1991 (or maybe '92--fuck, i don't remember)
what i do remember is, the reason i found myself in vaseline alley that particular no-action night had less to do with sex than just wanting to get outta the house, because little arthur and his desperation were starting to get to me. this also explains why i sat there in my car long past the point where it had become clear that the pickings had gone from slim to none--whether or not i got laid that night, i was determined not to head back to 841 until i was sure our visitor had gone to bed.
and then, suddenly, as i'm giving up, flicking my last butt out the window and reaching for the key, that thing that almost never happens, happens: outta the 3am desolation, this blond twink fantasy vision in torn jeans, a harness and little else emerges from around the corner by the dirty bookstore, starts heading down la jolla, moving fast.
i wait for him to walk toward what must surely be home without even throwing me a disgusted glance. but no--he looks over, spots me, makes a beeline straight to my window, leans in all bright-eyed, licks my face before i can even react, says, "i need a place to stay tonight."
if two years working the low streets of weho had given me nothing else, it had at least taught me not to question the random gift from god when it drops into my lap, so within five minutes of that first lick we're in my bedroom, and five minutes after that i'm deep inside him.
bliss, right? turns out, not so much.
i mean, his beauty combined with the novelty of the whole thing carried me for awhile, but after twenty minutes or so of vigorous A-game fucking, i begin to notice some things that kinda take the edge off.
like, for instance, he's distracted--and after two years of generally taking for granted the undivided attention of whoever i happen to be fucking, this is new. what's more, kid isn't even hard, and what the fuck could possibly be up with that?
but the worst thing is, he will not shut up (and it ain't sexy talk, trust me).
so, what had started out hot fairly quickly morphs into something else entirely--some kinda endurance marathon challenge that has far less to do with sex than with just getting the damn thing done.
and i am determined to get 'er done; it becomes a validation thing, a point of pride. i pull out all the tricks--bend that boy into every position possible, fuck him hard, fuck him slow and sweet, use long strokes, angled attacks, even resort to quick little asian-style rabbit-punch jabs, but nothing--not even my patented never-fail sideways prostate-tickler special--can get him off.
when after a full hour (because i could do that back then) of futility i finally roll off him, unspent, over it and exhausted, and he looks at me with those bright eyes and says, "that was great--rest a few minutes and we'll do it again," i know i'm up against some new, potent unknown evil force in the universe that is stronger than me; i just don't know what.
what i do know is, dawn is coming soon, i need sleep, and i need to be rid of this freak. but i promised him a place to stay, and i'm a man of my word.
so i do the first of the two bad things i'll do this night.
as we stand together outside my roommate's door, i reassure the boy once again what a great top paul is (while crossing my fingers behind my back and hoping god won't strike me dead for this egregious lie), open the door, shove the kid through the blackness in the general direction of paul's bed, pull it shut and stumble back to my own room, turn out the lights, hope for the best.
which hope turns out to be remarkably short-lived--before i've even gotten my eyes good and closed, my door flies open, the lights go on, and there's paul, wild-haired, wild-eyed, red nose snot-clogged with sleep, underwear askew, screaming, "a bottom--seriously? you sent me a BOTTOM? WHAT'D YOU THINK WE WERE GONNA DO--BUMP PUSSIES?!", as he shoves back the gift i'd so thoughtfully sent his way before totally unnecessarily slamming my door.
"fuck, " i think, knowing i'll pay for this. "what am i gonna do with this kid? if only royce was here."
but royce isn't here--the roommate who might've actually been useful in this situation is currently bunking with his boyfriend so that his visiting friend, the aforementioned arthur, can use his room at our house while he's in town.
see, royce was constantly inviting friends from texas to come out and stay with us, but arthur has been by far the most needy of the bunch--he'd arrived all innocent and starry-eyed and shit, anticipating a week of decadence and debauchery in this legendary sin city where the fun never stops. and it's not like arthur isn't presentable, and it's not like we haven't tried to serve his fantasy up for him--we've taken him to rage and mickey's and studio one and mother lode and circus and even spike, practically shoved him at any guy who checked him out--but the shyness that arthur had hoped to leave behind in fort worth has unfortunately accompanied him to LA.
so, bottom line, despite the collective and exhaustive best efforts of three of the biggest whores in weho, poor arthur hasn't managed to get himself laid, and his week is almost up.
as the blond bottomless pit crawls back into my bed and starts pawing at my limp junk, i think about it for no more than a second, figure, hell, it'll give him a story to tell the folks back home, and i might even get some sleep.
and with no more consideration than that, i drag the blond boy outta my bed once more and lead him down the hall to door number three.
ready or not, arthur, it's showtime.
* * * * *
when i awake with a jolt, remembering, the sun is high in my window. i hear the tv--paul's at work, so that must mean arthur's out there. i throw on clothes, walk out to the living room, apprehensive.
arthur's sitting on the couch with his back to me, watching sally jessy or something. he hears me, whips around, animated in a way i'd never seen him before, his formerly perpetually-morose face splitting into a huge grin.
i just stare at him, amazed--this is a changed boy, and i guess i did it. i relax.
the words start pouring outta him. "wow, what a going-away present, mike! cody told me you picked him out just for me--i can't believe you got me a porn star!"
i smile, willing to let him go back to fort worth thinking that's what life is like in weho--porn stars just routinely and magically appear in your bedroom in the middle of the night. hell, what can it hurt?
and then he says, "and that crystal stuff--i never knew sex could be like that. we did it for hours."
and that's when i look closer, notice how bright his eyes are.