The head of Ace’s cock peeks out from the white towel he’d wrapped around his waist. Peeks really doesn’t apply when you’re talking about Ace’s dick, it’s such a delicate word and his dick is such a monster. The Continental Baths offer an extensive display of the penis, in all its variety and glory, but even here, Ace is unique.
I know Ace from before Speedy, before Frankie even.
He was dangerous and angry. And so good looking in that way that teenage boys are, their almost man-ness just about bursting them at the seams. Olive skin, rippling belly, thick mauve lips, soft dark hair falling into his eyes. Those eyes were on me that first time we touched. He walked up to where I was sitting — always by the cigarette machine at the foot of the stairs, so I could see the door and the floor– Ace looked me dead in the eyes and leaned in like he was going to kiss me. He slide his hand down my thigh, my calf, all the way down to my foot, never breaking eye contact. I never go anywhere without at least one knife in my bag or my boot, somewhere. You never know. Like that night. There was some action on the street, outside the bar, and he needed my knife — needed what I had, that’s all I cared about. I let him take it, and then, instead of kissing me, he cut me and smiled.
He cut me. On his way out the bar he sliced my belly with my own knife, stopped, looked at me and smiled. It was deep enough to bleed, but not for scars or stitches.
There was no way I wasn’t giving that a test drive.
Later, that night, or some other, they get mixed up, but one of those nights after the Chalice, the three of us were alone. Me. Ace. His giant penis. I knew men & women who’d had sex with him. But Jesus, now looking at it, out in the open like it was, I couldn’t figure how. All my holes, could they be laid end to end, were not long enough to accommodate the glory that was Ace.
If you have a baseball bat between your legs, you need to know gentle and Ace only knew angry. I backed out of the penetration part of the sex. He was willing to settle for head. I had a better chance of swallowing an apple, whole.
And here he was again, standing next to the waterfall, in his towel, with his beautiful cruel mouth. His dick hanging out of his towel, my ass eeking out of the back of mine. On a good day, I don’t know what to do when I run into someone I’ve had sex with — a good day being one where I’m wearing some clothes. I don’t even know if what we did counts as sex. There wasn’t much more than nakedness and intention. Does that count?
Ace is still looking directly at me. What was I doing here he must be wondering. No girls allowed in the Continental Baths. I shoulda been wondering the same thing, but I don’t think about those kinds of things.
I do an about face & head back to the small room I’m sharing with Speedy. Small, but the same as everyone else’s, the size of a twin mattress with ”walls” that don’t reach the ceiling. I can hear the slurp and gag of someone getting head two rooms down, the thud thud of an ass pounding down the hall. If I can hear them… but me & Speedy, we get so fucked from smoking dust our noise is mostly from falling against the walls, trying to fit in the tiny room.
I’ma stick with Speedy for now. Compact, but complete. Every once in a while, in the middle of sex, one of us reaches down just to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be. He thinks I’m too loose, I say the dust relaxes me. I think he’s too small, that he has an ass-fucking sized dick, not a pussy sized one, but I don’t say that out loud.
I have get my ass in gear, catch my train. I have an afternoon class. Tap Dancing? Acting? Something. I think it’s today, I lose track of the days.
Speedy thinks fucking me means he’s not a maricon.
I think fucking him means I have a boyfriend.
He’s still sleeping. I pull my clothes out from underneath him, shake out the wrinkles the best I can, head up the stairs, praying I don’t bump into Ace on the way out and then I’m out. 73rd Street. Sunlight. I scrounge around in my bag hoping I still have my sunglasses. I can’t handle people looking at me when I’ve been out all night and it’s been days. I can’t stand the light.
I make my train, make my class.
Tuesday. Tap-dancing.
Shuffle. Ball change….
dirtygirl wonders...
What have you put up with just to have a boyfriend, a girlfriend? What will you let slide, just so you’re not alone…? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on August 6, 2009 at 1:52 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1976, dirty boys, hustlers, The Chalice, Uptown. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
My back is stuck to the red glossy wall, the sweat’s created a kind of suction as I lay on my side, watching him sleep. Speedy. Looking so perfect, his cock and balls perfectly balanced and symmetrical, laying dead center on his belly, pointing directly to his navel. No curve to the left, no lean to the right. Not the biggest (that would be Ace), but Speedy is so symmetrical, with balls so round, tight and smooth, two perfectly ripe Puerto Rican sugar plums.
Perfect or not, my body aches, my back is killing me. I’ve barely slept. I’d shove his perfect naked ass over and make room for myself if we were anyplace else, but the rooms here are no wider than the twin mattress we’re on. Laying on his back, he takes up most of the mattress, so I’m stuck between a cock and a hard place.
I guess I should be grateful.
Three days ago he’d stashed me in his mother’s apartment on 167th and Southern in the Bronx, then went off to I don’t know– wherever hustler’s go. I’d been outta the loop a few months what with trying to give school a go and things change fast, but I know what it means when he leaves. That hasn’t changed and I’m not asking questions, cause really, I don’t want to hear the details. Seriously. I don’t want to know if he’s jerking off his perfect dick while some old fuck watches or if the old fuck in question is going down on his perfection. I just don’t want to know. I don’t want to have to think about what’s a lie and what’s not. When he’s with me, he’s with me and that’s enough. I stayed for a couple of days watching novela’s with his mother while she ironed his shirts, his jeans and babbled at me endlessly in Spanish. For all I know she’s talking bad about me to my face, or maybe planning our wedding…I don’t speak not one single word of Spanish. And Mama doesn’t speak English.
That’s how I wound up getting smacked. Between the Spanish and the smell of scorched cotton, I was like to lose my mind. I needed some air, some English and something to take the edge off. I snuck outside and found some guys hanging under the El getting high and made myself at home. They spoke the English, they had the joint, I pulled up a piece of sidewalk and we hung.
I didn’t see him coming. I wouldn’t have expected it even if I had seen him. He started screaming at the same time the back of his hand made contact with my face. The combination knocked me off my feet. The boys got quiet and took a few steps back, giving him room to swing and scream.
“What the fuck was that?”, checking my jaw and getting up off the ground. I’m not afraid of getting hit. I can take a pretty good punch if I have to.
“What the fuck? What the fuck you say to me? What the fuck you doin’ out here? I tol’ you, stay inna house. What the fuck you think you’re doing?” His face is all scrunched up, his fist pulled back like he’s gonna clock me any second. I know he’s not. He’ll smack me, yeah, but he wouldn’t punch a white girl in the face, at least not me, at least not in the street.
“I was going outta my mind. Nobody to talk to. I know your sister speaks English, but not to me. Spanish, spanish, spanish all day, spanish. Spanish newspapers, Spanish food, Spanish TV. Spanish, spanish, blah, blah, blah. There’s nobody to talk to, nothing to do, I don’t know where the hell you are. I might as well go home, I should be in school ya know…”
“You get yourself killed hanging out here with these pendjos. You don’t know…,” he grabs my arm and starts hustling me down the street towards his mother’s building.
“I know one thing, maricon. I know I wasn’t getting smacked around out here till you showed up…I know that much.”
Okay, so I know one or two words in Spanish. And I knew better than to call him a faggot in any language, no matter what he does with his dick when I’m not around. Stuff comes into my head and it just sort of falls out of my mouth. So, really, that second smack, I had that one coming.
Speedy moved me into his room in the Continental Baths that same night, the only girl there, thank you. My jaw still ached a little, my back was sore, but still, at least I’d made my point. I’d won the argument.
dirtygirl wants to know:
How important is it to you to be right? How much would you risk just to make a point? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on August 3, 2009 at 9:19 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1976, dirty boys, hustlers, Uptown. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
Life might’ve been different if Frankie hadn’t killed himself, if Cowboy hadn’t left town, if I hadn’t gotten fired. I’d have a ham sammich if I had some ham, if I had some bread.
But Frankie died and I don’t think it took three days before we started calling him Dead Frankie. So, I woulda been Mrs. Dead Frankie if we’d managed to get it together before he managed to fall apart.
The police called me in the office to tell Frankie was dead. That’s not the kind of thing you should be telling a person over the phone, ‘hey girlie, your fiancee killed himself so you better start making other plans’. Really, that’s the kind of thing you should tell a person face to face. I said, when you tell his moms, tell her to her face. Then I ripped the phone outta the wall and threw it across the room.
The ripping the phone out of the wall, the howling and flipping over of furniture - they can say that’s why they fired me, but really, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. It was time. I wasn’t cut out to be a file clerk.
Cowboy was my best friend, my back door man, which was all he could be. He’s out of commission with the Clap most of the time. I guess it all got to be too much for him, the funeral, the Clap, the whole downtown hustler thing. We went up to Port Authority and I put him on a bus back to wherever it was he called home.
Suddenly, I am unemployed and extraordinarily single having gone from a boyfriend and a fiancee to nothing. The ad in the back of the Village Voice said “BARMAID - NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY”. I have that, no experience, and plenty of it.
I’d had dreams of being a criminal lawyer, not a $90 a week file clerk. That’s what the law firm was paying me before they fired me. That was before taxes. My first day behind the bar at Robbies Mardi Gras I made $85 in cash. No taxes. No paperwork. No experience necessary.
Yeah. That’ll work. I’m not going anywhere for a while….
dirtygirl wonders:
Can men and women be friends if they’re attracted to each other? Can you be “just friends” with someone you’re having sex with?
Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on July 2, 2009 at 10:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1975, death, dirty boys, dirty money, hustlers, love, Robbies Mardi Gras, Times Square. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
Everyone turned up & tricked out for the funeral. Cindy and her man BamBam from the Bronx Savage Lords, Geronimo, Candy, Cowboy, Sharon, Fat Phyllis, Terry the Moose and all the pretty boys. It was the first time I’d seen any of them in the daylight. There’s something to be said for the kindness of moonlight and mirrored balls. I’m sure they were thinking the same about me.
One of Candy’s johns, a little Truman Capote looking thing, drove us out to the funeral home. Frankie’s mother and sisters introduced me to two or three other people who were also engaged to him, and another couple he’d already married. I met the jealous ex-girlfriend who was always banging on the apartment door because, she said, it was her apartment and she wasn’t his ex-anything. We’d shared the same lover and the same vaginal infection. Both were over for us now. She introduced me to more people who were engaged to him and others he’d married, some he only lived with. Half of them were younger women, the men were mostly older.
Standing graveside as they lowered the coffin into what would remain an unmarked grave, an aging blonde drag queen named Sunshine in a tasteful black lace dress & veil handed me a plain white envelope and offered me a ride home. She drove a big convertible with soft white leather seats, and a blazing cherry red paint job that matched her lipstick exactly.
I crawled into the back seat, tucked myself into a corner. Horse Faced Linda climbed in next to me and started to cry. Linda was neither engaged nor married to Dead Frankie, but had the dubious horror of being the woman whose bed he chose to kill himself in. She was the only one there I hated & I was the only one she spoke to. She wept and babbled into my ear the entire drive home.
I caught the blonde’s eye in the rear view mirror. Her veil lifted, the wind sent her Nice n’ Easy Honey hair flying around her head, catching in the fine stubble on her chin. She watched as I opened the envelope. I thumbed through the nude Polaroids inside. Two front view and one rear view. With matching wallet sized copies. They’re the only pictures I’ve ever had of Frankie. She smiled into the mirror, lipstick smears on her crooked teeth. I leaned back, opened a small vial of butyl nitrate, amyl’s cheap & easy sister, and watched the sun pulse as it slid out of view. The sounds of the road, of blood rushing through my veins, through my head, to my heart, drowned out Linda’s equine weeping next to me. The wind caught the tangles of my hair now, and beat me into oblivion as I inhaled a little more of the butyl.
He’d been about to turn twenty. I was seventeen. Overwhelmed by lonely, with fears and shames we couldn’t name–we hunted for somewhere safe, dark and distant.
It was a good day to die.
Todays question for my readers: What do you do in your life today to ease stress, how do you deal with sadness or loneliness? Do you have someone to talk to, do you meditate, go running, drink till oblivion? How do you handle that?
This entry was written by , posted on June 25, 2009 at 10:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1975, death, dirty boys, hustlers, johns, love, The Chalice. 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.
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.
onlythejodi