I follow Terry the Moose as he heads uptown to work the Gaiety Burlesque in Times Square; dancing for grimy old men sitting in the dark worn seats of the shabby third floor theater, floors cum-sticky from the grimy old men who jerked off in the dark at the last show. We stop downstairs at HoJo’s for some of their famous tendersweet clams on a bun (he cuts his soft eyes down to my own yearning-to-be-famous tender-sweet clam and smiles as he orders), before he goes upstairs to work.
Strutting out onto the small stage, his glossy mahogany mane catches the light, falling softly in a feathered shag around his thin shoulders. A gold lame g-string sets off his warm olive skin. He winks at me and waves to the three street whores resting in the back row, feet up on the seats in front of them, airing out their own clams before heading back out to work.
His thick moose-boy cock comes out swinging like a cop’s nightstick to a disco beat. He prances across the stage like a thoroughbred teasing and tempting the pedophiles, the perverts & chicken hawks, the straight marrieds in denial, all of them wanting him, wanting his cock in their hands, their ass or their mouth. I wait in the dark after his show, watching the next beautiful boy dance, while backstage Terry lets old men grope him, worship him, lick his ass, suck him off for money, more if he cums in their mouth. It’s a blessing to be young he tells me, stuffing himself back into his jeans, his full lips smile, revealing teeth so perfect and white I think of toothpaste whenever he smiles, a blessing, he says, to be able to cum again so quickly.
We tumble down the stairs, bouncing and rushing out into the noise and stench of Times Square, pockets stuffed with cash, ready for the night. I’d spent an hour earlier, panhandling Penn Station, Please Mister, I lost my train ticket, my parents will be real worried. He’s gotten his the old fashioned way, and the two of us are ready for anything.
We hit the streets, arm in arm, off in search of the tough boy whores that make us forget who we are.
Todays question for my readers: What is it about girls and their gay boyfriends? Post your thought below, c’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on June 15, 2009 at 12:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1974, dirty boys, dirty money, Gaiety Burlesque, hustlers, The Chalice, Times Square. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
photo credit: I.C. Rapoport
The hustlers in The Chalice think sucking cock for money doesn’t make them queer, that the money changes everything.
It’s something to think about.
Chino brought me here last week. I’ve been here every night since. It’s a fag bar, so no one is buying me drinks, no one asks for ID or cares that I’m underage. No one cares if I get all drunk. I panhandle Penn Station after work for an hour or so and I have enough to hang out and drink all night.
The young boys are pretty. Prettier than me. The stand on the tiny dance floor, swaying to the music on the juke, touching themselves and rubbing their crotches against the old chicken hawks. Waiters in tight leather pants and no shirts carry trays of cocktails and vials of amyl nitrate.
The bar reeks of dirty socks. Poppers.
In the corners, in the shadows, the rough trade boys. Cruel, muscular boys with hard stomachs and hard hearts in tight jeans and cut-off denim vests. They wait, making the old men come to them. Wait, until an offer is made, until money changes hands. The old men come and I can hear them: Let me suck your cock just watch me while I jerk off let me watch while you jerk off I just want to touch it I know you’re not a fag I can get you a place to stay some coke a leather coat a car how much money do you want?
As long as there’s money, as long as they still fuck girls,
fuck me,
they’re not queer,
they say.
Yeah. Okay.
Today’s question to my readers: What defines sexuality? Actions? Intention? Fantasy? If I just think about the forbidden, have I crossed a line? If I write about it? If I read about it? When is the line crossed and who decides where that line is? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on June 6, 2009 at 12:40 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1974, dirty boys, dirty money, Greenwich Village, hustlers, The Chalice. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
