The Midnight Hookups of Philadelphia

Thursday

I'm back in Philadelphia for a conference.  I lived here for a horrible nine months, a few years ago.  It was ugly, dirty, crowded, expensive, dangerous, and it had the most unfriendly gay people anywhere.

My horrible flight lands at 2:00 pm.  I check into a hotel about 6 blocks from my old apartment.  It's even worse now.  A grim, grotesque pageant of self-absorbed yuppies and homeless people sleeping on air vents.  My crappy hotel is costing me $300 a night.  I can't go a block without being panhandled.  Giovanni's Room, the oldest gay bookstore in town, is gone.

And it's impossible to find a decent guy to have sex with.

Club Philly, a gay bathouse, is only a block away.  When I lived here, it had a gym and private rooms.  You had sex in the steam room and sauna.

Now the gym is gone!  A rack of free weights!  Plus no steam room, no sauna.  They have a glory hole maze now, but it's deserted.  4 floors, rickety stairs, and there's nobody there.

I go down on a very hot black guy in his 20s with a slim muscular physique and a 8" cock.  So far so good.

 A young Hispanic guy motions me into his room.  He seems to be mute -- he motions rather than speaks.  He motions for me to screw him.  I refuse.  He motions aggressively.  I leave.


I talk to a couple sharing a room.  An elderly guy, chubby, with red scaly psoriasis all over his body, and his boyfriend, elderly, slim, who doesn't speak and seems a little off.  I go down on the boyfriend for a few minutes.

I go on Grindr and find that there are 3 guys within 20 feet, in the same club.  I say "hello" to them.  Nothing.

So much for Club Philly.

Chinese food for dinner, then back to my hotel.  I put an ad on Craigslist Philadelphia, "hosting downtown."  Nothing.  Not one response.  Back home I'd have 20 guys by this point.

Back to Grindr. There are like 300 guys within 30 feet.  I say "Hi" to about 20 of them.

Nothing.  Crickets.

As a last resort, I put an ad on Craigslist: hosting downtown.  Back home, my ads get 10-20 responses.

Nothing.  Crickets.

Bob, my boyfriend back on the Plains,  calls.  He didn't do much today: just work, then hanging out at the gay-friendly coffee house a few blocks from our apartment.

A gay-friendly coffee house?  Sigh.

Friday

I arrived on Thursday because conferences always begin on Thursdays and end on Sunday.  Not this one!  Today is the last day!  Only about three sessions left.  

And another mistake: every conference I've ever been to, you dress casually.  Here there are suits and ties everywhere.  I am woefully out of place in the sessions I attend.

I get cruised by a cute Italian guy, but otherwise make no contacts.

The sessions are over by 5:00.  I have more Chinese food and then head to the hotel gym.

A lousy set of dumbbells!

I look up "gay gyms" online and find the Sansome Street Gym, about 7 blocks away.  Why not?

The twink at the front desk cruises me.  So far so good.

Another dead end for working out!  The weight room contains 4 measly cybex machines, broken so you can't change the angle.  Big deal.  I wander through the huge space, completely empty except for an ugly guy,  who rejects me!

Skip the workout.  I go back to my hotel room and try Grindr.  About an hour later, a weird tattooed hippie, frightfully skinny, with a small cock comes over, gets a blow job while looking at porn and saying crazy things like "I grew up in Philadelphia.  That's why I hate it."  and "I'm a mural artist.  I want to get thousands of people to look, but I can't decide what they should look at."

Is everybody in Philadelphia demented?

He tells me to suck hard, like I'm trying to get a thick milkshake through a straw.

After he finally comes, he puts on the music of someone named Bjork and dances and sings loudly, while searching in his bag for his gummy bears.  Then he asks me for a "donation."  I kick him out.

Back to Grindr.  Some guy starts insulting me for being old.  Like it's my fault, if I wasn't so stupid I would have just stayed 30.  I tell him: "I was a gay kid in the 1970s.  I've been beat up, spat on, threatened, chased, called fag, fairy, pervert, abomination in the eyes of the Lord.  I experienced more hate than you can even imagine.  Do you really think that a few insults will hurt me?  He shuts up.

Then a 50-year old South Asian guy comes over for wet, sloppy kisses, licking body part, and telling me how much he likes little boys.  Triple turn off.

"Um...you know, I haven't been a little boy in many years.  Why are you here?"

"I like to share mature men and little boys.  Three of us together would be really nice, don't you think..."

 I tell him that sex with 14-year olds is a crime, try to staunch the weird licking, and suck his cock to shut him up.  Then I literally push him out the door.

A moment later, Derek, my friend from the Plains, texts me: "Can't wait to see you again!  Looking forward to Tuesday."

Sigh.

I wish I was back home on the Plains.

Saturday

The conference is over, so I go to the Rodin Museum and the Barnes Art Foundation.  I try to get into Eastern State Penitentiary, but the line is too long.

In the evening I go on Grindr to get ignored and blcoked again, then return to Club Philly.

Score!  Usually I consider a bathhouse a success if I get with five guys, but I lose count after seven.

1. Tall young guy with enormous uncut penis.
2. His friend, buffed, blond who wanted to kiss.
3. Hairy chub in his room.
4. Tall muscular guy with a red beard who wanted to kiss.
5. Young black guy who came after 30 seconds.
6. Guy with cerebral palsy who is an anal bottom.
7. Short buffed guy from Italy with a smooth chest

Then I go to the Bike Stop and make out with two other guys, a short Asian and a husky bank teller from Delaware.

I stumble back to my hotel at 2:00 am, go to bed, and wake up at 6:00 am sharp to go to the airport.

Two things I've learned:

1. Dating apps are useless in gay neighborhoods.
2. No one has sex until after midnight.


See also: Philadelphia, My Return to the Straight World

Bob and I Hook Up with a Saint

Plains, October 2017

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....

Me: I'm quite a world traveler, too.  I've been to Russia, Japan, Thailand..

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.