Saturday, April 8, 2017

I Bring Home a Teen Hustler

West Hollywood, April 1994

My boyfriend Lane and I had different tastes in men.  We both liked hefty, muscular or chubby guys, but he liked them older, tall, hairy, and fair skinned, and I liked them my age, short, smooth, and dark skinned.  So we got the idea of cruising separately and looking for our preferred types.

On Friday or Saturday nights, there was usually a party or a dinner to go to early in the evening.  If it didn't end in bedroom activity, Lane went to the Faultline or the Eagle in search of bears and leathermen, and I went to Mugi or Basgo's in search of Asian or Hispanic guys.

We would cruise from about 9:30 pm to 11:00 pm (if you don't meet someone within the first hour, you're not going to).  At 11:30 we met at the French Quarter to have a late snack and make the introductions.  Then we went home to share.

We usually ended up with one guy in our bed, but almost never two.  I don't know why.

That night in April 1994, I was having a dry spell: ever since I got back from Atlanta, nothing. Three Saturday nights in a row, Lane picked up hirsute, hung leathermen old enough to be my father, who might, if I was lucky, let me lick their balls while they were doing 69 with Lane.  I never got to take a load, or give one.

I felt like a third wheel in my own bedroom.

"Ok, that's it!" I exclaimed after the latest hirsute, hung leatherman had his coffee and left.  "I'm tired of the old, hairy guys!  Next Saturday night, I'm going cruising by myself -- you can stay home and watch a VHS tape of Star Trek -- to a twink, bar, where I'll pick up the smoothest, softest twink who ever twirled on a dance floor to the music of Sound Factory."

"That's easier said than done," Lane pointed out.  "You're 33 years old.  Infinite Chazz thinks you're hot, but the average twink wants somebody his own age."

"Not a problem -- I'll just flash my biceps and basket, and they'll follow me anywhere. In fact, I'll do you one better.  Next Saturday night in our bed, there will be a Cute Young Thing."

The youngest, softest, most innocent of twinks, barely legal, too young for the bars, age 18 to 21.


"Ok. Let's make it interesting.  If you bring home someone under 21, I'll do the chore you hate the most for a month."

"That's grocery shopping!" I exclaimed.  "And if I bring home someone over 21, or nobody at all, I'll do the chore you hate the most for a month."

"That would be laundry.  And I think it's about time to wash all the comforters and bedspreads in the house. You'd better stock up on Fab."  He paused.  "But no fair bringing home one of Infinite Chazz's friends.  You have to meet him through cruising."

I knew that I was in trouble.  I'm a twink magnet now in my 50s, but in my 30s young guys usually ignored me.  And how was I supposed to meet a Cute Young Thing, when they're too young to go to the bars?

9:00 pm: Different Light Bookstore.  Maybe they were browsing among the coming out manuals.

9:30 pm:  The Rage.  Maybe they got a fake id to go dancing inside.

10:00 pm:  Mrs. Fields' Cookies.  Cute Young Things like cookies, right?

11:00 pm.  The Cinerama Dome.  Maybe they were hanging out at the video game area of the theater.

11:30 pm. I found a pay phone and told Lee I would be a little late.

12:00 am.  The Toy Tiger, for old guys and their admirers.

1:00 am.  Book Circus, in desperation, to hire a hustler.

Book Circus was a small, sleazy bookstore on Santa Monica and La Jolla, only a few blocks from the French Quarter.  It sold mostly porn, but you could find some interesting other things.  There's nothing like buying a remaindered version of The D'Oyly Carte Picture History of Gilbert and Sullivan at 2:00 in the morning, while bleary-eyed patrons stare.

The patrons: guys who didn't get laid at the bars, eyeing old copies of Blueboy and Mandate to give them ideas before they go home to beat off.  And, if they don't want to go home alone, there were always hustlers wandering around.

Hustlers are not denigrated in gay communities, not looked down up or pitied.  They're merely capitalizing on their special gifts, generally an enormous penis,  How is making money from their penis any different than making money from musical talent or a big brain?  And the activity they engage in is enjoyable, not demeaning.  Why not get paid for doing it?

However, their clients are almost always bisexual, married, or downlow men.  Gay men have so many options for sex that they rarely have the need or the interest to patronize a hustler.

Except in an emergency.

Lane said I had to meet a Cute Young Thing through cruising.  He never said I couldn't pay for him.

It had to be a young looking guy, fresh-faced, innocent, right off the bus -- that's quite a tall order, for a hustler.  And he couldn't be drunk or high -- Lane hated drugs and alcohol.

Paydirt!  A very cute, very young looking guy, short, buffed, with black hair and dark skin, maybe Hispanic, pretending to read The Advocate.  He looked up at me and smiled.

"This place has a great selection," I said.  "I come here all the time."

He smiled.  "I usually wait until I get home."

An old joke.

We talked and cruised for a few minutes. He was Tai, from San Jose in northern California, 19 years old, in town for about six months.  He had a part-time job in a pizza place, but L.A. was expensive, and he was making money any way he could.

Time to seal the deal.  "It's pretty late.  Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

"Not if you're offering yours."

"Sure.  I live just about six blocks from here.  But kust you know, there'll be two of us.  Will that be extra?"

He frowned. "I don't do ladies."

"No, no -- my boyfriend.  He' a couple of years older than me, hairy chest,  cut 7.5."

"Sounds like just my type.  Oh -- before we go, could you lend me $10 for some cigarettes?"

Rather a cheap fee for a hustler, but I figured he'd charge us the rest later.

We went back to the house, where Lane was waiting up.  He was surprised to see the Cute Young Thing with me, but not so surprised that he didn't invite him into the bedroom and go down on him while we kissed.

Wait -- you didn't examine him for crabs! I thought.  But I'd be doing laundry tomorrow anyway.

Tai had a hard, smooth chest and a surprisingly small penis for a hustler.  Weren't they supposed to be gifted?  But when it became aroused, it hit flat against his belly.



I went down on Tai while he went down on Lane.  Soon I was taking his load.  Then I pushed him down onto the bed into interfemoral position, while he was still sensitive.  He groaned, gasped, and became aroused again.

Staying power!  A good quality for a hustler!

Now Lane went down on Tai again, while I entered his mouth from the top.  When I finished, Tai pushed me down onto his penis to spurt for me a second time.

Then we shared Lane's penis.  At the last moment, Tai pushed my head over so I would take Lane's load.

"That wasn't necessary," I said, gasping.  "I go down on Lane every day anyway.  We brought you in to share."

"Ok, then I'll take the next one.  But I'm warning you -- I'm keeping track."

Was he going to charge me by the orgasm?

After Lane finished his second orgasm, he got up and went to take a shower.  Tai lay his head on my chest.  I wrapped my arms around him.

"I should cover your payment now, while Lane isn't around," I whispered.  "How much do I owe you for the night?"

Tai began kissing my chest.  "How much do you owe me for what?"

"For...you know.."  My face began to burn. You weren't supposed to actually mention the contract openly.  "Um...don't you....um...charge?"

He smiled.  "Maybe, if the guy is a crazy closet case who won't kiss or go down on me.  Maybe not.  You'll never know."

And I still don't know for sure if Tai was a hustler or not.

By the way, total score: me 1, Lane 2, Tai 4.

See also: The Teenage Lawnboy; Cruising East of Alvarado.

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Warning: Explicit Beauty Ahead

When every guy with a cell phone posts nude selfies on the internet, there are thousands of fabulous faces, sculpted physiques, and gigantic penises on display every time you boot up your computer.

Some photos stand out from the crowd by paying pay special attention to background, light, color, and composition, display some striking emotion, provide a backstory.  Others add a single tiny detail that transforms the photo from merely depicting a cute guy to being beautiful in itself.

1. The pale sculpted physique is offset by the dark checkered shirt and hat, and the cock and balls are offset by the jeans.  But it's the food cooking on the stove that give this photo a lifelike, homey feel: it's a moment of real life.  Dinner is almost ready.











2. Ok, some nicely rounded muscles, and two hands on his enormous uncut penis.  You expect a bragging smirk, or at least a cruisy smile, but this guy's expression is soft and vulnerable, his head against a soft beige pillow.  He's worried that he won't meet your expectations.














3. Slim backside, scruffy hair, aroused penis almost hidden.  What makes this photo is the bright hippie-graffiti  that fills the wall and reflects the multi-colored blanket.  This is a hipster just waking up after a long night of jazz music, Beat poety, and discussions of the meaninglessness of life.














4. Sculpted physique, flawless skin glowing in strong light, jeans drawn down just enough to suggest that they're about to fall off.  The gold watch draws attention to the hands.  Blurry urban background suggest the dangers and delights of the street.














5.  I love photos where the aroused penis stands tall, taking up half of the frame, but this photo adds to its intrigue by displaying the guy's jarhead and khaki shirt and belt.  He must be in the military.  There's a poster showing a tropical beach over his shoulder: he's looking for an escape, a "good place."

More after the break











Sunday, April 2, 2017

How Much Does Astrology Know About Your Sex Life?

I'm a big fan of the paranormal, but not astrology.  It's too complicated: I am a Scorpio with Virgo in my Second House (21.02), the Moon in Jupiter, Mercury in Sagittarius, the Sextile Sun in Jupiter, and Mars in opposition (4.43-73).

Ok...

When I started going to gay bars in 1983, the astrology craze of the 1970s was winding down, but you still occasionally were asked "What's your sign?"

It was a good conversation starter.  And being a Scorpio didn't hurt my cruising success: it's the most sexual of the signs of the zodiac: passionate, energetic, intellectual, dark, mysterious, intense, and insatiable.

Scorpio is supposedly most compatible with Cancer, Virgo, Capricorn, Libra, and Pisces, and not compatible with Taurus, Leo, Sagittarius, and Aquarius. Let's see if it works,  Here is a boyfriend or lover from each of the sun signs:



NOT COMPATIBLE

Aquarius (January 21 - February 19): The water-bearer, Ganymede, cupbearer and boy toy for the gods.  Friendly, loyal, inventive, scatterbrained.    

Dustin, my teenage boyfriend on the Plains, who I hooked up with at his father's party. It was intense but rather volatile.

















Taurus (April 21 - May 21); the bull.  Patient, reliable, warmhearted, tends to be jealous and possessive. Hung like a bull.  

Barry the Colonial Williamsburg Boy.  Not particularly hung.  We hooked up once, and became friends. He was a little too weird for me, with his background in a conservative Catholic family in Colonial Williamsburg and years spent as a hustler.














Leo (July 23 - August 21): the lion.  Generous, broad-minded, pompous, tends to be bossy.

Raul, the Hispanic chef I dated in West Hollywood.  We argued, broke up, got back together several times. He wasn't pompous, but he was inclined to be bossy.

Sagittarius (November 23 - December 22): The archer, especially Chiron the Centaur.  Optimistic, good-humored, intellectual, irresponsible, reckless.

Troy, my boyfriend in Upstate New York.  We were together for about six years, but we did argue a bit.












COMPATIBLE

Pisces (February 20 - March 20):  The fish.  Compassionate, kind, idealistic, weak-willed.

Eli from Amsterdam, who I've been friends with ever since his brother brought me home as a "birthday present" from the Horseman's Club.

Cancer (June 22 - July 22): the crab.  Emotional, intuitive, cautious, moody.

My Celebrity Boyfriend, from West Hollywood.  We only dated for about three months.  He was rather moody.  See: Sharing My Celebrity Boyfriend, the Director, and the Cute Young Thing.






Virgo (August 22 - September 23): the virgin.  Modest, shy, easy-going, fussy, a perfectionist.

Ryan H, the small-town track star that I met on the way back from Indianapolis last summer.  That didn't work out at all (see My New Year's Eve Sex Party with the College Track Star).


More after the break.










L

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