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.

hard out there for a ho (part 2)

what can i say--twenty-three years in this business, you're gonna hit a rough patch now and then.

1.  but they looked awful cute on him

i don't really remember the sex.  hell, i barely remember the kid--skinny, punked-out, dark, tight clothes and ridiculous red hi-top chuck taylors that had to be at least three sizes too big.  he clomps over to the car, gets in, and i take him back to 841, strip him down, do the usual.

afterwards, we're dressed and i'm ready to take him back to his corner, reach over to grab my wallet from where i'm pretty sure i'd dropped it, and it's not there.  i toss the place while he waits patiently, and when i don't find it we head out to the car, where i also don't find it.

by now i'm suspicious and he knows it, tells me don't look at him, he didn't take it.  we head back into my room--i'm leading him by the arm, i sit him down on the bed, proceed to do a more thorough search.  he's quiet and still, unprotesting, but the more agitatedly i search, the more nervous he gets.

finally, i pull him off the bed, stand him up, give him the full frisk--every pocket, every nook and cranny.  he submits to this passively, eyes rolling everywhere but to meet mine, but i see the sweat on his forehead peeking out between the spiky bangs.  i lift his shirt, run my hands over his lithe little body in a way much different than i had half an hour earlier, open his pants, feel between his legs and down his thighs, lift his cuffs, check his socks--nothing.

finally, i give up, apologize.  hell, maybe i'd lost it somewhere--god knows it wouldn't be the first time.  we head out to the car, drive back in silence.  he asks to be let off mid-block, and walks away slowly.  i watch him go, thinking hard.  it's not until he's half a block away and looks back over his shoulder and then starts moving faster that i notice he's limping a lot more noticeably than when i'd picked him up.  by the time i'm outta the car screaming, "hey, wait a minute!", he's gone in a flash.

note to self:  never forget the shoes.

2.  but he was hot

he gets in and fills up the car in a way i hadn't expected.  there's a weird energy, too, that i hadn't picked up on when i saw him standing there with a beckoning smile--guy's practically vibrating.  and the eyes--they're a little wild, and that smile up-close is a little scary.

but he's hot, and he's in my car, and what am i supposed to do--ask him to get out?  nah, that'd be silly, not to mention rude.  instead, i ask, "you got a place?", and he reaches over, clamps a huge hand on my knee, looks at me with those eyes, says, "just drive a little."

so that's what i do.

and he talks--about his girlfriend, and his daughter, and how he's not a goddam fag, and how high he is and how broke he is and do i have any money.  and all the while, that hand is clamped on my thigh like a vice, those muscles rippling up and down his arm all of a sudden not looking nearly as good as they did from the other side of my windshield.

my dry mouth tells him i left my wallet at home because, really, who would be dumb enough to bring their wallet when they go out cruising (which is a lie, of course--it's under my seat), while my mind is busy tryin' to figure a way outta this.  he opens the glove compartment with his free hand, rifles through the napkins and maps, and before he can find the bank envelope with the $300 in it, i say, "look, i don't have any money on me, ok?  and i think there's a cop behind us."  there isn't, of course, but it distracts him, and he slams it shut, sits up straight.

when the car that's not a police car passes us, he relaxes, tells me not to worry, he doesn't hurt people, only sometimes when they ask for it.  i nod and smile, make pacifying noises, all the while working through in my mind the various ways this could play out. he's too damn big, and too damn strong, and all it would take is one sucker punch.  and then he opens the glove compartment again.

that's it--i'm tired of this shit.  a car's approaching and i slam on the brakes, skidding to a stop in the middle of melrose boulevard.  he's yelling, clutching at me, and i wrest myself away, jump outta the car with my keys, start waving my arms, shouting for help.  he's outta there like a shot.

i get back in my car, sit there a minute, drive home--this is the summer of noblesavage, so he's asleep on the couch.  i wake him up, relate the evening's events, and he's much more freaked out about the whole thing than i am, keeps waiting for me to break down or something.  i tell him that's the upside of feeling nothing--you don't break down.

note to self:  never pick up anyone you don't know you can break in half.

3.  but his profile seemed perfectly normal

as soon as i walk in the door of his crappy fourplex, i know it's a no-go--guy's pictures are at least ten years outta date, and those years hadn't been kind.  i make my apologies, turn to leave, and that's when the evening takes its left turn.

he grabs my arm, says, "no way, man--you owe me!"

huh?

"you booked my time--you owe me!"

"i don't owe you shit.  get outta my way--i'm leaving."  as i effortlessly push him aside--little guy, i could easily break him in half--he retreats to the interior of his apartment, and i walk out the door, moving quickly.

but he's quicker.  as i reach my truck, he suddenly appears on the passenger side, brandishing a huge phillips screwdriver over my windshield, says, "you touch that door handle and i'll break it.  you ain't leaving 'til i get my forty dollars."

i pause, look into those meth-eyes, ponder the absurdity of the situation, quickly do the pleasure/pain equation.  that goddam screwdriver could do hundreds of dollars' worth of damage to my truck before i could ever hope to get my hands around his scrawny neck.  this crazy lil' fucker has me by the short-and-curlies--i know it, and he knows i know it.

"i don't have forty dollars," i finally say, because i don't.

"that's ok,"  he says happily, knowing he's won.  "there's a liquor store around the corner with an ATM."  which is true--i saw it driving in.

he instructs me to get into the truck and unlock the passenger door, and not to try anything stupid.  i do as i'm told, and he climbs carefully up into the cab--not an easy task for a short guy getting into a lifted prerunner while brandishing a screwdriver and giving me the evil eye.

we drive to the liquor store in silence--me pissed, and he pointing his weapon at random soft targets within his immediate reach.  i go in while he waits outside, withdraw the ransom--goddam ATM charges me five dollars for the privilege, which pisses me off even more.  i come back out, hand him the money, he turns to go, and i say, "ah, c'mon, i'll drive you home."

he says, "yeah--you're not mad?"  i tell him nah, he got me fair and square.  he laughs, climbs up into the truck, and we head back to his place.

i ask him how many guys he's nailed with his little trick, and he laughs again, says, "nobody gets away without giving me my forty dollars," and i laugh with him.

we pull up in front of his place, he opens the door, thanks me for my business.  as he starts to get out, i wait until just that moment when he's contorted into that awkward position common to all short people exiting my truck--one leg out, on tiptoe, off-balance--and then floor the accelerator, pop the clutch.  the back of the doorframe slams into him, bouncing him off the door and sending him sprawling into the street.

as i lean over to grab the handle of the flapping door, tires smoking, i hear him shrieking in the ever-increasing distance, "you motherfucker--you hurt me!"

yeah, i know; that was the idea.

note to self:  always get your forty forty-five dollars' worth.

*      *      *      *      *

i've told these stories, and a few others, to various people over the years, almost always to a chorus of "aw, you poor thing" types of noises.

me, i'm more of a mind with the universe:  you plays the game, you takes your chances.

be careful out there, ok?

hard out there for a ho (part 1)

 

i see a story like this, and i take it as a reminder from the universe (as if i need another one) why, although the shopping's been fun, the lights are flickering and i really should make my final selection and proceed to the checkout.

by now, of course, everybody knows this shit's getting serious--we ho's of weho today can't claim the ignorance of that first wave of casualties mowed down by that then-novel STD-to-end-all-STD's.  as much as the activists would prefer to perpetuate the air of tragic romanticism with which they've fairly successfully surrounded HIV, the hard truth is, contracting that shit's almost purely behavioral among gay men today.  and now, apparently, we're presented with an even harder truth:  even safety-conscious fags out there may damn well have one more lethal, irrevocable STD to worry about--and one far easier to catch.

i have an old friend i met when he was just coming out fresh outta grad school, and in the twenty years since, and no matter how many men he's slept with, he has never, not once, put a dick in his mouth that wasn't sheathed in latex.  in other words, he's the only non-monogamous fag i've ever met who doesn't have to worry much about this latest threat.

so what do we say about those unregenerate ho's who ignore the flashing detour signs and drive off the cliff?  some exhibit compassion, while others say they knew the risks, they asked for it, and they have no one to blame but themselves.  whichever reaction you might favor, gentle readers, it would seem the universe tends to come down fairly hard on the side of the latter.

of course, the hazards of being a happy ho go far beyond those sexually transmitted, and maybe it's time we talked about some of 'em.  up to now it's all been fun and games here in guttermoralityland, but i'll try and change that up a little in part 2 of this post.