the art of the slam piece

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while you were sleeping

so the other night i had to run home on my lunch hour to grab the laptop i'd forgotten--century city to laurel canyon and back; normally 40 minutes, tops--and found myself mired in honking, bumper-to-bumper traffic before i'd even made the transition from beverly hills to west hollywood, tryin to figure out what and why the fuck.

and then it hit me--the supreme court decision knocking down prop 8 had come down today, and i was about to find out once more why santa monica boulevard on a night of gay hysteria was the last place anyone on a timetable wanted to be.

as i inched my way forward through the throngs of screaming LGBTUVWXYZ's of every stripe waving their rainbow flags and tearing their tits off with joy, i reflected once more on how much less i cared about this than about a little story i'd read online that day.

imagine you're a normal guy with a normal job who's gotten involved with the occupy movement after becoming fed up with the bailouts and get-outta-jail-free cards that had been handed out to the big banks after they'd wrecked the economy of the world.

and you've decided to involve yourself in a little mild activism in the form of scrawling anti-bank messages on sidewalks in front of bank of america branches in southern california.

hateful, inflamatory, anti-social, riot-inciting messages such as "shame on bank of america".

and, even worse, "no thanks, big banks".

in chalk.

impermanent, erasable, washable chalk.

on the sidewalk.

and how, as a result of these heinous crimes, and in spite of the fact that not one executive from the bank in question has seen even a day in jail for the consequences of his world-class greed and malfeasance, you now face thirteen years in prison for daring to express your outrage over that fact.

and how--in fact, what had brought the story to light that day--the judge on the case had chosen to interpret your actions not as the simple expression of a citizen's outrage that they clearly were, but as criminal vandalism; and consequently had just ruled that you would not be allowed to invoke the first amendment in your defense.

clear message to the rest of the sheep:  you fuck with the banks, you forfeit your rights.

because you're an enemy of the state, you see.


but that little story wasn't enough to make me write this post--i mean, maybe you people think i enjoy being a buzzkill and a Bad Fag, but i really don't.  it was the one today, coming right on top of the one the other day (and all the others much like it i've seen lately), that tipped the balance in my head.


imagine you're a kid--a typical dumb, clueless american kid--playing an online video game, and you respond to some facebook comment from an opponent claiming you're crazy with something like the following:

Oh yeah, I’m real messed up in the head, I’m going to go shoot up a school full of kids and eat their still beating hearts

and then you follow up with 

lol

and 

jk

and then you go on about your business, forget all about your little joke, little knowing that some woman in canada saw it, became alarmed, looked you up, found you lived near an elementary school and alerted the local authorities.

and then next thing you know, you're arrested for making terroristic threats and held in jail for months and months awating trial, facing eight years in prison, while your parents bankrupt themselves in a futile effort to try and get you out.

and your dad goes on television, not to vent his outrage that his son, a citizen of the united states of america, could be arrested and face years in prison for a joke, but to beg and promise that if they'll give you a pass just this once, you'll be a good little sheep from now on, for ever and ever.

but, no dice--not a fuckin' chance.

because you're an enemy of the state, you see.


i remember back when i was a kid, and the plane hijackings started, and the authorities announced that thenceforth, any jokes made about hijackings or bombs in an airport or on board a plane, no matter how light-hearted, would be construed as true threats and treated accordingly, and how uneasy that made everyone at the time, but that this abridgement of our right to free expression was probably necessary to keep us safe.

well, while you were sleeping, that little mandate's been somewhat expanded--by, first, the PATRIOT act, and more recently (and courtesy of the bestest, most gay-friendly president ever), the NDAA, to the point that no one knows what's a crime anymore--under these new laws, it can be whatever they decide it is.  and now we know the NSA is listening to and reading every word we utter. so now the whole goddam country is basically one big 747.

and as they continue to dismantle our consitution with one hand, they'll toss us the occasional shiny, distracting bauble with the other, and we'll dance in the streets in response, and wave our rainbow flags and celebrate.

so enjoy your new freedom to marry, but watch what you say, and what you do--and for god's sake, when those kids come along, make sure and teach 'em not to point their fingers at anyone and say 'bang'.

and if you do screw up without even knowing why, console yourself with the knowledge that at least you'll be able to get gay-married in prison.

hell, they might even let you have conjugal visits.

just when i think i'm getting tired of telling these stories...

sometime in 2007

when i met him, he was 24, spoiled and pouty and loaded with attitude.  and he has this thing he does, drives me crazy:  when i get there, even though he's usually had at least an hour to do so, he's never prepared--he leads me to the bedroom, hands me a drink, puts on some porn, hands me the remote, tells me he'll be back in a minute, then disappears for a fucking hour.

first time he pulled this shit, i laid there, did a slow boil as the minutes ticked by, kept reworking the pleasure/pain equation in my head, decided to wait him out, and when he finally made his appearance all freshly showered and perfumed and unapologetic, i got up, grabbed him, tore his robe off, threw him on the bed and ravaged him angrily.  which, turns out, is what the whole thing was all about, of course--he had (correctly) gauged me as easygoing, but wanted angry and dominant.  and he got it, and it was such an unexpected turn-on, watching his eyes go from cool and remote to afraid and submissive as he meekly complied with my every barked order, and we both had a great time.

afterwards, easygoing once more, i curled him into my arms, and we talked.  he was a puzzle--not the brightest bulb on the tree, but sweet once the shields were down. but the interesting thing about him was, unlike every other pretty, slightly dim boy like him i'd ever slept with, he lived like a fucking prince.  the robe i'd torn off him was gucci, the cum-soaked sheets we were wrapped in were pratesi, and all about the large, lavish, messy apartment he occupied were strewn the debris and detritus of a rich boy (or a kept one--i've never figured out which)--from the high vantage of his king-sized, canopied bed, i spied a crumpled vuitton bag in one corner with clothes spilling out of it, a pile of barney's, saks and neiman's shopping bags in another, and gucci (god, does this boy love him some gucci) watches and sunglasses carelessly littering every surface.

i asked him as casually as i could what he did for a living, and he told me he was in the beauty business, catered to wealthy women, gave few details beyond that, and i didn't press.  i looked around this chamber of the sun king again, considered the sheer number of rich, desperate housewives in this town, looked at his face, trailed a finger across the contours of his lush, incomparable lips as he gazed back at me cluelessly, did the mental math, thought, "yeah, maybe".

he'd grown up in fresno in humble surroundings, had met his first lover online at 16 ("he'd send a limo up from LA to pick me up on weekends, take me to all the clubs--he was fun"), and had escaped to the big city for good the day after graduation and never looked back.  he sent his family money on a regular basis; got no appreciation for it, apparently.  and this galled him.

"and it's not just my family--it's my friends, too.  i try to help them, and they all take advantage of me, steal me blind, because i'm too nice."

or too dumb, i thought, as i gazed once more around this roomful of small, pocketable treasures in which he'd left me, a guy he'd known for all of 45 seconds, alone for an hour.

"so where do you meet these people you call friends?", i asked him--and this time, i did press. eventually, he admitted that most of 'em were guys he'd met while partying, and i mentally rolled my eyes, thought about how quickly any one of a number of tweakers of my acquaintance--and i'm just talkin' the more ethical ones--left alone, coulda stripped this room clean as a whistle and been outta there before this boy'd even finished hosing out the lower chamber of his ass.

i proceeded to lecture him about the dangers of allowing druggies into his house and he meekly nodded at the wisdom of this, but not convincingly, and i understood why: he was locked into his pattern of trying to buy the love of indifferent people, and he wasn't listening to me anymore--he hadn't paid attention to a word i'd said since i'd turned from hard, indifferent fuck-dad into concerned ward cleaver.

it was time for me to go.  and as i drove home and replayed the interview in my mind as i always did, i reflected on yet one more lost boy selling himself short.  i also couldn't help but reflect on the fact that i was probably the only trick who'd ever walked outta that apartment poorer than he'd walked in.

that was a brand-new bottle of poppers, goddammit.

*     *     *     *     *

new year's eve, 2012

early afternoon, he called me outta the blue, said, "come shopping with me--i need some shoes for a party tonight."

it had been awhile--this was a once- or twice-a-year boy for me, at most--so i was naturally suspicious.

"why? you've never asked me out anywhere before, and it can't be for my fashion sense."

he laughed.  "you keep me grounded (which was true enough), so maybe i won't spend too much if you're there to tell me not to."

and...?

"and because you'll fuck my brains out afterwards, and this is an important party and i wanna walk in with my head held high instead of all desperate and horny and needy and shit."

kid's smarter than i'd given him credit for.

to say they knew him at barney's would be an understatement--the waves parted in a flurry of bows, scrapes and can-i-help-you's in a way that had never happened when my scraggly ass had wandered in there alone--and, once we had arrived at the destination department, he zeroed in on a spotlit pair of shoes such as i'd never seen before, gave the salesgirl a nod, and she scurried off to the back room without even asking his size.

he unzipped the garment bag he'd brought with him, fished out a fine, black woolen cuff, draped it across one shoe, looked up at me.

"perfect", was all i could say, because they were--not only for the outfit, but for him.

"i've been waiting for these to go on sale forever", he said, "and they finally called me yesterday, just in time--20% off!"

i picked up the right shoe, glanced inside--stuart weitzman, whose "mr. seymour" line i'd sold to rich women when i was in college--ran my hand over its fine, stubbly surface, held it up to the light, where it glistened with the fire of a thousand diamonds.

"swarovski crystals on black silk, mike--hundreds of 'em, hand-set over every square inch of surface.  aren't they fantastic?"

and yeah, they were--pure elegance, nothing tacky about 'em.  but only on the feet of the right guy, the guy who could pull 'em off.

he changed into the outfit, slipped into the shoes, took a few sparkling laps back and forth as spectators gawked and applauded, and i looked at him, at his radiant smile, thought about the figure he'd cut walking into that party in that armani suit and those shoes with his head held high, and i said,

"yeah.  i approve."

as an afterthought, i picked up the display shoe again, flipped it over, staggered back a few steps.

and tried to wrap my head around how much things had changed since college--and the idea of a five thousand dollar pair of shoes.

"no, no, i told you--they're 20% off!"

oh.  yeah.  wrap 'em up, then.

*     *     *     *    *

last night

when he called last night, i asked "what address this time?",  because it had always been onward and upward with this one.

it was lower beverly hills, but a nice building--one flat per floor; i noted the name that was not his as i pressed the buzzer.  he dragged me outta the elevator, through the living room, ignoring the hot, wasted-looking guy on the couch who didn't look up from his laptop, and into the first bedroom on the right--obviously a playroom, not his room--handed me my drink, said, "back in a minute", and i cued up some porn, settled in for the wait.

afterwards, once we'd stopped moving, i looked him over to see how he was holding up, and the news wasn't good.  he'd put on at least ten pounds since new year's, and the receding hairline that had been so barely-noticeable last year was creeping its inexorable way backwards.  the boy who'd been a 9.5 at 24 was at best a 7.5 at 30, and slipping fast.

"so how you been?", i asked, and he told me about the friend who'd wandered into his apartment the previous week wearing the diamond gucci watch that had been bought off the friend who'd stolen it off his nightstand a few weeks previous, and how it had only cost him $800 to get it back.

and then he showed me around the new place.  the second bedroom had become his closet (think oprah's closet), the master bedroom was bigger and messier than ever, and the master closet was...shoes.

i scanned the floor-to-ceiling shelves left to right, up and down, and--third row down, fourth from the left--there they were.

i picked one up, turned to him, asked, "so were they a hit?"

he sorta-laughed, said, "i didn't wear 'em.  boyfriend said he wouldn't take me to the party looking like a whore--he made me change into plain black ones instead."

i thought about that, thought about him, thought about how happy he'd been that day at barney's with all those people applauding his choice and his beauty, turned the shoe over, rubbed my hand over its shiny, black, unblemished sole, told him to go get me a bottle of water, snapped a pic with my phone while he was gone.

because somebody oughta get to see those goddam shoes.

and i'm gettin' old

why? doesn't matter--he'll know why.

i'm getting tired of telling these stories (part 2)

so i've been tryin to come up with some way to make the lorenzo half of this post at least somewhat less dreary than the joaquin half, and that means serendipitously presented itself today in the long-lost form of this boy (not the first one in there, god forbid--the second).

and now, after a long, langorous afternoon of a steady transfusion of the most potent joaquin anti-venom i coulda hoped for (because, god, sex with joey is just so fucking perfect, and even more so after a long absence), i am ready to finish this sucker.

because my afternoon with joey served as more than a mere palate-cleanser; he's also the one who, a few months after that first text exchange, inspired this little back-and-forth.  which sets this post up nicely, because said little back-and-forth coulda just as easily been about lorenzo, or all the the thousands of other lorenzos out there just like him.

including the one typing this.



i don't usually attract guys like lorenzo, or if i do, it's rarely more than a one-timer.

a classic LA hipster, lorenzo is one of those skinny-jeaned, offhand, ironic types who cares a lot about not seeming to care about much--you can see it in the attitude, in the walk, in the random, eclectic, thrift-shop outfits (the perfectly-chosen shoes, of course, always being the dead giveaway that there's nothing in the least random about any of it).

there are other clues, too--the artfully tousled just-got-outta bedhead, but the five-day stubble meticulously groomed; the mercedes key on the cheap, kitschy fob, stuff like that.

and then there's the face--el greco, always slightly haughty and amused by something you're not in on, until you say something sufficiently funny that the facade breaks in spite of itself to reveal a big, goofy grin that lasts just long enough to hint at the sweetness buried under there somewhere, before it's gone just as fast.

so that first night, i walked in, looked him up and down, got attitude back, took the place in at a glance--2,000 square feet of prime loft space, creative rubble strewn everywhere, maybe three pieces of actual furniture--figured i was a one-night aberration for sure, got down to business and discovered, to my surprise (and maybe his, who knows), how much passion could be unleashed in this boy if you hit just the right spot.

whatever--as is usually the case with guys like this, the heat of his passion pre-cumming was equally and oppositely matched by his aloofness immediately afterwards; and, no stranger to this phenomenon, i dragged myself off the mattress before the globs had even started to run, headed to the lavatory, ran half a hand-towel under warm water, wiped and dried myself, rinsed it, wrung it and tossed it at him, sorted my clothes outta our collective pile, dressed quickly, gave him a wave over my shoulder and a "call me" as i headed, unaccompanied, for the door.

and two days later, he did.  and two weeks after that, when i called back, all pretense of aloofness was gone, and he was all over me from the moment he opened the door.

i made him wait a month next time, and another month after that, and mostly ignored the interim phone calls and "are you mad at me?" texts, until i finally told him i was involved and couldn't see him anymore.

and that, as they say, was that.

did i behave like an asshole?  yeah, maybe, but i had my reasons, and they were good ones.

in the first place, i really was involved at the time; my heart, or what little of it was free to give, belonged to v back then.  but the bigger reason was, i had learned the hard way, and more than once, what happens when you drop your guard with a boy like this.

 and time, as it often has a habit of doing, would prove me right.

*     *     *     *     *

a month or so ago

he hit me up outta the blue, and at just the right time, and i did the pleasure/pain equation, thought to myself, "i'm single now", and then, "why not?".

he looked almost the same as he had the last time i'd seen him so long ago, except for the new close-cropped hair which revealed his bone structure and set off his fine features in a way the shaggy mop had not.  and the sex was good, as good as it had ever been.  and afterwards, when i surprised him, finally took him up on his long-standing and oft-repeated offer to stay the night, he acquiesced with a sudden uneasiness that didn't surprise me a bit.

and when i tried to hold him during the night and he rolled away, that didn't surprise me either.  and when i reached for him the next morning and he said he had an early call, i merely got up without reply, headed for the shower, then headed home.

i walk in the door, and jeannie, my roommate's girlfriend, is already there, supervising the workers on day two of the demo and remodel of our only bathroom.

when, in response to her remark that i look well-rested, well-shaved and well-showered, i reply, in my best mae west voice, "yeah, and i'm not particularly proud of how that happened" and she shrieks, "you can be had for a SHOWER?!", all banging and hammering comes to a halt in the bathroom as laughter breaks out, and i give the boys a wink as i sashay by on my way to my bedroom and slam the door.

he texted me a week later, invited me over; i didn't reply.  a week after that, they started coming every three days, and then every two, and now there's at least one a day.

nah, i'm not mad at you, lorenzo, and i'm not playing power games.  i'm just tired of this shit.




and nah, i'm not sayin this song is particularly appropriate to this post, but it's the random it-came-up-on-shuffle set to repeat that got me through it.

oh, and this:

i swear, you put this shit through a brita filter twice, you get grey goose.  seriously.

a brief snapshot in time

this is what you said you wanted, america:

i hope you'll be happy with it.

and this is what you've brought into your midst, my cousins across the pond:

and you've freely given up your guns.

i'm getting tired of telling these stories (part 1)

or maybe it's more i'm getting tired of living 'em.  whatever--


he called outta the blue last week--a very pleasant surprise, because joaquin is special.  when last we'd spoken, he was preparing to head down into mexico, the land of his parents, to research indigenous ingredients and recipes for a cookbook he was writing--joaquin is a fine young chef--and he'd call me when he got back, fix me a great meal. that had been almost two years ago.

he was back in LA, he told me, working as a private chef for a family in the hills above sunset plaza, they were outta town, he was without a car, he'd love to see me and could i come get him?  we arranged for late last night, and when i texted him that i'd arrived, he emerged from the house looking much as i'd seen him last--lanky and cute, with thick, black hair falling over his eyes, and that smile.

and those lips--he gave me a hungry kiss when he got in, and as we drove the narrow, twisting back route connecting his canyon to mine, i remembered how it had been with him, and sped up a little.

he'd done a lot of living in these last two years, he told me during the drive--from mexico, he'd gone on to work on film locations all over the world (sixteen-hour days, nothing glamorous about it, he assured me), and was happy to be back home in a low-stress job that would allow him the time to finally finish his book (and maybe even spend some time with me, i hoped).

and then at my place, in my bed, he broke away from me at a moment in which he would have never broken away before, to reach into his bag.

"you don't mind, do you?", he asked, as he started fiddling with the paraphernalia.  "i wanna feel it with you this way--the instant the needle comes outta my arm, i want your dick going in."

and i just said, "well, we'd better time it right, then--gimme a minute, 'cause i've lost it."  and he did, and i put it outta my mind, rose to the occasion like i always do, and then we did.

and it was wild, and he was wild, and not joaquin at all.  i entered him much faster and harder than i would have joaquin, and his tightness gave way and i was deep and he was clawing at my back and gasping into my neck and sweating and bucking and straining for more, and his eyes rolled back and he was off into some place that didn't include me at all.

but whatever it was he was experiencing, it wasn't sex, i know that.  sex with joaquin had always started slow and sweet and ended with him coming like a freight train, all the while kissing my lips and looking into my eyes.  but this--whatever it is these walking dead experience, and as transcendent as it may be for them, it's not sex, or at least not human sex, because the dick always knows what sex is--and when the mouse stays soft, small and sleeping inside its little house when the body it belongs to is doing what we did, it's not sex, and i don't care what anybody says.

afterwards, drenched in sweat--mine and (mostly) his--i asked him if he's gonna be able to sleep, and he said yeah, it leaves him quickly.  and it did (after he showed me all 68 apps on his ipad in three minutes, that is), and he fell asleep in my arms, and as he snored gently like he used to, i pushed the wet strands of hair out of his eyes, looked at his face, kissed his mouth (he responded in his sleep, just like he used to), and wondered what would become of this boy whom i'd once thought was so focused, so grounded, so together for his age and so immune to this shit.

oh, joaquin is 25 years old.


stay tuned for part 2, and lorenzo

because there are rules, and there are Rules

advice to a young newbie who (shouldn't have) found my adam profile:

eighteen, my ass.

he does die at the end of the movie, right?

a kinder, gentler email to my roommate (to replace the previous ones i just took down, because they were ugly.  oh, and hey judi--long time, no see):

post 652? (yeah, let's go with that), in which mkf waxes philosophical

from a recently rediscovered email i'd written some time ago to a handsome young man who'd asked me why the right one never seemed to come along:


apropos of your existential question:  i was thinking last night about my maternal grandparents--how they met in rural west texas, and, after a brief courtship, married in 1918.  she was 16, and he 20.  they were incredibly young, incredibly inexperienced, and neither had ever dated prior to their meeting.

when i think about the odds of an arrangement like that working out--two kids, living in one of the most sparsely-populated regions of the world at that time, where the pickings were, needless to say, very slim, meeting at random--i'd give 'em about a zero-percent chance of even liking each other, much less anything beyond that.  and yet, the opposite turned out to be true.  their love was immediate and enduring, and by all accounts (and i've heard many), they enjoyed the happiest and most devoted of marriages.

of course, they had several things going for 'em:  they'd both grown up fast by necessity; they had similar backgrounds, similar values, compatible goals--oh, and chemistry (they were both fine young animals).

but they also had something else going on--something which, on its face, would appear to be a great limitation, but which i've come to believe might be the greatest gift of all.

but how do i put it?  lemme go at it this way:  from time to time, and most particularly since i've started writing myself, i'll go pull up an old handwritten letter or essay by someone like jefferson or madison, struggle through the archaic script, and marvel at the clarity of thought expressed therein--the clear, cohesive, flowing line from beginning to end, unbroken and unmarred by strikeouts or rambling incoherence.

and then i'll consider what it takes my spoiled, techno-modern ass to produce an average blogpost--the editing, overthinking, deleting, backspacing, cutting-and-pasting--and i just laugh.

those writers of the past--even the mediocre ones--could spit it out mostly right the first time because they had no other option--they had to organize their thoughts, focus their efforts and be at their best in a way modern writers with all their fancy tools and toys can't even begin to approach, simply because their primitive medium was unforgiving.

i think it was the same with my grandparents--there was no internet in their world, much less casual dating or, god forbid, divorce.  their primitive medium was unforgiving, and thus they were forced by circumstance to bring their A game to the effort.

oprah winfrey used to ask her guests, "what is the one thing you know for sure?"  had she asked me, my one thing, arrived at after many years of experience in the field, would be the belief that humanity handles scarcity far better than it does abundance.

so, you might be wondering--by way of all this, am i trying to tell you that you should just quit yer bitchin', pick one and make it work goddammit?  no.  because, unlike my grandparents, we've eaten from the tree of knowledge, you and i--we know what's out there, what's at least potentially possible, and have been mass-marketed into the belief that we won't be "happy" until we find just the right needle in that big ol' haystack.  cheery thought, no?

keeping my options open,

mkf

p.s.  needless to day, jefferson would be appalled at the amount of editing that went into the production of this email.

*     *     *     *     *

and yeah, i know, i'm like a dog with a bone with this "scarcity v. abundance" thing, but with every passing year, it just gets truer and truer.

post 651 (or thereabouts--fuck, i can't keep track), in which mkf relates some existential angst

[fine--you want personal, i'll give you personal (god, why didn't i stop drinking an hour ago)]


i had really been dreading this bathroom remodel planned, perpetrated and suddenly sprung upon me by my mostly-absent landlord/roommate and his girlfriend (see? he's not my lover), fearing the disruption of my sacred routine, but turns out it's not been so bad.

in the first place, it means i'll finally be getting a showerhead that's positioned to hit me at somewhat higher than mid-stomach level, so there's that.

and showering at the office has turned out to be an unexpected treat--thick, turkish towels, endless hot water, and who knew attorneys kept such nice triple-blade razors and designer shaving balms in their (unlocked) lockers?  (j/k, sorta)

but the best part has been getting to know gary, the (hot 58-year-old) contractor, because what a pleasant surprise and font of useful knowledge he's turned out to be.

first, you gotta understand:  i hate contractors, and i came by that hatred honest.  after years of watching 'em fuck up my carefully-rendered details on job after job, to the point where i was 86'd from a jobsite for throwing a hammer, not at, but near (which point i stressed over and over as they dragged me away) a contractor early in my architectural career, ol' gary has been a welcome breath of fresh air.

rescued from mcdonald's drudgery at the age of 17 by a builder/uncle who first saw his potential, gary has become a master of many trades who takes tremendous pride in his work, and has delivered far more on this little job than he'll ever be paid for.

i first laid eyes on him when i stumbled bleary-eyed outta my bedroom at the crack o' nine a.m. last monday, to the sound of pounding demo hammers, noted his studly form as i pushed past him on my way to the kitchen (because i'd already gone out back and peed behind a tree).  he wandered in behind me, watched me mix my morning shot-o'-cayenne-in-warm-water eye-opener, asked me why the fuck i was drinking that stuff, to which i merely looked up at him with a bland expression, raised my left fist with index finger curled, and then shot it boing! straight up in the air.

he said, "no shit?", and even after i warned him he'd have to work up to my dose, demanded i mix him one just like mine, downed it, and then doubled over, gasping, while i laughed.

and with that, we were tight.

i've had many conversations with gary since that day, and have grown to like him more and more.  he's my age, had his wild time, grew up, got married, got land and horses, had kids, and now has grandkids.  and his family's his whole goddam life.

as i type this, i'm wrecked because the 23-year-old i fucked yesterday stood me up tonight.

dream, baby

[yeah, i know, but i don't feel like getting personal tonight]

roy orbison was a weird guy, and an even weirder performer.  he'd walk out on stage looking neither left or right, oblivious of the applause, stand stiffly in fronta the microphone, deliver the goods, and then when he was done, leave the stage looking neither left or right, oblivious of the applause, the same way he'd come on.

but, my god, could the man work magic with a song.

in 1987, having faded to obscurity in the public mind and towards the end of his life, he was approached to do a "greatest hits" live concert for television, and when word got out, the biggest headliners in the music business at the time clamored for the opportunity to accompany him onstage.

the show was intimately shot at the ambassador hotel's legendary coconut grove nightclub (which would also soon die thereafter), before an audience of hollywood's best and brightest, and the resulting masterpiece would not only revive roy's career, but go down in history as one of the all-time great live performances, and one that i--who generally hates live concerts--would have given my left nut and two inches of my dick to have attended.

as hard as it would be to pick a favorite from the show, when "dream baby" came up on shuffle tonight at just the right moment of (semi) intoxication, i immediately flipped over to youtube, grabbed the video, watched it a few times, felt my mood elevate immensely, and dashed off this post.

originally released in 1962, i liked the song, but had never considered it one of roy's best--that he'd somehow missed something in the arrangement.  well, 25 years later, he found it.

accompanied by bruce springsteen on lead vocals (whom i'd never thought of as even remotely sexy before i saw this show), with elvis costello, j.d. souther and jackson browne coming in behind, and k.d. lang, jennifer warnes and bonnie raitt providing the oohs and aahs--and all of whom flew in that night and ran through it once before shooting, btw--this is, to me, as good as it gets.

if after watching it you don't agree, then all i can say is, you're either a clueless whippersnapper, or your pleasure centers are wired very differently than mine.

[and naturally, after ascertaining that the video was embeddable before writing this goddam post, and then writing the post, and then embedding the goddam thing, youtube informs me it's "restricted", so you'll have to watch it here]

or maybe you should just have a couple stiff ones and watch it again.  and again after that.  and again after that.

progress of a sort, i guess

so we're remodeling our bathroom, and the contractor is this 58-year-old i'd climb up one side of and down the other if i didn't think he'd swat me off, and then take home to mom.

so, see, noblesavage?  there's hope for me yet.

and in other news, i've been in discussions with a couple editors about maybe pulling some of the stuff from this blog together into the form of a book, and one of 'em, while passing on the project since he didn't think he was the one (and he's not--basically, i need carrie fisher off her medication, but she won't return my calls), wrote me today that

You do what you do (especially the reversal) quite well.*

and it occurred to me that, if i'm gonna talk to these serious professionals about my writing, then perhaps it would behoove me to maybe pick up a book on the subject so i have at least some passing knowledge of what the fuck it is that i'm doing.

___________
*now, you could read volumes into that little sentence, but i've decided to take it as a compliment.  and after a quick google search, i find i have to agree with him--i am a minor master of that particular technique; i just had no idea there was a name for it.

denver

from an email to a friend:

so tonight i ran my usual "here i am, come and get me" ad that i always run on craigslist whenever i hit a new city, to (i'm happy to say) gratifying response.

but i had specific needs tonight which had nothing to do with being a performing donkey, and i finally settled on this wholesome, cute, buffed-out 30-year-old white guy as my best bet to fulfill them.  because his ad was interesting--he was looking for an overweight daddy, and i knew there had to be a story there.

i opened my reply with "look, i may be too thin for you (words i don't get to utter very often these days, so that was nice), but...", and he came back very quickly, invited me over.

i found his place, and it was clean and bright and nice, and so was he.  he led me down to a basement bedroom, away from the sleeping roommates, and when he turned to me i took him in my arms, kissed him and gently/roughly felt him up and down for a long while, loosened his pants, while he melted.  when i felt the time was right, i breathed into his open mouth, "so tell me about your first time", as my hands and mouth continued their work.  between kisses, he breathed the story back to me.

he was 15, on vacation with his family at a resort, had left the pool and wandered into the locker room, and then into the sauna, where he came across this--you guessed it--fat daddy in a towel, whom, i have no doubt, took one look at this little vision and knew his every dark dream had just come true.

"so you were wearing a swimsuit"

yeah

"baggies, i'm guessing."

yeah

"what color?"

lime green

"with your adolescent boner standing up just like it is now (i lightly feathered my fingers up and down his rock-hard dick, making him shiver), except in a little green tent, right?"

oh yeah

they eventually retreated to a shower stall, but he didn't get fucked that first time--that would happen during the following year's family vacation, with the following year's fat daddy.  we eventually worked up to that--we're in bed by this point--and i recreated the experience for him, while we breathed words back and forth into each other's mouths until we came simultaneously.

i left him dazed, surprised and happy in a puddle of sweat and cum, came back to my room, showered, flipped open the notebook and started this letter to you.

i don't fuck around with kids, victor.  there are a number of reasons for this, but the main one--the guttermorality--behind this Rule is simple:  i refuse to imprint my baggage on a brain and psyche that are not yet fully formed, leaving 'em with fat-daddy fantasies for the rest of their lives.  hell, i have enough work picking up the pieces all those fat daddies who lacked this particular scruple left behind.

but i love the roleplay, when it's right--taking these kids in men's bodies back to the moment of their lifelong fixation, making perfect--for them and for me--what probably wasn't the first time around.

i haven't decided whether this is wrong or not.  i'd love to know what you think.

she was nice, but she was watchin' me like a hawk

the following is from an email to a friend on sunday.  i know i shouldn't be heading off in a new direction, considering all the hanging threads and unfinished business all over this blog at the moment--but what can i say, it was a helluva weekend, and i thought i'd tell you about a little of it.


read your post--hope you're having a great time with your family.

me? well, since you ask, last night i had fun in a bar for the first time in years. met up with adam and laura, and her cousin, the legendary porno joe (which is how he's known all over this dusty little town, i would find out--by the end of the weekend, i'd be calling him the marine whisperer), and he dragged us out to one of his recruiting grounds, this military dive bar on the main drag at the outskirts of town.

i was dreading it, tell you the truth, but it turned out great--everybody knew him there, so we had, like 80 instant friends, most of 'em smokin' hot. there were lots of women there too, of course, most of 'em dressed like, as laura put it, women who hang out at military dive bars, but they were really fun too. and all night long, young guy after young guy would come up to joe--this cheerful, bald, middle-aged, nondescript lookin' dude--drape their arm around him, and shoot the shit. he told me later, "mike, i swear, the more guys who find out who i am and what i do, the more they wanna be my friend." it was kinda surreal.

i spent most of my time out on the back patio where the music wasn't so loud, and--me, who never talks to strangers in bars--did interview after interview with these kids. there was the navy corpsman, nico, who i found mildly cute (until i spent half an hour with him, by which time i was half in love) who i got to open up about his field experience and training, and, eventually, all the lives he'd saved.

and there was bret, this tall, raw-boned marine IED specialist from kentucky, who, as he put it, "blows up shit in afghanistan". fourth-generation military, enlisted when he was 17, and at 25--after enduring three direct hits on armored vehicles in which he was riding, has wrecked knees, a wrecked back, partial deafness and god knows what else. i asked him what it was like in the aftermath of such an event--do you black out, do you just lay there, stunned, or what?--and he just said, matter-of-factly, "nah, you jump up, wipe the blood outta your ears, take care of the wounded and keep moving."

he's going back in ten days for his fourth deployment--which he anticipates will be the worst, seeing as how, since the current administration has thoughtfully announced our pull-out in 2014, the enemy will wanna make it look like they ran us out on a rail (i asked him what he thought would happen after that, and he said, casually, "oh, it'll all go to shit." yeah.).

his wife drifted over a couple times during our conversation--we talked about how she's struggling to budget in the face of recent news that washington is trying to cut their housing subsidy by half--and at some point i said to her, "this guy's really something, huh?", she just rolled her eyes, smacked him on the side of the head, and we laughed. it was really cute.

lemme tellya, after years in weho being surrounded by man-boys (myself included), it was really eye-opening hanging out with these boy-men last night. and now, if the time ever comes when i give up my boy-chasing ways, make my final selection and move to the checkout, it's gonna be very hard to settle for anything less.

oh god, here we go

note to self:  stay away from joe.my.god for at least six weeks.

day 5, in which mkf comes out to his brother

lots of things happened on days 1 through 4, too--and even more during days 6 through 16--and i'll eventually catch you up on all of 'em, but let's start with this one, because i think mitch might find it instructive.  oh, and if you're expecting a tale of heartwarming reconciliation between long-estranged brothers, you've obviously forgotten where the fuck you are.



day 5 found my mother and me rolling into tyler, texas fresh from atlanta, where i had fetched her at my sister liz's house in the near-cherry dream benz i'd just picked up for a song in cassville, pennsylvania (see?  i told you a lot had happened).  there were two purposes for our presence there in our old hometown, but only one of which is germane to this post; namely, some unfinished business i had with my brother.

some context:  for as long as i can remember, it's always been my mother, sister and me over here, and mark over there; he's always been separate and superior, alien and apart.

my mother and sister have spent a lot of time agonizing over why this is.  one of my mother's theories, for instance, is that, as she was in traction and hyped-up on morphine as a result of near-fatal surgery to remove a tumor from the base of her skull when he was born and thus unable to hold him for the first three months of his life, they never bonded.

liz has never been able to figure out why he's always especially had it in for her--maybe, she thinks, because he was the aggrieved middle child and saw her as the indulged baby; or (my theory) maybe it's because she's the only one who has ever consistently called him on his shit.


me?  my relationship with my younger brother has always been arm's-length and uneasy, probably because we've both always known it would all eventually come down to what happened on day 5.

*     *     *     *     *

whenever i sit down to compose one of these little stories, one of the biggest challenges i face is what to leave out.  in this case, for instance, i could double the length of this post by laying out a long list of the sorta family-destroying shit in which my brother specializes, in order for you to more fully understand what brought us to blows on this day 5--but, fuck that; let's just cut to the chase.

simply put, around thanksgiving 2011, shortly after the sale of my mother's little house in austin was complete, my brother backed her frail, 80-year-old ass into an emotional corner and, without allowing her to consult her other children (there was no time, he told her), helped himself to half the proceeds of said sale in the form a "loan".

my sister had handled the renovation of the house two summers prior (new kitchen, bath, flooring, roof, HVAC--it was beautiful), and i had ruthlessly negotiated the sale, gaining her top dollar, so it was a fairly tidy little sum. on closing day, liz and i talked, and the last thing she said to me that day was, "whatever you do, mike, do not let him anywhere near that money."

i remember laughing, saying, "c'mon, liz, even he wouldn't..."

i shoulda listened to her.

*     *     *     *     *

on day 5, the deadline for repayment long passed, i gave him a call, told his voicemail i was in town and we needed to sit down and talk.  he texted me back, said he had nothing to say to me. i replied that he could either come see me, or i was gonna drop by and see him--and, hey, was his wife at home, and did she know what he'd done?  he replied that i could say whatever i had to say to him by text.

i thought about it a minute, decided a written record might be more enduring and useful than a face-to-face screaming match, and began.

i'll spare you most of it; while the resulting exchange has proven both enlightening and endlessly entertaining to various friends and family who know all parties involved, it would probably bore you, my readers--but, bottom line, the madder he got, the more infuriatingly reasonable i made sure to become.

finally, after he'd exhausted his entire laundry list of grievances, accusing liz of me of everything from parental neglect to embezzlement in an effort to deflect blame from himself, i coolly gave him a deadline of six week to pay up, or i was gonna get serious.

at which point, conventional arsenal depleted, he launched his a-bomb:

 and, boy, he had been sitting on that one awhile--33 years, i suspect.

and my reaction must've deflated him, because all he could come up with in response was the text at the top of this post.  so, because i'm a giver, i decided to give him a little more--you know, remove any lingering doubts:

and finally, because it needed to be said,

nobody out-texts me, motherfucker.

*     *     *     *     *

 
my brother slung a lotta shit at me during that conversation, and most of it bounced off my smooth teflon surface. but one thing he said did stick--that i'd run away in 1989 and left him to watch over our mother.

and he was right; i did.  and he'll never understand why.

see, when i was growing up, i was loved--everybody loved little mkf, and he knew it.  hell, i was a sweet, happy little kid--what was not to love?  i got along with everybody--i could shmooze the grown-ups, i could play army with the boys and barbies with the girls, and . . .

to this day, i dunno if it was something somebody said, or whether i just woke up one day and smelled the coffee, but when i was around six or so, my world started to shrink.  i started avoiding the girls, i stopped dancing like nobody was watching--i didn't know why; i just knew it had to be done.

by the time my balls had dropped and my loins alit with fire, i knew why, all right.  i knew it was because i was like my dad's cousin billy mike--the schoolteacher with the sweet smile who was so unlike his asshole-athlete brother alvin in all the wrong ways, the one everyone had always smiled at and then spoken of behind his back in tones of syrupy, southern "bless his heart" contempt.

and i started looking around at my family, all those people who had loved me all my life, and i started mentally dividing 'em up into the few who'd still love me if they knew, and the many who'd look at me like billy mike

who died in 1986 of "leukemia", bless his heart
 
and from then on, i played my role--i smiled to their faces, even as my heart hardened to them.  i stoically endured my father's suicide, and steeled myself in the face of my mother's disintegration as she lost first her husband, then her mother, best friend and favorite brother in three hard years.  and all the while, i planned my escape.

this process of shutting down made me a lousy older brother, i admit--cold, guarded, withdrawn--and i thank god mark and liz didn't follow my high-school example.  but if my kid brother had told me back then he was sure there was a warm cock waiting for me somewhere, it woulda killed me, so i did what i had to do.

and i eventually found my place in this city of angels, became a successful, hard-hearted homosexual nobody can hurt.

it's been fun, but my mother needs me now, and it's time to go home.

and as for you, my brother:  after all the shit that's gone down between us over lo these many years, would i still give you a kidney?

yeah, i would.  but i'll see you in court first.

van cliburn, 1934 - 2013

a repost from a couple years back; tonight, it seems appropriate.  rest in peace, mr. cliburn, and thanks for the memory.



so i'm thirteen and on a trampoline in some strange kid's backyard in a strange city, having been dragged there by the kid of the friend my mother had dragged me along with her to visit [that's clear, right?].

it's hot and we're jumping and hollering and generally having a good time, when suddenly there's the sound of a car out front and then the gate opens, three grownups appear and the action grinds to a halt. one of 'em (the woman, i think) steps forward and calls out, "c'mere, kids, there's someone we want you to meet!"

"my parents," one of the kids who lives there mutters. "c'mon, we have to." obviously, he's done this drill before.

we dutifully dismount and cross the lawn to the grownups. i'm embarrassed as i always am when meeting new grownups, but even more so than usual because they're all impeccably turned out in their church clothes, and we're a fuckin' mess.

the parents proudly introduce their guest and the kids are all like, yeah, whatever, give him a half-hearted wave and head back to the trampoline.

the parents are obviously mortified by their kids' reaction. i'm mortified, too, and more than a little stunned--because, unlike them, i know exactly who this guy is.

see, my grandmother had told me all about him as we watched him perform on television one night. about how he'd gone to the soviet union at the height of the cold war as a callow young kid from the nearby town of kilgore, competed in their fancy piano contest, beaten the russkies at their own game and come home with the prize.

about how america had celebrated his victory with magazine covers and ticker-tape parades.

but more importantly--at least for my grandmother--about how he had vindicated east texas. because suddenly we weren't just backwoods hicks anymore--we had produced a prodigy.

so without overthinking it too much, i walk my sweaty and grass-stained ass up to this elegant, imperially-slim gentleman, stick out my hand and say, "nice to meet you, mr. cliburn. my grandmother loved you."

and then feel myself flush as it flashes through my mind--"holy shit, is 'van cliburn' like 'van dyke'? does he have a first name i don't know about and i just made an even bigger fool of myself?"

no worries--he smiles and takes my grubby little mitt in his without hesitation. his hand is cool and supple, and i marvel at the fact that he'd let anyone touch it, much less me.

we talk for a minute. turns out the kid's parents are real estate agents and are helping him find a house for his mother. he asks me about school and about my grandmother, and seems genuinely interested.

and then he heads into the house to talk business with the parents and i head back to the trampoline to join the others, but i can't get back into it. the afternoon has changed, and i can't put my young finger on why.

alas, the word "surreal" hasn't yet entered my vocabulary.

mkf offers a couple helpful hints

while this blog garners few comments, i do get emails--boy, do i get emails.  which is somewhat understandable since, judging from their tone, the majority of these emails come from folks who wouldn't be caught dead publicly commenting on a blog such as mine.

said emails fall roughly into three categories:  the ones condemning me to gay hell for taking exception to my politics; the ones accusing me of making shit up (as if, were anyone to take the time and trouble to construct the elaborate fantasy life of which i am so often accused, it would be this one); and, last but not least--and the subject of this post--the ones from closet fans asking for help in transforming their sad, sexless middle-aged selves into perpetually priapic love machines like the mysterious mkf.

*sigh*

it's not that i don't wanna help other men achieve this exalted plane from which i gaze down upon you mere mortals, it's more like i honestly dunno how much help i can be.  because, you gotta understand, i'm very different in some key respects from most men you'll come across.

see, most men--and, i mean, throughout history, and regardless of the degree of wealth, power, talent, intellect, accomplishment or romantic prowess to which they might lay claim--seem incapable of escaping obsession with their shortcomings in at least one (and usually more) of the following areas:

• baldness
• penis size
• body dysmorphia
• loss of vitality and virility with age

and, while i wish i could say i relate (oh who am i kidding; no, i don't), here's how mkf deals with each of the above manly existential crises:

baldness:  the realization i was losing it roughly and, for a minute, happily coincided with the introduction of rogaine to the market--until, after a quick calculation revealed to my then-broke ass that it would be either rogaine or cable, it was really no contest.  because like going bald should be my biggest goddam problem.

penis size:  what can i say--other than a regrettable early surgical choice in which i had no say, i wouldn't change a goddam thing.

body dysmorphia:  i gaze, naked, into the mirror at my doughy face, sagging posture, pasty skin and childbearing hips, and say to myself, "damn, you've got a big dick."

loss of vitality and virility with age:  again, what can i say--use it or lose it, motherfuckers.


but fuck most men--let's get back to gay men.  because, in addition to the above, so many of our little tribe seem condemned to eventually and inevitably face a special hell reserved only for us; namely, loneliness, isolation and sexual starvation once we've passed our prime.

and, again, i dunno how much help i can be in this regard, because staving off this inevitability seems to come naturally to me (so far), but if you're one of those who really wants to extend your dumbass adolescence into middle age, then i'll do my best to give you some pointers.

next time.

[sorry, got too chatty, lost the point and ran outta steam.  been happening a lot lately.]

mkf breaks a couple rules

disclaimer:  i can already tell this one's gonna run long, ramble and be very inside.  why?  because i'm enjoying my first serious cocktail in over a month, and feeling a little chatty--sue me.

study the above text exchange from last night carefully before proceeding, because there are at least three important points contained within its brief bounds that i'm gonna expound upon tonight.

but before parsing its meaning, a little background:  back when i first--some would say finally--came out at 33, and knowing even then that, unlike most of my peers, my slutty kid-in-a-candy-store phase would extend well into middle age and probably beyond, i took note of the stark differences between the fresh-faced types who reveled in their sluttiness and the burnouts who were just going through the limp-dicked motions, and determined to learn from the latter group's mistakes and not repeat 'em.

to that end, i started developing a set of rules the adherence to which i figured would be most likely to ensure a long, happy run.  for the most part, i'd have to say i've succeeded in that goal, but what i've discovered over the years is that there are rules and there are Rules, and have learned through experience to differentiate between the two.

rules with an upper-case "R" are the hard-and-fast ones, never, ever to be broken--eschewing hard drugs, for instance, and fetishes like leather, S/M and bondage, and fucking underage kids no matter how tempting and available they might be (and often are), and walking away when feeling even slightly hinky about anything.  these, among others, are lines i don't cross, ever.

but then there are the rules that started out as Rules but have devolved to lower-case status as exigencies arose and flexibility was required, a prime example of which would be my once ironclad prohibition against having sex with crystal meth users.

which brings us to the subject of this post.

when the above guy hit me up last night, saw my face pic and still wanted me to come over, i was at first quite happy to indulge myself in his lean, smoking, fresh-from-miami hotness, until i looked at the clock and remembered the first of the three points i alluded to above; namely

anybody looking for sex at 3:03 am is probably up to no good

and sure enough, came the dreaded question.

see, to mkf, the two ugliest words in the gay lexicon are "u partying?".

the question itself can be interpreted a couple ways;  for instance, if it's asked before midnight, you've got a 50/50 shot at it being a non-partier trying to weed out the tweakers.  but at 3:03 am?  not bloody likely.

so i reflexively responded with my standard

and immediately kicked myself because i hadn't thought it through.

because, see, there's two kindsa partiers:  (1) the early-cycle ones who'll rule you out if you're not one of them; and (2) the late-cycle ones who, after three days with their own kind, would sell their soul for a hard dick that actually works.

with that in mind, the non-partier can offer two responses to the question:  (1) if you don't care one way or the other, a flat "i don't party" will do; and (2) if you do care, you can lie and say something like "yeah, i did a little earlier", just to get your foot in the door.

and the thing was, in this case i did care--i knew i'd do this boy no matter how fucked-up he was, and by going with option 1, i may have aced myself outta the running.

but nah, he came back with

which leads me to point no. 2:

when it comes to partiers,"sometimes" always means

"i'm currently tweaking my ass off"

so i was still in, but, never one to leave well enough alone--and even though i knew the answer--i had to push it by asking

and then looked at his pictures again and immediately did the the only sensible thing.

*     *      *      *      *

when he opened the door, the boy turned out to be as advertised:  140 pounds of young, tight, compact, hard-bodied, thoroughly tweaked-out cubano.  i pushed him into the apartment, shoved the door closed with my foot, pulled him into my arms, and, just as i was about to take a bite, he stiff-armed me, said, "wait", and looked back toward the kitchen, where out stepped the evening's surprise.

which brings us to mkf hookup postulate #4:

when it comes to hookups, surprises are rarely pleasant

i remember back when i first came out during the glory days of weho street cruising, there was this breathtakingly adorable boy who used to ride his bicycle back and forth through vaseline alley and i couldn't figure out why he never got any takers--until the night i went home with him and found out that, to get him, you also had to do the 80-year-old daddy he had waiting in the wings.  this experience, and many others like it, caused me to tense up as soon as i sensed movement in the kitchen last night.

but. you know what?  sometimes it's the exception that proves the rule, because outta that kitchen stepped not the troll i feared, but the boy who would finally allow me check off that antonio sabato jr. box on my fantasy roster.

if cubano boy was hot, this boy was a fuckin' vision--lustrous coal-black hair, perfect olive skin, limpid-yet-piercing eyes, voluptuous lips, gymnast body...i could go on and on and on.

which suddenly brought to mind the second rule i'd be bending if i went through with this; namely, the one about hooking up with guys spectacularly better-looking than me.

understand, this rule didn't arise outta any particular insecurity on my part--i know what i bring to the table, and i know its value--it was more a practical thing.  see, the spectacular-looking guys almost always come into the deal with the assumption that their looks give them the advantage, and the time and effort it takes for me to disabuse 'em of this notion is usually more goddam trouble than it's worth.  but one look at this boy's eyes as he fixated on my crotch and licked those luscious lips told me that wouldn't be a problem this night.

so, with high expectations of being the ham in this lovely sandwich, and even though i shoulda known better, i let these boys lead me to the bedroom.

*     *     *     *     *

mkf hookup postulate #22:

there are three kinds of tweakers, only one

of which is of any practical use to the non-partier in bed

remember david?  back when he was using, he'd often call me at the tail-end of his binges, knowing i'd be the one who could finally push him over the edge into that volcanic orgasm he'd been both straining for and holding back the whole weekend.  and i was always happy to oblige, because his epic climax always made me come with him (and then he'd lapse into a coma for two days, but this post has too many tangents already so we'll leave that aspect of partying for another day).

i was really hoping that at least one of these boys would be a david, but fuck, no--instead, out came the cock rings, and what i got was one of each of the other types.

antonio jr., turns out, was an Obsessive, and cubano boy was an Organizer.

in practical terms, this entailed antonio jr. spending the next two hours directing me to alternatively one and then another of his chosen and anatomically-perfect erogenous zones at specified intervals whilst moaning mechanically; while cubano boy bustled about checking messages, fluffing pillows, monitoring drugs, searching for fresh porn, and sporadically throwing himself into the mix with vigorous, graceless and ultimately pointless thrusting of various body parts in, onto and around me.

this literally coulda gone on for hours, but eventually, because as somebody really smart once said (and i'm modifying it only slightly, and in this case you can multiply it times two)

show me a beautiful man,

and i'll show you a man who's bored with him

i called a halt to the proceedings, but not before planting one of 'em on each side of me at strategic positions, assigning 'em specific tasks, and stroking my hard dick (the only one in the room all night which could claim such a distinction, btw) into a high-flying cumshot that both shocked and awed--one of my specialties, btw, and done to make a point.

as i drove home, i reflected, and not for the first time, on how i had massively outperformed two boys whose ages, added together and graded on a generous curve, did not even approach mine, and everything that implied.

and i wondered if they'll think about that, too--about how they're spending the prime of their lush young lives in dante's ninth circle, flogging away at limp dicks in a pale, sick simulacra of the sex they rightfully should be having right now, but can't.

but mostly, i chided myself for not remembering point no. 3 implicit in the text exchange which started this post:

unless you're flying with 'em, sex with even

the most beautiful tweaker is almost never a good time.

____________

update:  while i was writing this, antonio jr. hit me up--wants me one-on-one.  will i do it?  yeah, probably.  did i mention how fuckin' beautiful he is?

fuck blogging--maybe i'll just post my texts

notes from a weather pussy

finally, after what seems like an eternity of endless bitter, bone-chilling, soul-crushing cold--i'm talking mid-fifties, people--a break in the long winter of my discontent.  i mean, don't get me wrong, it's still damned chilly at 72, but i'm gonna go ahead, throw caution to the winds and open the doors to the barren, frozen tundra anyway, even if only for a few minutes.

don't worry, i'll leave the heater on--hell, i'm not a complete madman.