Edward's Boyfriend for Pay

East Village, August 1999

One afternoon shortly after I returned from my summer in France, I walked into my apartment on 13th Street in the East Village of New York to find a very attractive young man in a business suit on the couch.  His thick Kielbasa was out and fully aroused.  My housemate Edward was on his knees, his tongue working feverishly on the shaft.

I was shocked.  Edward was a fey art appraiser in his 60s, who rarely dated and never hooked up.  And his cardinal rule was: no nudity in the living room.

"Hi!" the very attractive young man said.

"Hi.  I'm Boomer, Edward's housemate."

Edward hastily stood, his pants tenting.  "Terribly sorry to break a house rule.  I lost control of myself.  Boomer, this is my new assistant, Andrew Marvell (accented on the second syllable, Mar - VELL).  I hired him while you were in France."

"How are ya?" Andrew said, holding out his hand to be shaken.  It was very big, almost drawing attention away from his still-aroused Kielbasa.

"Nice to meet you.  Not very coy, are you?"

"Huh?"

"You know, Andrew Marvell, the Metaphysical poet?  'To His Coy Mistress'?"

Metaphysical poetry was that obscure, metaphor-filled Restoration-era stuff from the English Restoration that you had to read in your Survey of English Literature class in college.  You were probably assigned "To His Coy Mistress," in which Andrew Marvell tries to convince a woman to have sex with him:

Had we but world enough and time, 
This coyness, lady, were no crime. 

Andrew stared blankly.

"Where are my manners?" Edward said.  "Would you like to go down on him?  Please be my guest."

My guest?  It was Andrew's penis!  "Is it ok, Andrew?"

"Sure, go for it."

This was weird,but I never turn down a Kielbasa.  I got on my knees.  Andrew responded perfectly, with just the right amount of groaning and shaking, erotic but not ostentatious.

He finished quickly with a gallon-sized spurt -- Edward must have been working on him for awhile.  Then Edward said "Won't we be more comfortable in the bedroom?"

We had never shared before, but ok.  We took Andrew into the bedroom, stripped him out of his clothes ("Be careful -- that's an Armani suit!"), and found a hundred more things to do with him.

Andrew had a firm, tight physique, with a smooth chest, thick biceps, and toned abs, pleasant but not spectacular.  But he had a face that would make you melt, and a magnificent Kielbasa that was always aroused.

Of course, I had to share him with Edward, who was thin, hairy, wore rings and a rather feminine cologne, and never took off his socks and garters.  But I could work around that, going down on Edward for thirty seconds and then returning my attention to Andrew.

He finished a second time while Edward was going down on him and he was going down on me.  Then he sprang to life again, lay on top of me, and finished a third time while kissing me and thrusting between my legs.  Edward finished by topping Andrew.

He sprang up again, ready for #4, but Edward said "I think we'd better call it a day.  We wouldn't want to get totally spent."

We all showered and dressed and returned to the living room.  Edward went out to the kitchen to make tea.

"So you're Edward's assistant," I said, to make conversation.

"Yep."  He grinned.

"That must be interesting, cataloging all those rare works of art."

"Yep.  Hard, though.  I get stuck on the titles sometimes, and Edward has to type them in for me."

"Did you major in Art History in college?"

"I just took General Humanities at Laguardia (Community College), but I had a job as a model for an art class once."


Um...ok.  So...what's your favorite period?  From your name, I'm going to guess the Baroque."

"My name?"

"Andrew Marvell was a poet who lived during the Baroque era."

"Oh, Edward named me -- I thought it was about Marvel comics.  My real name is Andrew Balboa."

"Italian Stallion, huh?"  (Rocky Balboa was the name of Sylvester Stallone's character in the Rocky series).

"No, I'm American."

Ok, this guy was as dumb as a post. I bet he couldn't even find Europe on the map.  Why would Edward hire him to catalog objects d'art and correspond with dealers in French, German, and Italian?

"Edward gave me this suit, too.  Do you like it?"  He took my hand and ran it over the material, then down to his crotch, where he was aroused again.

"Still ready for action, I see."

"I'm always ready.  I won a contest once, five times in an hour.  But then I didn't get aroused again for almost two hours!"

Ok, I figured it out.  Andrew was a Boyfriend for Pay, hired for his handsome face and ever-aroused Kielbasa, not for his administrative skills or knowledge of art history.

For the next few months, I saw Andrew around the apartment a lot, laboriously typing into Edward's computer, fetching reference books for him, or more often, watching Rocko's Modern Life on Nickelodeon while Edward did everything himself.  We didn't share again, but Edward often asked me to "entertain" Andrew while he was working.

Sometimes I went down on him right on the couch in the living room, while Edward was working on his computer nearby.

I didn't mind. I even invited my friend Yuri to help out.

Familiarity usually decreases the frequency and intensity of your arousal, but not with Andrew.  He was just as eager the 20th time as the first.

Then one day in December, Andrew came into my room.  He was shirtless, wearing a Santa Claus cap.

"What's up, Andrew?  Did you bring a package for me to open?"

"No.  I just came in to say goodbye.  Right after Christmas, Edward is going to Europe for two months, and he said he won't need an assistant anymore."

"I'm sorry to hear that.  But you can still come over and hang out, right?"  Translation:  We can still make out on the couch while watching Rocko's Modern Life.

He brightened.  "That'd be great.  I can be a big help with your classes.  I can type up your papers, check books out of the library, keep track of your appointments, all kinds of things.  I get $25 an hour, or $150 for the whole day.  That includes staying overnight."

Cheaper than a hustler.  "Well, I don't really need an assistant.  I was thinking more of friends hanging out."

He frowned.  "Then how would I pay my rent?"

See also: Edward Tries to "Make" My Boyfriend

Edward's Hookup with an Angel or Demon

This story happened to my roommate Edward, the art appraiser I lived with in the East Village.  When I knew him, from 1998 to 2001, he was in his late 50s and early 60s, tall, husky, tanned, white-haired, slightly feminine, and eccentric.

But back in 1958, he was Eddie, a 18-year old high school boy growing up in Houghton, on the isolated Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  Not aware that he was gay yet -- not even aware that same-sex desire existed.

But he knew that he was different: he was in the drama club and the musicale, he loved painting and sculpture, and he especially loved looking at the semi-naked men in muscle magazines like Physique Pictorial.

He tried to get intimate with girls, twice.  The spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak.

When he graduated from high school, his father insisted that he join the military Maybe the all-male environment would make a man out of him.

He was fluent in German -- his parents fled Nazi-occupied Austria when he was four years old -- so he was stationed at an air force base near Kaiserslautern, West Germany, and given a job as a translator.

One evening his friends talked him into walking to a popular tavern on Kindsbacher Street, where they would meet some hübsche Mädchen.  He was less than enthusiastic about the prospect of Mädchen, hübsche or not, so after about an hour, he wandered off into the night.

He was not drunk -- I repeat, not drunk.

He started walking north and west, until he was on a country road, now the L363, on the way to Steinwenden.  Open fields broken by an occasional groves of trees.  There were no streetlights, but it was a clear night, with a very bright full moon.

Suddenly a shape burst up from a new field and flew across the night sky.  It swooped down so close that Edward instinctively threw himself to the ground and rolled into a ditch.

A bomb?  No.  A bird?  Maybe -- but enormous -- he estimated the wing span at ten feet.

A condor?  A hawk?  How big did hawks get in Germany?

It swooped down again, this time more slowly, its wings fanning the air.  It hovered over his prostrate body.

It was a human!  A man, about 5'5" tall, Caucasian, hairless, very muscular. His wings were like eagle wings, with feathers. They were vibrating but not flapping -- apparently he didn't need them to fly.

"How did you see such detail in the dark?"  I asked.

"The moon was very bright. But still, I couldn't see everything.  I couldn't make out a facial expression."

Edward tried to scream in terror, but no sound came out of his mouth.  The winged man hovered only a few feet over him.  His gigantic penis -- easily 10" soft -- hung down.  It was uncircumcized.

"You could tell that it wasn't circumcized, in the dark?"


Lower, lower.  Edward tried to scramble out of the way, but he couldn't move.  The fanning wings -- had they paralyzed him?  He had just seen The Horror of Dracula (1958) with Christopher Lane.  Was this a vampire, getting ready to feed?

Lower, lower. The winged man had beautifully sculpted muscles and a Kovbasa+++++.   Edward was terrified, but also aroused.  He unzipped, pushed down his pants, and displayed his own erect penis.  It was big by human standards -- all the guys at the base admired it -- but tiny compared to the winged man's.

"Wait...you said you couldn't move!"

"Who's telling this story, me or you?"

Lower, lower.  They were only inches apart.  Edward still couldn't make out a face, but he felt the winged man's penis, now erect, a rod of iron, brushing  against his legs, then pushing against him, between his thighs.  He thrust over and over and over, wordless, savage.

Edward tried to scream.  The pressure was tremendous.  But he was also elated, hot with passion for the muscles, for the penis.  He wished he could move his hands to hold the winged man, draw him close.

The winged man shuddered with an explosive orgasm.

Then, without a sound, he flew off.

Edward lay there, drenched, waiting to see if he would return.  After awhile, he finished off himself, cleaned up, and walked home.

He returned to the spot where he saw the winged man many times over the years, most recently in 1990.  But he never saw it again.

He kept the handkerchief that he used to clean himself off with, a memento of the moment he realized that he was gay.

"Wow, quite a dream!"

"It wasn't a dream.  I was wide awake.  I remember every moment."

My friend raises his glass in a toast.  "You win!  That's the best coming out story I've ever heard!"

It certainly beats my coming out over John Travolta in Grease.

"Next I'll tell you about me and the Romanian vampire-hunter...."

See also: The Football Player Who Got Unstuck In Time.