the secret of my success

i came out late--hit LA fresh from texas, looked around at all the youth and beauty the city had to offer, figured my 34-year-old ass was done before it even got started.  hell, who'd want me here?

little did i know.

i remember the first time i walked into rage (the then-club of the moment)--got picked up almost immediately by this gorgeous kid, we went back to his place, fucked like animals, fell asleep glued to each other by cum, sweat and lube.  bliss.

next morning, being the direct type i am, i put it to him:  "i'm not young or pretty; why'd you pick me?"

kid looked at me as if it shoulda been obvious, smiled and said, "babe, big-dick features beats beats pretty every time."

and although i'd never heard the expression before, i got it immediately--i remember laughing out loud and saying to myself, "hell, if a big nose, hands and feet are all it takes, i've got it made in this town."

as it turned out, for better or worse, that pretty much was all it took.

as the years passed, i continued to laugh: while faggots all over this city spent countless dollars on clothes, haircuts, conditioners and moisturizers and god knows how many hours perfecting their look before they dared venture out onto santa monica boulevard, all i ever had to do was shower (or not), shave (or not), throw on an old t-shirt and jeans, and i was done--my height, broad shoulders and big-dick features did the rest.

because i was a real man, goddammit [or at least what passes for one in weho, which is pretty much the same thing].

it got funny sometimes--i remember walking down the boulevard one day in brand-new fluorescent-white size-14 nike hi-tops, and heads turned left and right all the way down the street--by that time, of course, i understood that nobody was actually looking at me; they were just imagining how big the dick of someone with feet that size must be, and how said dick would feel up their ass.

and still i laughed to myself, but by then not as much.

flash-forward to now: if i ever find myself next to a really pretty guy at a party or a bar or something, i'm never tongue-tied by his beauty, because i know better--if i'm in the mood for conversation, i'll just look him in the eye and ask, "so tell me--how does it feel to be a 'type'? how often do you wonder if people who tell you how much they like you ever actually like you for you?"

and, almost always, he tells me. and i understand.