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.
onlythejodi