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.

mkf visits a gun shop

first, understand:  i don't normally participate in mass hysteria, preferring instead to watch and laugh from a safe distance.

and while i'm a staunch defender of the second amendment--if for no other reason than because of what history has taught me about what can, and often does, happen to populations who allow their governments to disarm them--up to now i've been perfectly content to allow joe bob and bubba over at the NRA to defend my constitutional rights in that regard.

sure, being from texas and all, i've fahred me a few guns--plinked at tin cans with pistols, blasted skeet with shotguns, that sorta thing--but they've never held any fascination for me, and i've always shied away from actual ownership.  why?  for much the same reason that i've never aspired to pilot an aircraft:  i  know myself, and unforgiving technology in the operation of which the least little slip-up could result in mayhem and death really has no place in the hands of someone so careless, absent-minded and possessed of a low danger-awareness threshold as your faithful blogger.

nevertheless, i've always known that my ever-darkening view of the world would require that i arm myself with at least a handgun one day, so over the last few years, whenever i came across someone who knows about such shit, i'd say, "look, i don't have the patience or interest to go out and test-fire a thousand guns to find the "right" one for me--gimme your best recommendation," and, over and over, one particular make and model kept coming up in these conversations.  spendy, i was told, but well-made and worth it.

so i started idly shopping online, and they were plentiful--even used ones, at a good discount--and, satisfied that i could get my hands on one if and when i wanted to, i went on to other things.

and then sandy hook happened, and i went online a week later to find that they had all disappeared.

which brings us to today.  after numerous calls, i managed to track one--their last one--down at a gun shop in burbank whose name immediately conjured up a ricky nelson tune i hadn't thought about in 40 years, and headed on over, singing

it's a--gun world

to myself all the way.  i figured, middle of the day, everybody's at work, should be a quick in-and-out.

yeah.

picture a tiny shop designed to accommodate maybe three salespeople and a handful of customers, divided into two claustrophobic little rooms--ammo up front, the good stuff in back--and then picture a walmart 15 seconds after opening the doors on black friday.  combine the two mental images, and that should give you some idea of what i elbowed my way into this afternoon.

the establishment, clearly unused to such crowds, had not yet devised a way to handle same--there was no "take a number" thing anywhere--so i just attached myself to the salesguy with the fewest people clamoring for his attention, waited my turn.

oh, and observed, much like an anthropologist who had just discovered a fascinating new subspecies.

i quickly divided the herd into two contingents--the seasoned pros in the front who had their arsenal already and were stocking up on ammo, cracking jokes with the clerk and rolling their eyes at the newbies pushing their way into the back who knew nothing about guns, but were determined to get 'em at least one before feinstein and obama showed up and locked the doors forever.

it was a cross-section of humanity, lemme tellya--toothless lowlifes commingling with prada'd soccer moms, all of 'em united by a common goal.

there was the kid who asked to be put on the waitlist for the outta-stock AR-15 assault rifle he'd seen in the movies, and, when told "you don't understand. there is no waitlist--those things are about to be outlawed, and they're all gone", looked like a six-year-old who'd just found out there's no santa claus.

and the ethnic-looking guy with the vaguely middle-eastern accent whom everybody watched suspiciously as he knowingly picked out his weapon of choice.

last but not least, the biker guy and his elderly mother--the salesguy kept shoving revolvers into her trembling hand in an effort to find one whose trigger was light enough for her arthritic fingers to operate. at last, click!--and with granny locked and loaded, it was finally my turn.

i told the guy what i had come for, and it was removed from its glass case and placed in my hands--a black 9mm SIG-Sauer P229 equipped with night sights (whatever the fuck those are)--and after hefting it for a minute, turning it this way and that, i handed it back to him, said, "yeah, fine--wrap it up."

and that's when the fun really began.

lemme just say that, coming from a part of the country where buying a gun is no more complicated than buying a pair of shoes, i was somewhat unprepared for the hoops the state of california was about to put me through.

"you've taken the test already, right?"

"what test?", i asked suspiciously. "nobody said anything about any test."

apparently, california has in its wisdom devised a test to determine if one is competent to handle a firearm responsibly.  which worried my unprepared-for-this-development ass a little, until i actually got my hands on the test, which consisted mostly of questions of the

guns are dangerous weapons--true or false

level of difficulty.  i sailed through it in about three minutes, picking the most screamingly obvious answer for each question, and scored a 98.  [granny, on the other hand, who had started well before me, was still struggling with the thing long after i had finished.  i couldn't decide whether i was rooting for her or not.]

and once that was done, there was the paperwork.  lots and lots of paperwork.  finally, exhausted, i was told that, assuming the background check panned out, i could pick up my new gun ten days from now, but would not be allowed to transport it to my home without it being confined in a locking safe, since my hatchback had no trunk in which to secure it.

i thought about telling the guy that if i had bought the damn thing in texas i coulda walked out with it right then, loaded it and tossed it in the glove compartment, but i really needed a smoke, so i just thanked him, grabbed my papers and pushed my way out.  whole thing had taken three goddam hours.

so now i'm the proud owner of a gun i paid significantly more for than if i'd bought it a month ago. what am i gonna do with it?  i dunno--maybe if i listen to that sweet hook a few dozen more times, ricky'll tell me.

the odyssey

the setup

if you had told me a mere three days before that i'd be authoring such a text as the above three days hence [in which the discerning reader will note references to not merely one song, but two], i'd have told you you were nuts, but such are the vagaries of life.

it was the conversation with my mother that did it--the prospect of another disjointed, homeless christmas in the company of family who, no matter how beloved, were not her kids had left her bereft to the point that all the false cheer in the world couldn't mask the pain in her voice.  i hung up with my assurances that i'd see her the week after ringing hollow in my ears, and started thinking.

christmas fell on a tuesday this year, giving me a four-day weekend--so, what the hell?  on the way to work, i dropped the car off at the dealer for a full service, arranged for new tires from the guys across the street, and, three days later, headed east.

ma was gonna get a little christmas surprise.

but why didn't you just fly?

i've gotten really tired of answering this question.  because, seriously--faced with a choice between spending six hours each way on the days immediately before and after christmas packed into close, angry proximity with millions of my fellow holiday travelers, subjected to endless lines, radiation boxes, strip searches, obese seatmates and god knows what else followed by a puddle-jump to my final destination; or 20 hours in glorious, autonomous solitude, surrounded by smokes, cokes and audiobooks--knowing everything you know about mkf, gentle readers, which one do you think he'd pick?

besides, there was another factor which weighed on the decision; namely

road sex

there are two viable ways to drive from los angeles to northern texas.  i chose the northern route out, because it would put me within range of two reasonably large cities at about the time i'd be ready to stop for the night.  oh, and get laid.

last thing before heading out the door saturday morning, i placed my standard traveling ad on the two respective craigslists, complete with ETA and expectations. and while my act may be getting a little tired in LA, lemme tellya, those boys in the hinterlands love to see me coming.  by the time i hit new mexico, i had settled on a cute boy in albuquerque who wanted to put me up for the night, but all that went out the window when i got the email from

kyle

if you've never spent time in texas, then you've sadly missed out on kyle and all the kyles just like him.  for some reason, the state fairly abounds with kyles--the kinda boys that, had i known they existed back when i was in college alongside 'em, i might've never come west.

he showed up at my amarillo motel room just like i knew he would--drunk, semi-belligerent, frat t-shirt, baseball cap turned sideways, fresh from a near-bar fight and stir-crazy after a week of winter break home with the folks and of course NO KISSING.

sure, kyle.  we both know you'll be screaming a different tune in 15 minutes.

surprise

to my surprise, nobody in on the surprise broke.  walking up behind her in the living room on sunday, saying, "hey, what's up?", watching her freeze in her tracks, turn on her heel with wide, disbelieving eyes and throw her arms around my neck, made it all worth it.

a little gutter, a little morality.  it's how i roll.

oh, yeah--christmas

all i can say is, may at least one of yours be white.