Date: Wed, 12 Dec 2012 06:45:27 -0800 (PST)
From: Anthony Palazzo <apalazzo198@yahoo.com>
Subject: vintage thrills;  19. Tom Cat Bill

Tom Cat Bill

I sat in the living room paging through a magazine, waiting for my masseur
to finish showering.  There was an array of magazines on the table in front
of me - one with news/gossip, another a girlie magazine, and also an
artsy-fartsy entertainment magazine called After Dark, popular with gay
men.  Maybe Bill used the choice of magazine as a test to determine the
sexual preference of unknown first-time clients.  With me, there was no
such problem.  We had met at a gay strip show.  Bill was one of the
dancers.  The massage had been arranged a few days earlier. I had seen Bill
a few times at the Tom Cat, and last week, I had spoken with him after his
performance.  Some of the dancers would hang out to chat up the audience in
the rear of the theater.  And to drum up private business.  I asked Bill
about whether he worked privately as we were chatting and he offered his
home number to arrange a massage.

Here he comes out of the bathroom now, drying his hair.  He has pulled on a
pair of jeans but is wearing nothing else.  Although it is my lunch hour,
he is just rising for the day. He glances over to see which magazine I
chose.  I'm looking at After Dark.  Bill is about 5'8" or 5'9" with short
dark hair, a compact muscular body and rough pleasant features.  His nose
is a bit too big and his chin and jawbone jut out prominently.  Also, he
has acne on his face.  But surprisingly, all together, it works fine.
These imperfections give him sort of a rough-hewn, Marlboro Man look.  I
like the look, and I also like Bill's easy masculine manner.

After a minimum of chit chat, I strip and lie on the bed in the small
apartment.  He is proud of this new rental. He had previously shared a
place, and this is his first private apartment in New York.  He proudly
points out the exposed brick living room wall.  As we talk about house
decorating, I begin to rub his arm. Bill strips off his jeans and lies back
on the bed. There is no pretense of a legitimate massage at all. I caress
his hairy chest and run my finger down his flat stomach to a nest of pubic
hair still damp from the shower. He reaches for my dick and slowly begins
to pull it.

We continue with this lazy foreplay for perhaps five minutes.  Bill says,
"You'll have to tell me what you want."  He was expecting me to go down on
him by now, I suppose.  And now he's probably thinking that maybe I want to
be fucked.  I surprise him by saying, "Uh, nothing.  Nothing more than
this, actually. Just a little hand action."  He reacts with a surprised
"well, you meet all kinds in this business" look.  And then he smiles and
relaxes.  There follows a nice mutual hand job, with some hugging, ass
grabbing and a peck or two on the neck.  After we have spilled our juices,
Bill offers a glass of orange juice which I accept. I pay and leave.

The next time I go to the Tom Cat Theater, Bill comes out for his
performance and studies the audience in the small theater.  There are only
about half a dozen men at this early afternoon performance. Bill looks from
face to face as he slowly removes his clothes.  As he sits down on a chair
to take off his boots, he comments, "Well, I know everybody here.  All
friends."  I take that to mean that we have each been private massage
clients of the performer.  I bet I was the easiest one to satisfy.