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.
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Posted June 6, 2009 at 12:40 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1974, dirty boys, dirty money, Greenwich Village, hustlers, The Chalice. Bookmark this post. Follow any comments @ RSS feed for this post.
