I walk in moonlight, my breasts full and plump, my ass soft and round, hips rolling seductively as I near the bed. My face a blank mask as I look down at him, thinking about what? The car? The money? The task at hand?
Floyd lies naked, an island of flesh lit by garish street lights. He does his best to spread his legs open, to expose himself more. The sheer mass of his stomach eclipses everything in the room. His chubby fingers grab at my dark curly pubic hair and he shoves a thumb inside of me (Audible gasp. Mine. I cannot tell if it’s pleasure, surprise or horror.) His thumb probes deeper, twirling around.
“Suck my cock.” His voice has lost its whininess. He pulls his thumb out of me and shoves me towards the foot of the bed. The thumb, shiny with my juice, he sticks in his mouth and suckles on.
When a man’s pound of flesh is surrounded by four hundred more pounds of flesh, well… finding it alone is work. Tucked inside the folds of those massive thighs, deep beneath the crevice below his belly, I root through his flesh like a pig after truffles. Holding his belly up with an elbow, his thigh away with a hand, I find my prey. No bigger than a thumb or a pale breakfast sausage, I take him in my mouth. Sucking him, stroking him slowly, making him harder, squeezing and pulling, rubbing my breasts while he peeks around his belly to watch me.
I’m getting us both ready.
He lays there, unable to move, a giant overturned turtle, a great sea mammal washed ashore, stranded and at my mercy. My juices are flowing. I’m wet, I’m wet, I’m so wet. I touch myself, separate the damp hairs, the pink outer lips, open myself up and rise up. I close my eyes and mount him as best I can.
“Suck this,” I command, slapping his hand away from his mouth and sticking my fingers, slick with my own juices, in.
I ride him, leaning forward as he grabs my tits, pulling painfully at my nipples. I grip his round arms and ride him, forgetting about his rash, his size, his lack of size. I ride and pump and thrust and grind. I moan and curse and Oh baby, and yes, yes, yes as he comes inside me. I ride him some more, pulling on my own nipples now, rubbing my clit up against his big firm belly, bringing myself to climax. I stroke his big round belly and when I feel him shrinking, I contract inside and try to hold that little sausage a bit longer.
And I think about where I will go in the cute blue Pinto I will buy with his money.
My money.
The money was the real reason I was there, I told myself. Yet, even describing it now, my juices flow and my puss tightens. His flesh repulses me, but having a man want me so badly he’ll pay what I ask, makes me wild. Opens me up inside. To be in charge. To be in control. To be paid.
He’d already washed my scent off and squeezed back into his brown polyester slacks when I realized no money’d changed hands yet. No crisp bills waited quietly on the night stand like in the movies.
“Floyd, uh…you’re leaving?” He stood at the doorway to the lighted bathroom. A gargantuan silhouette, his huge polyester behind reflected in the mirror.
“Yeah. I gotta see what kind of damage those boys did tonight. Keep the room. I paid for the night.” He struggled into the matching sportcoat, patted me on the head, checked his pockets, tossed the room key onto the bed and headed towards the door.
“I don’t wanna stay here all night. We talked about money Floyd… What about the money?” I snatched up my clothes, pulling my panties on without washing him off of me. A little bit of liquid Floyd runs down my leg.
“Lookit kiddo, I don’t have the money with me…”
“What do you mean, you don’t have the money? The cab, the room…?”
I came here to get paid, to turn a trick.
“That’s about all I had, I don’t carry cash. Look, are you okay? D’ya need cab fare?”
Cab fare you mammoth pig? I need three hundred and twenty five dollars. I need your head on a platter. I need my FUCKING MONEY I scream in my head.
“OK? OK? I’m not OK,” screaming out loud, pounding the bed. “What about my money? You said you’d pay me three…”
It’s not a trick if you don’t get paid.
“Hey,” he interrupted. His fat hand on my still naked shoulder, “d’ya think I’m trying to cheat you?” And it is, it’s exactly what I think, but I don’t say anything. “Whad’jew want me to do, tell the guys with the guns ‘Wait, don’t shoot nobody yet. Lemme get money outta the safe to give to my girl?’ ”
“But I thought….I thought you had money with you…”
STUPID, STUPID STUPID. STUPID BITCH
“No, kid,” he said softly, like you do with a child. “You stop by the club tomorrow night and we’ll straighten everything out. OK?”
I’m such a stupid bitch.
I nod silently and sit quietly watching us in the mirror as he kisses me goodbye.
Silent, I watch the door close after his fat polyester ass.
Silent, I sit as my heart and soul walk over and rejoin me, a little thinner now, a little paler.
Silent, I finish dressing and head down to the subway and back home. I have just enough money for the subway, I’ll panhandle the rest at Penn Station for the train ticket back to Long Island, to my parents house.
Maybe it didn’t happen that way at all.
Maybe it was just a dirty little room and I was just too scared or too stupid to ask for the money.
Maybe I was just a chubby girl having sex with a huge fat man and expecting him to keep his word.
Maybe there was nothing sensual about it at all.
Maybe it was just sad.
Stupid bitch.
The next night back at the Bon Soir yellow crime scene police banners criss-cross the doors. I scoot under and creep down the dark stairs to investigate. To find Floyd and get my money.
The dance floor is empty. The bodies are gone, but last night, the police say when I ask, last night was just crazy. A pile of bodies on the floor. They closed the club for good. There were no witnesses. Not a single bartender or manager or anyone who had seen anything. They couldn’t find Floyd either.
JJ forgot to teach me the first lesson of whoring. Get the money up front.
This entry was written by , posted on November 19, 2009 at 8:22 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1978, Bon Soir, dirty money, Greenwich Village, johns, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
The floor drops beneath my feet. The music spins itself into a thousand hysterical screaming banshees. The world falls away until there’s nothing but the men and their guns coming down the stairs in slow motion. Slowly. Slower. Silent. I notice the small bits. Shoes and the quiet way they walk in them. The one who wears no socks, his skin is the color of cinnamon and his shoes just a shade darker. One wears an avocado colored knit suit with hand stitching around the pockets and buttonholes. The buttons are brown and look like some kind of polished stone. The lights from the dance floor play on the dark oily metal of the guns and blue and white dots dance over everything, reflecting off the mirrored ball. Off their manicured, buffed nails.
I’m trapped in a series of close-ups. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t see their faces even though they’re right in front of me, only a dozen stair steps away, searching the floor with their dark eyes. I do not see a single face and I don’t think they notice me.
And then I feel Floyd’s chubby fingers bite sharply into the soft flesh of my upper arm. I drop my drink as he drags me away, wasting vodka as it soaks silently into the carpet. He pushes me ahead of him. The music is back and suddenly I panic. Everyone else is still dancing. And drinking. No one else seems to have noticed them yet.
And then we’re in the back. We’re up the stairs. Out on the sidewalk. Seconds only. Floyd throws me into a yellow cab and stuffs himself in beside me. I hear the first shots exploding like Chinese fire crackers in February as the car door slams closed.
“Drive. The Consulate Hotel. West 49th Street”, he says to the cabbie.
“Relax, J. It’s over,” he says to me as he drops a bloated pink hairless hand onto my leg and looks at me, the question in his eyes.
I owe him big time now, I think to myself. I don’t say anything. How bad can it be? He’s not mean. And I really do owe him now. I should be grateful. I should at least say thank you. I probably owe him my life I think.
“I need three hundred and twenty five dollars,” is what I say.
“OK, Jodi, three hundred and twenty five dollars it is then.” He smiles at me, rubbing that pink hand up and down my thigh. Abu Ben Taxi Driver is looking at us, at me, in the rear view mirror. Listening in. Deciding what I am. What Floyd is. The vodka from my last drink rises back up my throat and tastes awful and I wish I had more.
JJ’ll be proud when I drive into the city in the car I bought with the money from my first trick. How bad can it be, really? Okay, so he’s big. Fat. Instead of thinking about fucking one hugely fat middle aged man I imagine it will be like making it with two big beefy boys and that’s not a bad thought.
In the hotel room, the lights are out, but the blinds are open. The room’s lit romantically by a full moon above and the street lights below. Floyd lies naked across the bed, a great white beached sperm whale. His skin iridescent in the moonlight, broken only by an archipelago of eczema that dots his massive body, the likely source of the medicinal aura that floats around him.
I stand at the bathroom door, my clothes at my feet, trying to imagine the feel of his skin and the texture of that rash.
I leave my body. My heart and soul float across the room and settle sadly into a wing chair in the corner to watch. A sick voyeuristic pleasure makes it impossible to tear myself away, the same way you slow down on the highway to eyeball that car crash and take a moment to be grateful it wasn’t you. But it is me, and I watch myself, struck speechless by what I’m capable of.
There is barely any room for me on the bed.
This is not at all like getting wild with two beefy boys.
This entry was written by , posted on November 16, 2009 at 9:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1978, Bon Soir, dirty boys, dirty money, drinking, drugs, Greenwich Village, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
I stepped out of the Bon Soir, into a night damp and gamy with exhaust, sweat and blood, tripping over the body sprawled in front of the door. I didn’t know his name, but I’d seen him around the club. This didn’t exactly seem like the best time for introductions. He wasn’t paying much attention to me anyway, he was pretty intent on trying to keep his insides inside. Someone had blown away a lot of his outsides. He was slumped against the doorway, just staring down to where his navel was when he had one, trying to figure out what had happened, how to make it go away and how all those intestines had ever managed to fit inside him to begin with.
The coke wars had started and they weren’t going away.
Just what is the proper etiquette when you see your first gunshot wound? Your first drug war casualty? I’m a runner by nature. When things don’t make sense, when you get too close, when you love me too much, when everything gets too too, I keep moving, I run. It’s what I know. So, I stepped over the bleeding boy and hailed a cab.
There was a lot of coke going through the Bon Soir - a lot of coke meant a lot of coke dealers. The quickest way to increase the profit margin of any concern is to eliminate competition. The boy who lost his stomach was the first casualty I saw.
Two days later two small Latinas glided down the stairs, scanning the joint. Small girls with dark hair and lean muscular arms. Eyes shining in the darkness. Each with a pistol in her hand. Each with a purpose.
I don’t know much,
if I did, I wouldn’tve come back after the night of the bleeding boy.
But I know enough
not to get between
predator and prey.
I nodded at Floyd, holder of the key to the service entrance. He pushed me ahead of him, his fat hand wedged between my shoulder blades, pushing me into the back room, past cases of beer and cartons of cigarettes. We were already on the street when we heard the first gun shot. Pop. Small and distant, like the crack of whip. Muffled by the cement walls, the loud music and the night.
“Okay Superman,” I linked my arm through his as we walked away from the madness into the dark,”Where to now?”
“The Plaza. I’ll take you to the Plaza. I’ll pay you, we’ll order room service. I’ll….”
He was sweating from climbing the stairs, from the fear, from the excitement. Fuck that, he was always sweating because he was a Sweaty. Fat. Man. The standing offer was three hundred dollars. I wanted to be a whore. I wanted money for sex. If Sharon could do it, so could I. But, good God. Floyd? I owed him for getting me out the back, but I didn’t think I owed him that big.
“...take care of you. I’ll….” A police car rushed passed us, cutting him off. Sirens and lights flashing and screaming, the wrong way on a one way street. It jumped the curb in front of the club. Pop. Pop. Two more shots downstairs. Barely audible now, we turned the corner. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and stood waiting for me to answer.
“Let’s just get some breakfast for now, OK, Floyd?” I took the handkerchief and gently dabbed the sweat off his forehead, around his upper lip and steered him in the direction of the Waverly Diner.
I took a few days off to think things over. The idea of turning a trick turned me on, like being on stage for the first time. Men wanting me enough to pay me. Begging to be able to give me money for something as simple as pussy. It’s not like all the sex I was having was always fun. I didn’t like fucking Short anymore, but I did. I would make JJ so proud of me, prove to him I had the right stuff. But Floyd …?
I’d been looking at a little blue Ford Pinto a kid on my block was selling for $325. I’d only need to come up with another $25. I could manage that.
Nah. Forget it. Bad idea.
There was no way I could fuck the Fat Man.
I let go of the idea and just hung with the boys. Night came, and with night, the Bon Soir and barely listening to Floyd drone on about who cares what as long as he keeps buying; watching Shortrun run his game on some other chick, some little PR chick with her hair dyed blonde.
I keep an eyeball on the staircase over my cocktail, in case someone cute shows up to rescue me from this boredom. Even one of the drag queens would be better than being trapped by this human wall of flesh because truthfully, I’m not sure there’s enough vodka in the bar to make the Fat Man even vaguely interesting for much longer.
The double doors at the top of the stairs open out into the night. A crowd of guys I don’t know slowly fill the doorway. Latinos. Too well dressed for the Bon Soir. Italian suits, soft leather shoes, well groomed. Close shaven.
They start down the stairs one at a time.
Surveying the dance floor,
they walk
soundlessly,
slowly,
carefully
down the red carpeted stairs.
Uzi’s hanging loosely at their sides.
This entry was written by , posted on November 12, 2009 at 5:27 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1978, Bon Soir, dirty boys, drinking, drugs, Greenwich Village. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
The Bon Soir was just a small bar around the corner and down a flight of stairs from the park. Dark and hot, it usually smelled of brandy, sweat and marijuana. The men, too, who crowded the bar–dark, hot and sweaty, smelling of brandy and marijuana. Everyone had an angle. Drug dealers, burglars, thieves, hustlers. Most of them small time. Penny ante chain snatchers, mid level coke dealers and street corner pot sellers. I ran into old lovers, drag queens I’d known and loved and hustlers from the Chalice. A little slice of Heaven, that’s what the Bon Soir was. And except for Floyd, I was the only pink in the drink.
I bounced there, first with the boys that brung me.
And then, after a while, with whoever was buying.
The only white girl floating on an endless river of brown boys. Warm dusky bodies surrounding me, feeding me vodka, touching me, dancing me. Strong arms and firm thighs. Red and gold lights glinted off Jheri curl juice activated curls. Moisture trickled down valleys made by rippling abdominals. I rode waves of dark lips and pink tongues, my nostrils waiting to be filled with cocaine, music pounding in my ears, the pulse of the night throbbing deep inside me, deep inside me, deep, deep inside.
Shortrun was always more interested in selling coke than in fucking me. I was interested in staying stoned and fucking anybody. Except Floyd.
Floyd owned the bar and bribed me with drink tickets. He counted on eventually getting me drunk enough that I’d let him fuck me, which was really not such an unreasonable expectation, all things considered. I flirted and drank his booze until I got bored, at which point I tottered off to find someone lean and hard and brown. Which Floyd was not.
Floyd was white. Very.
And fat. Very very.
He’d bought the bar with money from his days as a professional wrestler.
Those were the old days.
Now, he weighed in at 457 lbs.
No shit.
457.
Everything about him was repulsive. His neediness. The faint medicinal odor that lay under all the other odors he dragged around with him: flop sweat, polyester, cheap cologne. The pinkness of his skin. Powdery and dry like an old man’s. Soft skin, pale, puffy and stretched to its limit. Especially his hands. His hands were bloated like a balloon in the Thanksgiving day parade.
I hated everything about him.
Except the booze. I stayed for the booze, ignoring the method to his madness, turning down his offers of money.
I didn’t have what it took to be a good whore. I gave it away to anyone I was attracted to for free. I didn’t want to sleep with guys I wasn’t attracted to for money. And I would put up with endless drivel just to get a drink.
This entry was written by , posted on November 9, 2009 at 7:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1978, Bon Soir, dirty boys, drinking, drugs, Greenwich Village. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
January 1978 Sunday
Hung at the Earle with Jesse then split for the Bon Soir. The fat manager, Floyd, about 40, laid his rap on me all night. Bought me one drink. Ace’s brother Timmy just got outta the joint. Bought me one drink.
Shortrun and Brother Joey showed up at 3:30AM. Short bought me one drink around 5 AM. Short and the Joeys dropped me off at the hotel on 86th Street. I woke up alone at 8 AM. The dude at the desk volunteered to take Short’s place. Fuck you desk dude. Called the Earle - Charlie Frontdesk said Short was there. I went back downtown, banged on some doors. Went for breakfast. Came back. Banged some more. Found Jesse around 9 AM so I went there, watched TV and nodded.
I woke up at noon - someone else was banging on the door. Brother Joey with a load of coke. We smoked some hash. Big Papo came down. Did more blow and smoked more hash. Jesse and Joey went to cruise the streets to do some business. I split with Big Papo to the Village Plaza Hotel to do some credit card business. We did some more blow. People came and went. I moved over to the bed. People stopped coming. Soon we were making love.
I used to be scared of Big Papo. Not anymore.
When I got downstairs, Jesse was in the lobby - I walked him to the Limelight at Sheridan Square and went to La Crepe to use the bathroom there to wash up and change clothes.
Friday
I got to the Bon Soir around 11 PM. Floyd gave me two extra drink tickets. Black Joey got me very stoned. I forget what else happened.
Tuesday
Me, Shortrun and Black Joey go over to the Village Plaza for a room. The clerk wants $12 and Short only wants to pay $10. We get to a room - no bath, no sink - fucking delightful. Joey passes out on the floor from all the Seconals. I make the bed with sheets the clerk gave me. They don’t look clean.
Short and me start to fool around but I’m not into it. I start to give him head and his fucking cock is leaving bits of dirt in my mouth - I want to throw up. I push him away. He crawls on top of me. I don’t even want to kiss him. He bangs me anyway for a while, then tries to ram it up my ass. He bangs me a few more times and decides he needs to rest.
As soon as he fell asleep I got dressed and split. I’m done with him. I left him a note. I wonder if he can read?
I’d like to say I was there because they were my friends. Truth was, I stayed for the drugs and the excitement. Bullet wounds and scars were medals and ribbons of honor. Disappearing for days became acceptable. Lies were a way of life.
I’d tried to be faithful to Shortrun. Even while I was fucking Big Papo, even while coordinated our stories about where we’d been during the last few hours, I thought I was faithful to him. I really did.
When I wasn’t in the Earle fucking or watching the boys bag up, I was in the park with them while they sold pot and coke. Nights, we were all in the Bon Soir.
This entry was written by , posted on November 5, 2009 at 8:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged Bon Soir, dirty boys, drinking, drugs, Greenwich Village. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
Cindy and Geronimo walked me the three blocks from the Chalice to the corner of Waverly & MacDougal. That particular corner of Washington Square Park where you could find One Armed Jesse selling product strapped to the petrified bicep of his withered arm. Cops never looked up the sleeve of his dashiki, that shriveled stump where an arm should be freaked them out. Jesse brought me to the Hotel Earle, the two Joeys, Black & Brother, and the two Papos, Big & Little who everybody just called Shortrun, on account of he was short even for a Puerto Rican.
I was Short’s girl. I towered over him by four or five inches, except when I wore sneakers and he picked his Afro out, then, well, we were okay. Being with him meant I was welcome at the Hotel Earle where fresh dime bags were bagged in Big Papo’s room. They could keep an eye on their corner of the park from his window as they worked. Papo was massive, dark and handsome, full of scars shaped like knife fights and bullet holes. When he looked at me I imagined the braille of them writing stories on my skin.
I was Short’s girl, I wasn’t selling coke, I wasn’t buying coke, I’d never even tried coke. I had no business in Big Papo’s room. Not to look out the window, not to bag up, not to try to get a taste. I waited for Shortrun somewhere else, in someone else’s room, with Jesse or one of the Joeys. I waited in safe rooms where men watched out for me, which is different than watching every move I make.
“Hey J,” I was sleeping, curled up like a cat, or a fetus, in a chair in someone’s room. “Inhale, little sis.” Short’s brother Joey. His voice warm, comforting and moist in my ear. Brother Joey held the corner of a matchbook piled with fluffy white cocaine under my nose.
I did as I was told. There were heavenly trumpets. Electricity tingled from the back of my nose, encompassing my entire skull, traveling down each individual hair on my head, finding its way across my breasts, around my nipples, down my belly, into my puss where it lit up each individual lip, inner and outer, tightened the curl on each pubic hair and then, then, with the second bump, someone turned up the voltage. I couldn’t sit still, couldn’t just stay in the room. I was awake. I was one hundred and ten percent awake and my brain, my heart, my skin, my skin, my skin, the voices were going one hundred and ten miles an hour.
Shortrun had a wife. Maybe a daughter. No one would say for sure. He stayed at the Earle or at the York and there was an apartment. Someplace. It was all very vague. He was younger than me, only 17. And he was, well, he was short and he wasn’t around very often. He wasn’t around enough. He wasn’t here now. I needed to be someone to be here. Now.
Big Papo, on the other hand, was here, right there across the hall. He was there with his scars, his dark eyes and his little cocaine factory. Location, location, location.
We sat on his bed talking and testing product. We lay at right angles. We lay parallel. We lay on top of each other. And after we’d finished fucking he swore it would be our secret, swore he’d never tell Short. He did. Of course.
I didn’t care. In the time that lapsed between that first corner of a matchbook and putting my pants back on I’d totally forgotten why I’d been waiting for Shortrun at all. I’d forgotten everything except the feel of the coke going up my nose, the taste of the drip at the back of my throat, the excitement of his scars brushing my skin. I’d forget about Big Papo soon enough too. All that mattered was I’d found the way to be more alive, more beautiful, more awake than anyone had ever imagined possible.
This entry was written by , posted on November 2, 2009 at 9:36 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1976, dirty boys, drugs, Greenwich Village, The Chalice. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
He sings to me, has been singing, in public, since we met two weeks ago. Some days, I catch him watching me from a distance, motionless.
This is something new to me, this….wooing.
Something new has pale white skin & wild red hair. It’s Howdy Doody red, Opie Cunningham red, Brenda Starr red. I’m finding it hard to ignore him.
He hangs over my head from low tree branches and sings to me, about me. Red Wolf lifts my skirt, wraps himself around my ankles like some sweet snake content to stay at my feet, and he sings to me.
My skirt is long enough to hide quarts of Budweiser underneath when cops roll past. They cruise the outside circle where we drink and hang –the Indians, Sleazy John & Rat, Jack & Carmine, Johnny One Eye, the Starriders motorcycle club, Haney & all the little runaways. Cops roll past and a dozen hands slide a dozen beers under my skirt.
I look all hippie in this skirt, no matter that that peace & love shit was ten years ago. Long skirts hide how my thighs touch. I have my deerskin full of wine I don’t share with anyone. I hate beer. I only drink beer when I’m run out of wine, when there is no acid to be had.
Sitting in Washington Square Park, drinking wine in my long skirt, I’m supposed to be writing a script for my directorial “debut” at NYU film school–they never should’ve put the school so close to the park–but I can’t think of a single thing anyone would give a shit about. I can’t think at all what with all that singing going on.
So I just hang out in the park, waiting for inspiration, for something that will blow everyone the fuck away when they see it. Anything. Some days all there is is hallucinogenics. Some days all there is is watching the cops roll up, roll past, roll away.
Whether I stand or sit, inspired or not, as long as there’s a cop in sight, there’s beer between my legs.
The cops roll away and one by one, hands reach under my skirt, between my feet and re-claim their beers. And Red Wolf wraps himself around my ankles singing some nonsense he’s made up about me. About the curls in my hair, the whiteness of my skin, my zodiac sign for chrissakes.
He lives here, in the park. He’s out of his mind.
and I think I love him.
I can never let him find out about Floyd.
he wouldn’t love me if he knew.
I’m careful not to run into Shortun.
or anyone else who knows what happened the night the Bon Soir closed...
he couldn’t love me if he knew.
dirtygirl wonders : How do you know the difference between romance, passion, obsession? C’mon, talk dirty to me
This entry was written by , posted on August 12, 2009 at 11:32 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, dirty boys, drugs, Greenwich Village, love. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
Everyone is on the game, everyone is following the money. The hustlers come for the money. The queens come for the hustlers. The whores come to relax. They can drink in peace and the queens fuss up a big production when they’re all dolled up.
Sharon’s a high class whore. An escort, she says. She wears satin pumps and vintage underwear she swears belonged to Greta Garbo. Garbo pussy stains, she says, See? She lifts her skirt and points. She’s a natural blonde, that’s what I see. Candy, a towering glamor-puss in red patent leather platforms works the dark night of the West Side Highway with her dick tucked neatly and discreetly between the cheeks of her perfect apple ass. You’d never know she was a he. Candy is a less than natural blonde, the furthest thing from a natural anything. Cindy’s an Irish bulldog. She’s been turning Delancey Street tricks with her mother since she was eight, on her own since she was eleven. Well, not totally on her own. Candy looks out for her and tries to teach her about makeup and other girlie things. Cindy’s thirteen.
Cowboy follows me home to Levittown like a hungry puppy. He followed my mother around after that. I don’t think he’s ever had a real mother. We have sex between his doses of the clap, so, not that often cause he has the clap most of the time. There’s usually only a few days or a week window before he’s got it again. I tend to the cuts and scrapes he gets when he has his epileptic seizures. We pretend they never happened, the cuts or the clap. Nobody buys damaged goods.
In this dark cavern, I wait nightly for whoever it is will need me to feel he’s a man, whoever I’ll need to make me feel like a woman.
An old queen named Hollywood Al slides up next to me & bets a dollar a drink I can’t finish 25 drinks in 25 minutes. Twenty-five Black Russians later, I win. Hours later, I wake up stuffed into a small alcove full of cleaning supplies–cramped, cold & clutching twenty-five worn singles covered in vomit & Kahlua. The string mop next to me reeks of disinfectant and vomit, probably mine.
Old queens like Al don’t appreciate me fucking the hustlers. I’m a distraction, an annoyance. The best they can do is get me drunk enough to get me out of the game for the night.
I found Frankie in the darkness of Christopher Street and fell in love. I work days at a law firm. He works nights hustling out of the bar. Somehow we find time to be together. He lives in a basement apartment with a toilet bowl in a closet. When we make love there, we’re hit by falling bits of plaster. And cockroaches. Central Park became our sanctuary from the night life, an escape from the darkness, from booze and sex for money. We lay on the rocks, cleansing ourselves in sunlight.
He’s turned my world upside down & suddenly I’m living in a Hallmark card full of cheap poetry.
Todays question for my readers: How ever did the disastrous story of star crossed lovers Romeo & Juliet become a romantic mythology? Tell me about your first love….Post your thoughts below, c’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on June 18, 2009 at 10:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1975, dirty boys, drugs, Greenwich Village, hustlers, Levittown, love, The Chalice, whores. 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.
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