Best Gay Erotica 2007, page 14
Bingo. Man, I was wide fucking awake in a half a heartbeat, and you could cut the sexual tension in that tent with a knife. It took me all of a fucking nanosecond to get us both out of our uniforms, and just after I rolled him over on his stomach he looks back over his shoulder at me with these huge fucking blue/gold eyes and whispers, “Ya’ll kin fuck me up the ass, sir, but ya cain’t kiss me ’cause that’ll make me kwaar.” Translation: Please fuck me daddy but don’t kiss me because if you do that it will just confirm to me that I am a huge fucking homosexual.
So Johnny boy got boinked on the black volcanic ash slope of Mt. Fuji early that morning, with it thundering and raining like a motherfucker outside, and he got boinked many other mornings and evenings thereafter. He became quite the dirty little boy of Kilo company, and even got over his fear of being turned “kwaar” by kissing. One time on leave in Tokyo he ran out of money and couldn’t get home and even tried to whore himself out to me. He asked me to loan him some cash for the train and added, as a sweetener I guess, “If ya’ll loan me the money I’ll let ya do whatever ya’ll want to me, sir.” I said, “Johnny, here’s your train money, son, and in case you haven’t noticed, I already do whatever the fuck I want to you.”
“Johnny Ryan” was a true beauty, a great kid, and most importantly, a good Marine. He was blown to pieces along with 219 of his brother Marines and 21 other American servicemen on October 23, 1983 at the Marine Barracks in Beirut, Lebanon.
Scott
May 12, 2005: A Post from the Joint
Dear Scott,
I was thrilled to hear from you that a large number of people who are stumbling upon the blog are doing so by way of searches undertaken in order to satisfy any number of perversions and strange fetishes. I particularly liked the “ahhh, dentist touched sensitive cavity on tooth” search. Can’t you just imagine who this person is? Probably sitting in front of a computer in a dark room, naked and covered in lube from jacking off while IMing other preverts and looking at exchanged pics of various PREversions. His keyboard is probably ruined it’s got so much lube caked on it—and as I’m writing this I’m realizing that I’m describing what a person looks like who has been tweaking on meth for about three or four days. Been there, done that! Thinking about this, though, got me thinking about fetishes in general and how people develop them and then satisfy them and why; really is interesting until, that is, it gets creepy, which most times is exactly what they become.
I remember meeting this one guy at that sex club down on Houston Street a couple of years ago, Club El Mirage. Don’t you just love that name? Joel what’s-his-name who owned it was such a pretentious twit that he wanted to name his club with a Euro-sounding name but he was so fuckin’ dumb that he mixed French and Spanish together. Oh well, you don’t need a degree in nuclear physics to run a sex club, I guess. Anyway, I remember I was sitting in the lounge having a cigarette and watching these two fairly nice-looking boys take turns eating each other’s asses when this plain-looking guy sat down to remove his street clothes. We said hi and it wasn’t until he started to get out of his underwear that I noticed he was jingling like a reindeer. I thought it was keys at first, but then when he was full-on naked and still jingling I took a close look and his cock and balls looked like a piece of mid-gothic-period chain mail. He was so heavily pierced that you couldn’t see any skin.
I complimented him on his piercings and he nodded his thanks and said something like, “Yes, I’ve got twenty-six scrotal piercings and thirty-two penile piercings, not including the Prince Alberts, which I run multiple rings and studs through a single hole and then like to hang heavy weights from. I’ve also got my frenum heavily pierced.”
He bent over and showed me his butthole; it looked like something that U.S. Steel had put together for a display of their products. I was really amazed by it all and started asking him what got him into it and why he had taken it so far and his response was, “You know, I got my first piercing, a Prince Albert, years ago and it was like eating potato chips for me. I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. I just kept going back for more and more.”
We talked for a bit before Joel, the owner, came over to speak with him, “So although it’s obvious I’m into piercing, that’s not really my ‘thing’ anymore,” he told Joel. (Yes, Scott he did make hand “quotes,” since I’m sure you’re wondering, and I just know how that would make you crawl out of your skin even more than almost fifty cock piercings.) “What I’m really into is ritual cutting, where I’m the cutter, and the use of sounds, and also catheterization. I’m happy to act as the top doing that but I’d much rather be catheterized by someone else. Do you think that I’ll be able to find anyone with the same interests here?”
“I’m sure you can, dear,” Joel told him. “And if you can’t, I’ll get my boyfriend Stevie to put a tube up your urethra, since he’s studying to be an ultrasound tech. It’s practically the same isn’t it?”
The guy wasn’t too sure of that, but he said he thought it might be okay. Then, he opened his trick bag and pulled out about four feet of surgical tubing with a butterfly clamp on one end, and proceeded to insert the open end into the head of his dick and down (or up) his urethra. Well, let me tell you. That got absolutely everyone’s attention in that lounge, even the boys who were heavily involved in their own little ass-munching. Once the tube was about two or so feet in, he turned the valve open and a stream of piss shot down the tube and out onto the floor. Not much, just a spurt before he closed the valve, but now the tube was filled with piss. He took out a roll of surgical tape and taped the tube up the side of his torso to just below his underarm with the tube and valve pointing out front past his left pec about three inches. I looked at him quizzically and almost immediately he said, “In case someone wants a drink.”
Duh! Stupid me. Then he pulled a pretty black leather case out of his trick bag and opened it up and inside on a red velvet lining were about twenty sounds (those surgical probes for examining body cavities) of all different lengths and gauges. He also pulled out a magnet that looked as if it weighed about three pounds. My curiosity about this was evident, I guess, because he looked at me and said, “I really like having someone insert sounds up my urethra and then once one of the big ones is in place, use the magnet to move it up and down inside my cock. It’s a little twist that I added that’s sort of my own touch—a signature move like one of Michael Jordan’s front fist pumps after a slam dunk.”
At this point it started to dawn on me what this guy’s fetishes were really all about. They were about showing off. It was sort of like watching a little kid at the playground jumping up and down and screaming, “Look at me, look at me,” over and over. He also had some really nice-looking and what turned out to be antique surgical scalpels of varying sizes that he said he liked to use for ritual cutting. I suggested that flowing blood products might be a problem for the club, but Joel chimed in immediately, “Oh, don’t worry, we’ll clean up any mess you make.”
I saw him later that night on a padded table in the main room inserting long metal sounds up his cock and moving them up and down with the aid of his powerful magnet to the sounds of ABBA on the club sound system. He looked quite content and he had an audience, which I’m sure made him even happier.
I’m going to lunch. I miss you.
Bill
May 13, 2005: Bill in Exile #57—Fetish Obsessives
Dear Bill,
Your letter yesterday about the fetish obsessive you observed at Club El Mirage was hysterical and quite timely, since we were out at dinner the night before last with our buddy Mel and he was telling us about this guy he knows in L.A. who was a collector of male pubic hair. But not pubic hair from any old area or place. Pubic hair that he was able to retrieve from the urinals in public men’s rooms. “Public pubic hair,” you might call it. Like your fetish obsessive with the multiple piercings, Mel’s friend started out with a sort of generalized fetish for public loos that he then fine-tuned into a real narrowly focused obsession with collecting pubic hair that had been deposited on the urinals in the bathrooms. Mel said that he had these fishing tackle-like boxes, the kind with lots and lots of compartments and levels, and all of the compartments had different types of pubes in little plastic Ziplock bags, all marked with date, time, and place, including a small cross-indexed card to describe the man whose hair it was, if that was information known to the collector. Creepy, no?
Kisses,
Scott
May 26, 2005: A Post from the Joint
Dear Scott,
OMG. I just read your letter #57 to me about fetish obses-sives; that guy your friend Mel described, who collected pubic hair, reminded me of these two scat queens I met once. They were boyfriends, and one was a lawyer and the other was an accountant or some shit. Leave it to lawyers and accountants to have the most disgusting fetishes. Anyway, they were both really hardcore scat queens and would usually have to hire hookers to fulfill their needs, since most other people they would meet would run screaming from them. They were referred to me, and I went over to their apartment for a job— and as soon as I got to their apartment they handed me $250 and said I’d get another $250 when I left, and then they handed me a big Ziplock bag and told me to go into their powder room and take a dump.
I didn’t have to have sex with them, or even get undressed; all I had to do was take a shit. When I was done I was chatting with them about their fetish and I was pretending to be interested, for as you know I like to collect information about stuff that I don’t know much about, and scat was definitely one of those things. Once I had made them feel comfortable, they took me into their kitchen to show me their “collection.” They had one of those freezers with the door on top. Inside that big chest were like 100 or more freezer bags just like the one I had filled for them, and all of them were dated and had a brief description on a plastic card attached to the bag of who the “supplier” was, what he looked like, and a comment or two. It made my head spin to think about these two dorks sitting around indexing and cross-indexing their collection of turds, like they were baseball cards or something. Then I started to think about what they did with them once the indexing was all done and I decided it was time for me to leave.
Bill
May 29, 2005: A Post from the Joint
Dear Scott,
One of my homo buddies here in the joint and I were chatting about porno the other day. This guy William has an encyclopedic knowledge of gay porn. Anyway, I was telling him that you had a history of dating/doing porno stars and he wanted to know which ones, so as I was going through your CV of porn stars I came to that unbelievably beautiful boy that you sent over to my place so I could photograph him. But for the life of me I haven’t been able to remember his name. He was Latin but with some Russian-sounding name, and when I photographed him he had just had a big movie released and a big spread in Advocate Men that was really hot. Do you know who I’m talking about here? God! I hate getting old and not being able to remember shit like this.
My new cell/cube mate, Mike the Nazi, has been “educating” me on the finer points of white supremacy, and I’ve been finding the subject to be highly entertaining. They seem to have a sliding scale for their hatred; various groups and ethnicities garner differing degrees of contempt from them. According to Mike the Nazi, “niggers” are obviously the worst since one can readily see their depraved and subhuman condition by the color of their skin. “Chinks” the same, except that they seem to be a bit higher on the food chain than blacks because they are “hard workers and bring up real estate values” in the neighborhoods they move into, as Mike the Nazi helpfully explained to me. Jews are obviously reviled because they are dirty moneylenders and Christ killers, but Mike the Nazi does seem to have a dirty little secret that the rest of his Aryan Nation boys here at the prison don’t know about—that he once had sex with a “filthy little Jewess,” as he put it, but said it was the best sex he had ever had. I told him about you and that you had a bit of a history with Jewish boys and always said that they were great sex and usually had really big dicks to boot. Mike the Nazi tried to look sickened by this news, but I could tell he was more than a little titillated. Don’t you just imagine that every good little Nazi secretly wants to be ravaged and penetrated by some subhuman? Some dirty circumcised untermenchen? I know I do!
OMG! I just remembered his name. Carlos Morales, that was the porno star you used to date that I brain farted the name of. Remember him? What a beauty! When he came over to my studio he completely took my breath away. I couldn’t believe you were doing him at the time. How did you hook up with him?
So anyway, I’m learning a lot about the neo-Nazi movement here in America and I gotta tell you, if they all didn’t seem to be so fucking stupid I might be worried about them. It’s really amazing how you can take a fairly straightforward message of hate and xenophobia, sprinkle it with some biblical passages and presto—every stupid fuck with an IQ hovering around 85 who’s ever felt as if he’s been put upon by someone who isn’t lily white is ready to buy in. These guys would be laughably tragic were it not for the fact that when they get hold of firearms they tend to want to use them on people. The one saving grace in all this is that as many profoundly stupid people as there are in this country, you would think that the neo-Nazi message would get more traction than it does, but the fact that it does not, I think, is testament to the even more extreme level of stupidity displayed by its supporters. Most of these guys couldn’t organize their way to a normal bowel movement schedule without outside help, so getting a nice big group of people together to Seig Heil with on the weekends seems to be beyond their abilities altogether.
Love,
Bill
May 31, 2005: Bill in Exile #65—Carlos Morales, Porn Star
Dear Bill,
His Nom de Porn is indeed Carlos Morales and yes, I guess you could say he’s got a Russian-sounding real first name, since it’s Ivan, but as you are aware, that’s also a Latin first name and Carlos/Ivan is most definitely Latin, and possessed of all the passion implied by his ethnicity—as well as an enormous fucking dollop of sleaze, as one would hope of a porn star.
We met at the Hangar on Christopher Street of all places. From time to time the Hangar would bring in go-go dancers to dance at the back of the bar and although having dancers in a tiny shithole like the Hangar may seem a bit much it was a nice break from the gay pool tournaments and happy hours complete with soggy baked chicken tenders and cheese platters of greasy cheddar and greasier pepperoni slices that they usually tried to push off on their customers.
My shitbag ex-business partner Jay used to adore going to the Hangar, for as you recall, Jay has a real thing for big streety black men, especially if there exists a definite possibility that he might get robbed or have the shit kicked out of him after doing the nasty with them. Such is the depth of Jay’s depravity, and the Hangar was fully up to the task of providing Jay with just what he was looking for. Jay used to stop by my apartment on Christopher Street for a warm-up cocktail and then he and I would head down to the Hangar for happy hour, since in addition to having an affinity for flirting with danger Jay was/is one of the world’s most low-down cheap-assed skinflints and would only go to bars when two-for-one was in effect.
Anyway, I digress… so Jay and I had gone to the Hangar for happy hour and that day was a go-go boy day and dancing at the back of the bar was none other than Carlos Morales. As you know full well, Bill, I have always had a thing for hot go-go boys, having made a point of hooking up with as many as I could over the years, and as you also well know, I have an even bigger thing for porn stars. I parked myself right at the back of the bar near his box and proceeded to have meaningful eye contact with him. Now my idea of meaningful eye contact was something quite sophisticated and very Cary Grantesque; however, I suspect that the reality was more grotesque than Grantesque, since I probably looked like a bitch dog in heat. But whatever I was doing it seemed to have a salutary effect, for as his set ended Carlos jumped off his box and, wearing only his electric green banana hammock, tennis shoes, and a thin sheen of sweat, came over to me and asked me my name. I told him and he said, “I’ve got one more half-hour set. Whatever you do, don’t leave.”
Carlos headed back to his go-go box to finish his set, and a half hour later joined me after changing into his street clothes. He said he was really sweaty from dancing and I asked him if he wanted to take a shower at my place, which as a pickup line may seem a bit odd—but since he had already picked me up, I figured what the fuck. He thought that was a great idea, so we left Jay to his thugz and headed back to my apartment half a block away.
When we arrived I set Carlos up in the shower and told him I’d make us a couple of cocktails. He asked if I had anything comfortable he could wear and I pointed out the dresser in the bedroom to him and told him to help himself to anything he liked. As I finished pouring the drinks Carlos came into the living room, and apparently his idea of comfortable clothing and what I was thinking were a bit different—though what he had chosen was perfectly fine if you asked me. He had forgone the gym shorts and T-shirts drawer and found the leather and latex drawer instead; he was wearing a skintight pair of rubberized chaps by Nasty Pig. He also wore a classic black jock by Bike that had gotten a lot of mileage over the years, and was as comfortable as I imagine an old cardigan sweater would be, if I had ever worn one. On his feet: a pair of black leather lace-up lineman boots by Wesco that I had gotten at Stompers in San Francisco. I’m giving you the labels here, Bill, so you can experience some of the flavor of what Carlos was wearing—but also because I’m a label queen.
