired, Charles, and not because I took off work.” 

“Why did they fire you?” I asked. 

“Because Isaac said that even though it was Valentines Day I should have come to work. I didn’t think his comment was funny, so I told him it was inappropriate. Then he fired me.” 

I didn’t know what to say, so I offered to take him out for a beer. Steve agreed. He seemed relived to be fired from the hell hole where I still work. Perhaps the drag queen cured him of his autism and I will cure him of this horrible recession.

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Showers at Barton Barracks in Ansbach, Germany were time regulated. Soldiers with soapy eyes reached for buttons to push upon slick white tiles that covered these communal baths. Every two minutes or so, the water stopped. With bars of soap in young, push-up strong hands, the men cried “Oh hell” and reached out for a button that would release more hot water from above.

There was no method to regulate water temperature. These barracks that had been renovated following Ward War II seemed designed to dishearten the spirits of the modern American soldier stuck dripping in cool Bavarian air. We were defending a land that the Nazi’s once ruled and had to pray for more hot water.

Terry cloth robes were my passion. At least three hung within my wall locker in room 203, just steps away from the Army latrine and the secluded shower room. Into the shower room I crept quite often. It was best to take showers alone; it seemed the showers stayed on longer and the water was often warmer when multiple showerheads were not running at the same time.  At least in there, I could sing.

A Tina Turner cassette tape of “Break Every Rule” was kept in a boom box that I often carried while wearing my bath robes down the highly polished stone floors of Barton Barracks.

Two other soldiers were already there pushing those silver buttons over and over. I turned on the music and stepped alongside my fellow soliders. The song “Typical Male” came on and I began to sing and dance, somewhat like Tina Turner.

These two men, Pvt. Tamburro and Specialist Taylor were not gay, but they did enjoy my show.  I did not know they were watching; there was soap in my eyes.

The men, one black and one Italian were rubbing their cocks. Tamburro’s pubic hair was just like that of the tight Italian curls on his head. He had freckles- a sign that perhaps he picked up some Irish blood while growing up in Pittsburg. His dick had nothing to do with being Irish.

Danny Taylor, whose name I shared, had skin darker than the grease he worked in as an Army mechanic all day. He needed to take showers; that seemed for sure, but never had I bumped into him in the shower before. He was rather husky, stood quite tall, but his body was proportioned like a tank. The head of his penis was pink—like the skin around my own toes.

I quickly ran from the shower, despite the fact that I had only pushed the metal button a few times, and “Break Every Rule” had yet to play all the way through. Soap still dripped from me. I had an erection and thought for sure they’d all find out I was gay in the Army.

Tamburro and Taylor never said a word. When I’d see them again in the shower, it seemed as if we had never showered together before. 

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The Baptist preacher who married most of Bill Miller’s children told Bill’s wife Liz that her husband made the best baked beans in all of Petersburg.

Liz agreed as she stood in the back yard of her in-law’s homestead with a paper plate in hand. She took a bite of Bill’s beans and smiled at the preacher. In the 1970’s, all Dutch settlers in PA made baked beans for family reunions. Bill was the only one who added real pork to Campbell’s pork and beans.

Much time has passed since the day the preacher gave his blessing on Bill’s beans. Liz still tells the story of how her husband impressed a preacher—it’s just one of those things that old women remember about their old men, long after they have passed.

The secret to Bill’s baked beans was never written upon a card, or in a cookbook, or on unused pages of the one Bible Liz and Bill owned.

I watched him as a little boy. I stood atop a metal heating vent from which my grandfather’s furnace spit forth toasty air that was slightly scented with coal and burnt wood. Steps away, atop a white, linoleum floor, my grandfather, smiling with the thought of a cold six pack in his head, opened three large cans of Campbell’s pork and beans with a cheap can opener that only worked because he figured out how to use it as a type of metal pruning shear.

So many mouths to feed, no extra change to buy a new can opener, yet enough pepper went into those beans to feed an army.

“This pepper will put hair on your chest,” he promised to me as he giggled and rubbed his bald head. Somehow he could cook with just one hand. He could open those big Campbell’s cans with one hand– always he had a cigarette in his hand or mouth– I’m convinced those beans tasted so good because of a combination of the smoke from his furnace and smoke coming from his Pal Mal’s.

In a cast iron skillet with the smell of burned coal in the kitchen, he fried a pound of bacon.

He told me to stand away from the green stove as he poured the hot grease into a black turkey roaster filled halfway with sandy beans. An entire box of brown sugar was then added, and later, strips of salty bacon were crumbled in Bill’s callous hands and sprinkled in as he stirred with a wooden spoon.

Hours later, after the last dish was washed and the cast iron skillet was soaking in the sink, I stood atop the metal heating vent in my bare feet, still dripping wet from a bath in a cast iron tub. I ate another plate of cold baked beans while the entire family slept.

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Age of Sound Minds

Before the rise of “spitball” and the use of mind-altering hallucinogens shot on prickly pieces of steel wool through plastic straws, many Americans owned guns. Some believed that two centuries of democracy were made possible only when paranoia was kept at bay through the right to own a gun. 

A sense of mass hysteria shadowed the land as many learned, upon applying for gun permits, that minor traffic violations were enough to cause the blemish of “mentally ill” to appear in databases in federally monitored gun shops across the land. Those deemed “mentally ill” by the FPB (Federal Psychiatric Bureau) were stripped of the right to own weapons. 

The collapse of the world financial system led to chaos. The mentally sane– those who owned guns used them more freely—often shooting those who everyone knew did not own guns, and claiming the person was acting “crazy” and was cause of “self-defense.” There was no way the government could stop the slaughters, because nearly all of them were “first offenses.” 

On Twitter, the abandonment of written text led to short bursts of sentences spoken only by humans with sane minds; their thoughts and actions beamed in real-time, uncensored, across an internet that very few could longer afford or be granted access to. 

A new celebrity arose—replacing the need of reality television and non-stop news. Those with guns watched and listened, like a hunter calling in a turkey. With their intelligent phones in one hand and itchy fingers holding guns in the other, it was time to clean up the mess once and for all. When would the next execution on line take place? Don’t log out of Twitter or you’ll miss it! It was all they were waiting for– to watch history change in real-time. 

American culture lost faith not only in churches, but a failing “Mental Health System” as well. Treatment did not cure and the system was a list of entitlement applications that would not end. It was a sure route to on-line fame to kill someone who was “mentally ill”. 

Treatment of the insane rarely worked anyway, even for Jesus, who often used swine for the “conversion to sanity.”

Shawn Smith developed the spit ball concept while locked away in a psychiatric ward and receiving electroshock therapy. Nurses shaved his long braided hair—twists of African American strands that he had carefully bound together over the years while resting his head on his pillow awaiting sleep were simply clipped away, like the right to self protection. 

The scent of African oils that he sometimes freshened his tough hair strands with filled the air of the psychiatric ward as his braids fell upon a shiny white, tiled floor. He cried when they shocked him for he knew he was not mad—just a little worked up about not having smoked pot in a while. 

It had become as easy as issuing a parking summons to deem an individual “psychotic” and in need of such mind-altering treatments that Shawn was undergoing. 

The pills he was ordered to take were enough already. Energy seemed to be pouring from his soul and out his legs long before transistors were attached to a now bald scalp. 

What would the American Indian do in such a predicament?, the black man thought as his body convulsed under such weight and now there was real electricity pumping through him and not just the sensation of electrocution the pills had instilled. 

“They’d use a fucking blow gun with poison,” he screamed before losing consciousness. 

(To Be Continued Next Sunday)

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