The problem with living in the Straight World is, there are so few open, out gay men over 30 around that you have to be friends with them even if you don't like them. And I can't stand Boyle.
He's in his 40s, tall, homely, with long gray hair, a skinny physique, and multiple rings, tattoos, and beads. He reeks of cologne, incense, and pot. He says "Namaste" instead of "Hello," and talks in platitudes like "Why be normal when you can be unique?"
We got off on the wrong foot when we met at a diversity event, with a Spanish chorus. I translated the lyrics for him. Turns out he spoke fluent Spanish and had worked in Mexico, Guatemala, Belize, Bolivia, Peru, and Chile.
It got worse.
Me: I go to Montreal as often as I can. Great museums, great restaurants, and the best bathhouse in the Western Hemisphere.
Boyle: What a coincidence! I go to Kangiqsujuaq in Nord-du-Quebec as often as I can. I'm a liaison with the regional government for tribal rights.
Ok....
Me: I'm going to Los Angeles for spring break. I'm invited to an Oscar party.
Boyle: I'll be spending spring break in Bangladesh, teaching tribal communities how to recycle plastic refuse into clothing and jewelry.
Ok....
Boyle: Thailand, really? What did you do there?
Me: Um...sightseeing and hookups...
Boyle: I worked with a nonprofit helping rescue victims of human trafficking.
Grr...there go, my heart's abhorrence, go, water your damned flowerpots, do!
Me: Um...I walked in the AIDS Walk.
Boyle: I worked with Richard Gere to place Tibetan refugee children with foster families.
I give up. Candidates for sainthood, this way, please.
Me: I'm...er...I'm dating a 20 year old.....
Boyle: I know! Isn't it annoying. The twinks just won't let up. Night after night, call after call. I mean, they're cute and all, but one of these nights I've just got to get some rest!
Me: Um...er...I have a big dick?
Aside from his regular job in Student Services and his humanitarian work in India, Bangladesh, Mongolia, Laos, Cambodia, Thailand, Vietnam, Borneo, and impoverished countries too numerous to mention, Boyle is writer, with two books of poetry that have won regional awards, and an artist, sewing things onto photos of dour-looking Brahmin and big-eyed refugee children. The other night he had an opening of several dozen of his horrible mixed-media works, and Bob, the economics major who is thinking of switching to art, insisted that we go.
He fell instantly in love with the aging hippie: "He's so spiritually aware! A citizen of the world! I'll bet he's a vegan. Do you think he'd be up for sharing?"
No way! I wasn't going to let the Saint steal my boyfriend! I needed a distraction,
"I don't know -- I don't know anyone who has dated him," I said, truthfully. "But there's a guy who hangs around him a lot. Over there -- he looks like a young, thin Harvey Fierstein. Maybe they're dating."
"Well, let's go talk to him."
He turned out to be an aspiring artist, a fan of Boyle's work, but not personally acquainted with him. And straight.
I looked around for another candidate. Most of the people at the reception were women. The few men, older, wilted, looked like they had been dragged along by their wives.
Suddenly I saw a cute twink, black haired, rather feminine, bulging pants, standing with an older hetero couple - had he been dragged there by his parents?
A distraction for Bob, and a twink for me. Perfect.
"I think that might be Boyle's boyfriend," I lied. "He brought his parents with him to the reception. Isn't that sweet?"
Bob shrugged. "I'm not into younger guys, but if it will get me into Boyle's bed, I'm all for it."
"Or not. We could just share him by ourselves."
"I suppose. Let's go talk to him."
"I'd better go alone. Twink magnet, you know."
I waited until the boy wandered off by himself, then approached.
Langdon turned out to be a junior at West High School. He didn't actually know the Saint, but he had heard his parents talk about him.
A junior? Probably sixteen years old.
There was no one else at the reception who was male and not attached to a woman, so I had no choice: if I didn't let Bob share the hippie, he'd probably seek him out on his own. So after the Saint's platitude-filled speech, Bob and I approached and asked if he was doing anything after. He was going to dinner with six of his female friends and their husbands. But after that he was free....
He appeared at my house at 11:00 pm. While Bob ushered him into the living room, I went to the kitchen to get some drinks.
When I returned, the Saint and Bob were on the couch, kissing,
"Mind if I join in?" I asked.
Without looking up he grabbed me and shoved my shoulder down. I knlt in front of him.
This will work out fine, I thought as I spread his legs and unzipped him. Boyle might be a world citizen, a saint, a poet, and an artist, but there's one area where I have him beat.
His cock, already aroused, sprang up into my face.
Bigger than mine.
See also: Remy the Jerk
When I returned, the Saint and Bob were on the couch, kissing,
"Mind if I join in?" I asked.
Without looking up he grabbed me and shoved my shoulder down. I knlt in front of him.
This will work out fine, I thought as I spread his legs and unzipped him. Boyle might be a world citizen, a saint, a poet, and an artist, but there's one area where I have him beat.
His cock, already aroused, sprang up into my face.
Bigger than mine.
See also: Remy the Jerk
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