The Satyr and His Boy Toy

Upstate, October 2008

When I moved to Upstate New York, my social calendar was soon crowded with invitations from members of the Gang of Twelve, guys who had known each other for years, and who shared everything, from gossip to boyfriends.
1-2. The Rich Kid and the Crying Truck Driver.
3-4. The Rapper, and the Grabby Nurse.

All of them told me, "You have to meet the Satyr!"  But they all had different stories.

The Rich Kid: he's a muscle bear who used to work in porn movies.

The Truck Driver: he's cultured, artistic, and very romantic.

The Rapper: he's a Sugar Daddy with a fetish for black men.

The Grabby Male Nurse: he's a sexual dynamo, able to keep going all night (thus his nickname).


Date #5. The Satyr

He didn't send any photos or give any stats, so I didn't know what to expect when I drove to old Victorian on the west side of Cooperstown.  But I certainly didn't expect Chad, the waiter from the Neptune, to answer the door.

"Hey, Chad! I didn't know the Satyr had a roommate."

"I'm not his roommate," he said with a cryptic smile.  "He's still getting dressed -- come on in and wait in the parlor."

He ushered me into a room cluttered with heavy leather furniture, old black-and-white photographs, bookshelves, a coffee table made out of an old crate.

I was left alone for about ten minutes to leaf through coffee table books on Asian art and try to make friends with a skittish cat, until the Satyr finally came down the stairs.

A tall, husky, bearded bear, around 60 years old.  Broad shoulders, round belly.  And, when he gave me a hug, I felt that he had a baseball bat down there, all revved up and ready to go. 

"Don't take it personally," the Satyr said with a chuckle.  "I'm always like that when I meet a new guy."

"You're always like that when you're breathing!"  Chad re-appeared with a tray of cheese and crackers.

"I see you've met my boy toy."

"Housekeeper!"  Chad insisted.

"How many housekeepers get paid to keep the boss's bed warm?"

"How many boy toys hook up with studs of their own?"

I thought I'd seen every kind of relationship, but this was a new one.  I spent the evening looking for clues on how it worked.  Chad cooked dinner, and ate with us-- sesame chicken, fried rice, and seaweed salad.  But when we took our ice cream and coffee into the parlor, he vanished.

I was disappointed -- I liked Chad.  He was not a stereotypical hustler.  He was studying art history at the university, he spoke four languages, and he had some interesting stories about growing up gay in a conservative Korean-American family.

The Satyr, however, was annoying, rather boastful, and a name-dropper.  When he was a teenager, hustling in Times Square, one of his clients was Christopher Isherwood.

"Um...well, I met Andrew Lloyd Webber..."

When he was a camera man in Hollywood, he dated Tom Selleck, Rob Lowe, and John Travolta.

Um, well...I dated a former teen idol..."

While he was working at the American consulate in Japan, he had an affair with the son of Prime Minister Toshiki Kaifu that caused a major scandal.

I was not at all interested in a relationship with the Satyr, but who can turn down a baseball bat? So when he suggested we go upstairs, I consented.

"Chad!  We're ready for bed!" he yelled.

Wait...what?  You don't "share" roommates on the first date!  Or housemates, or boy toys, or whatever he is!

When we got upstairs, Chad was waiting, naked, in the Satyr's bedroom.  But he just gave us massages and left.

Very weird date, so far.

By the way, he had the second biggest "sausage" I've ever encountered.   Chad must have felt like a muppet.

Later, on my way to the bathroom, I passed Chad's bedroom. His door was open.  He was lying in his bed, watching Saturday Night Live.

"Hey, I haven't seen that in years!" I exclaimed.

"Well, come on in and watch it with me."  He grinned and pulled up the covers.

"Won't the Satyr mind?"

"Not at all.  Lots of his dates end up in my bed, or my dates end up in his bed, or our dates find each other and head to the guest room. You need a score card to keep track!"

We watched tv, talked, and cuddled, but no erotic activity happened-- "I want to take things slow with you, not just grab and go," Chad explained, rather paradoxically for a professional bed warmer.

I never shared the Satyr's bed again.  Chad and I dated through the fall and winter of 2008, but I always insisted that he come back to my apartment.  I was never really comfortable with the housekeeper-boy toy thing.

The Satyr turned out to be fiercely protective of Chad.

See also: The Satyr's Sinister Scheme.