Posted in Short Stories on March 29, 2014|
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As the counter to my blog turns the 100,000 mark, I reflect upon nearly a decade of serious writing and almost want to kill it all because what is popular among search engines are the journalistic articles I wrote regarding seedy gay sex.
Although 100,000 seems trivial in an age when one goes viral overnight, the original counter to my blog once turned the quarter million mark before wordpress suddenly removed the counter and I was forced to start counting all over again.
Just as I was about to delete all my work regarding seedy gay sex, I found myself unable to do so because of the comments other gays have left on my space, such as this one from Harold:
“Excellent article. native new yorker here who remembers well the pre buddy booth scene. this author perfectly conveys the hate/love addictive nature of the anonymous gay sex scene and how it challenges one’s own self of individuality and self respect. hope to see this expanded into a book.”
I decided not to commit suicide to my blog after realizing that on the bottom of page one in a google search for “buddy booth”, one still finds Charles George Taylor with his mouth wide open at the bottom of the page, waiting for readers and not big dicks.
Search it for yourself, the article is called “Buddy Booth Review– Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn”
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Our tender minds were rattled awake by the sound of pounding upon tin trash cans. Summer in South Carolina, 1986—the hottest Ft. Jackson had seen since World War II when the wooden, un-air conditioned barracks of Tank Hill were first constructed—the loud banging—sand everywhere, even in the white sheets that we kept so tightly tucked.
Tall fans seemed to suck hot air from a full moon above and blow it right into the wooden ovens in which we rarely slept and right down our throats as we all scrambled in brown t-shirts for a drink of water from a fountain that managed to cool off only the first few glasses of heavily chlorinated Carolina water that the government must have somehow recycled from a nearby, soupy hot Atlantic that pushed fierce thunderstorms ashore as we ran in long-sleeves in our Army camos.
Some called the lack of a desire for sex “Salt- Peter”, yet we were told there were no such psychological drugs being placed in our food by Uncle Sam. A war on Homosexuality seemed the case—why else keep a young man’s dick down—and what if that salt peter is why everyone who comes out of the service is fucked up in the head?
Maybe it was just too hot that summer in South Carolina for anyone to have even a wet dream upon those white sheets covered in green wool with crumbs from the salt-petered Atlantic all over our balls. There were hot, young men just like me all around and not once did I desire to suck anyone or all of them off!
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