Date: Wed, 01 Nov 2000 01:50:30 EST
From: Ritch Christopher <ballmusic69@hotmail.com>
Subject: GayMale/HighSchool/that-was-then-11
Same disclaimer applies as in the preceding ten sections of this story. All
rights reserved. This is the continuation of a gay story containing explicit
language and graphic sex. If you are underaged and/or offended by such...GO
AWAY!
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that-was-then-11--NEW YORK:
I was alone. More alone than I had ever been. Worse still, I was lonely.
All my hopes and dreams of the future were gone. All my ties to the past
were gone. All bridges were burned. Jeff AND Rich both killed on the same
date---September 29th---just a year apart. What was there about that date? I
would ponder that again in the future as I would suffer one more loss on
that same goddamned day. I made a vow, that on midnight of September
28th,each year, I would go to bed and stay under the covers until I saw the
light of September 30th. I thought, "Still a plane could fall on my quarters
and I could be accidently killed", even though I had sought my safety in
bed.
I had the assurance that I had been accepted as an acting student at the
"Academy" (a pseudoname). I had the reassurance that Jeff's parents would
spot me for the tuition. With what little cash I had in my pockets, I had to
find a place to live, buy food, and find a job. God, New York was big!!
Thousands and thousands of people everywhere and no one gave a damn about
each other. I could change my identity and be whomever and whatever, I
wanted to be, and no one would know OR care.
I looked in the phone directory and saw two Y's listed...one in the mid
thirties and one up town, near 100th St...toss a coin...one was as promising
as the other. Flip!...Uptown won. I caught the Broadway sub and headed 50
blocks north. Depending on how you rate luck, they had a room available on
the fifth floor. Filling out the application in those days depended largely
on whether you were a Christian. I assured them that I had been born a
southern Baptist, baptized a Presbyterian, and was now a card-carrying
Anglican.
I swear the room was no bigger than 6'x10'. There was a half metal framed
bed, a three drawer dresser with two knobs missing, a wooden straight back
chair and a lavatory. No toilet, no shower or tub, just a dinky little
lavatory used as a nightly pissoir. You arranged your digestive system on a
clock with the minimum bowel movements per day. It was a long, cold walk to
the commode, down two right-angled halls. Showering would be limited to two
a week. preferably at 3:00 AM, as I had heard "stories" of how many guys had
become "gals" in the "Y" showers. Surely, 3:00 AM would be a safe time to
bathe...Who would be "up" that hour??... Naivete, thy name is Mark.
I was hungry and wanted to see more of my new homeland, so I "subbed" back
down to Times Square...the Center of the Whole World!
On 42nd Street, two neon signs caught my eye, "Tad's Steaks" and "Flame
Steak", each advertising a full meal for $1.19. Beef was cheaper here than
in Texas! Months later, I would deliberate if a horse was considered beef?
Any rate, you got a char-broiled steak, a baked potato, and a salad for the
grand bargain price. If you wanted to add a glass of "Coke", that was fifty
cents. Shit, you could buy a fucking six pack of "Coke" for $.69. Oh well,
the full meal was still under two bucks and no tipping, as it was
cafeteria-style. Outside, marquees were flashing all the second run movies
for $.99, or after 2:00AM, prices dropped to $.30...for a double feature.
Man, I was going to like this!!
It took me all of two weeks to learn if you wanted to "watch" the movie, to
sit on the main floor. If extra-featured activities were your bag, sit in
the balcony. The problem in these grand old theaters, was to find a seat
with a cushion and one that wouldn't slam you to the floor as you started to
sit. I remember the first time I sat in the balcony at the Amsterdam and had
a strange hand to plop between my legs.
Good God, these upper alcoves were sexual cesspools. Everywhere I
looked, left and right, in front or in back, heads were bobbing. Didn't
ANYONE want to see "Breakfast at Tiffany's"? I got a hell of a lot more
sexually excited looking at George Peppard sitting in bed, bare-chested than
I did with some bum trying to fondle me. I wanted to scream like an elavator
operator..."MOVIE...Main Floor. Everything else... Upstairs
...Going UP!!" The main floor would suit me just fine.
The first trip to take a bath, I heard noises as I entered. Two guys, one
white and one black, were attacking a third in the mouth and ass at the
same. "There but for the grace of God...", I thought. When they had
finished, the "two", exited, leaving their "victim" in a clump on the shower
floor. He was moaning and crying. I knelt down to comfort him, and as he
looked up to see me, thinking I was one of his assaulters. He started
screaming, and managed to rise to his feet and run out of the shower room,
down the hall, stark naked. Shit, if someone came in, now, and saw me, they
would assume I was the villain. So I left, unshowered, and decided to wait
for another time.
When school started the following Monday, I met Antonio and Jerry, whom
were also living at the same "Y". They were disconcerted as I. We became
"best friends" in about fifteen minutes and decided to look for an apartment
or hotel room to share, for our own posterity, On 52nd Street, just down
from the musician's union was a decrepit hotel, that catered to 95% black,
travelling musicians, the three of us found a two room hotel suite, for
$120.00 a month (divided by three), Yeah, I could afford that. Antonio was a
handsome 18-year-old, from Jersey, and Jerry was a good-looking little
19-year old, hunk from Colorado. They were straight as arrows. I knew I
could curtail my sexual appetite, in lieu of a safe place to live. I was an
actor. I could act straight. How the hell do you act, straight? Did I have a
big scarlet "G" on my chest? I would just keep quiet about my bedroom
preferences...until further notice.
School was more than I hoped it to be. There were classes in dance, mime,
fencing, speech, singing and musical comedy, theater history and various
acting styles including "technique" and "method". I was a combination of
both. I "felt" before I exhibited my technique. The junior class consisted
of about 100 aspiring actors divided into groups of fifteen. My eyes
wandered from guy to guy, crotch to crotch, wondering, "Who is...and who
isn't?" They were all beautiful people, exemplifying their chosen
profession, and I felt like a kid in a candy store. Which one would I
choose??...none for the moment...as I was running low on cash. I had to find
a job...I must not let my new roommates know about my finacial depravity. I
always managed to have "just eaten" when they wanted to go out. I had a
single package of saltines and a ten cent jar of mustard. I ate crackers
dipped in French's, Sunday through Wednesday. When that was gone, I ate
Crest toothpaste on Thursday and Friday breakfast...I was hungry! I wanted
more than a minty squeeze out of a tube.
Around 8:00 PM, I showered, put on a pair of tight black pants, with a
V-neck pullover sweater, black socks and loafers, a splash of British
Sterling, and I went walking down 52nd Street, turning left on 8th Avenue,
for a ten block jaunt heading toward 42nd. I walked with a slow
deliberation. I noticed I had even turned a few heads, as I passed. I had
saved one pack of Marlboros for special occasions, and stopped at 46th and
8th to light one, under a street light. I had no sooner put the filter
between my lips, when "click"...there was an outstretched lighter, flaming
just beneath my face.
"Light?"
"Sure...thanks", as I exhaled my first puff.
"Where you headed?", asked this stranger, a man, about forty-five years
old, grey in the temples, brown, silky looking suit...expensive shoes.
"I don't know. Movies maybe..."
"You selling, buying, or demonstrating?"
I wasn't familiar with this jargon, but I would play along...
"Whaddya mean?", I asked in my best Bronx imitation.
"I mean, do you sell your goods, kid, or give 'em away?".
"Where I come from, nothin's free.", I boasted.
"What shelf do you sell from?"
"Pardon...?"
"Top or bottom...?"
I was beginning to catch on.
"Top, always top!!"
"How much?"
"Depends on what you want to buy...and how much..."
"What's on your menu?"
I began to calculate...What was I doing...I had heard of New York Police
and sexual entrapment...better go slow...
"Are you a cop??"
"Is that what you're worried about??"
"Not worried, I just wanna be sure."
"No kid, I ain't no cop...You wanna make a deal or not..."
The thought of a late night snack of Proctor and Gamble's finest made my
stomach growl.
"O.K... ten bucks, you give me a handjob. Fifteen bucks, I give YOU a hand
job. Twenty bucks, you get to blow me, and for twenty-five, I get to fuck
you...no changes and no substitutions. and you supply the room," I rattled
this off like I had been barking this for years.
"Twenty bucks."
"Where?"
"I'm staying at the Manhattan Hotel, 44th and eighth, room 719."
"Lead on, MacDuff."
He thought it best that we didn't enter the lobby together. My heart was
pounding in nervous anticipation with each floor the elevator climbed. I
took a breath and tapped on "719".
"Come in...wanna drink?"
"No thanks."
"Wanna take all your clothes off?"
Still cautious and worried I might have to make a quick exit, I made an
excuse be saying, "Uh unh, that costs extra."
"How much?"
"Ten bucks."
He thought a minute, not sure of what he had bargained for. He came toward
me and tried to put his arms around me, hungry for a kiss.
"Stop it...NO kissing...that costs a lot more!"
I almost laughed at the disappointed expression on his face. I was honestly
beginning to feel sorry for him. Poor guy...salesman probably,...married,
probably, that, too...horny...went out shopping...picked out the one he
wanted...and I was sounding more like a cash register...than a "quickie".
I walked over to the dresser in my best John Wayne gait, turned, unzipped
my fly and pulled out my seven and a half inches in a plop. I only needed
about six seconds to get a full erection. His eyes grew in amazement.
"My God, let me have it!!"
"Money first...I've been stiffed before..."
"Oh all right," as he nervously fumbled through his wallet..."Here."
"Thanks".
"How long do I get for my twenty bucks...?"
"Twenty minutes or two loads, whichever comes first." I said with
authority.
Afraid the clock was running, he dived for my cock, sliding on his knees,
He didn't just suck...he gobbled. I had never seen such a hunger before. He
was like a junkie and I was a hypo of "H". He tugged at my scrotum, trying
to pry it through the narrow opening of my fly.
"Ouch!"
"Sorry...I wanna lick your balls...or is that extra too?"
"No, you can have those as a bonus." I managed to hold back the
laughter,,,,This poor man...
I felt compassion for him and gave him a choice. "Do you want one big load
of cum or two or three little ones...I can climax three or four times in
twenty minutes..."
"Give me a little one, now...and then one big one, just before my time is
up."
I was a control freak. I had this wealthy business man, before me, on his
knees and bowing to my demands.
"O.K., get ready, here comes the first." I didn't know what the hell I was
doing, I had never had any control timing or sizing my orgasms, before...but
I had to act professsional as this was my "business".
I gave him a cheap performance of moaning and holding my head back. saying,
"God, you suck good cock.". This encouraged him and his love making to my
member became more pronounced...."Oh God, man, you're so good...you're gonna
make me cum...NOW...and here it comes."
He choked and gagged before I had even shot the "small" load, but he
managed to cover up his ineptitude by swallowing hard and fast. I had to
remember the level of intensity of this first climax to make sure he got his
money's worth on the "final wave".
He kept on sucking after the first load, I never really went down. I just
let him continue, until I approximated his time was up, and I started
writhing and quivering my legs. I was making loud breathing sounds,
clenching my fists for the big blast. I was giving an Oscar-worthy
performance. I wanted him to feel like he was the king of cocksuckers, when
I left. He had to know that HE was the greatest and had made me cry "uncle"
with his powerful suction machine.
It was time...I gushed forth and filled his esophagus with all the milk I
could muster. He had tears in his eyes and was thanking me as if I had
bestowed knighthood on me. I thought he was about to kiss my shoes. I had
faked it, but he had played a real-life drama.
As I folded the money, putting it in my right pocket, before I made my
descent down the elevator, I could hear "Tara's Theme" swelling in my
mind,,,and as Miss Scarlett had said, "God as my witness, I'll never go
hungry, again..."
The key was in the costume. I would dress in solid black. I could turn
three, four, five...tricks a night. And I did...the next two or three months
became an endless montage of faces, cocks, asses, mouths, hotel rooms,
bathrooms and baths...I don't know how many...a hundred?...two?...more...?
Always on top! I never was fucked and I never had to suck a dick. I was
acting in class during the day, and assuming a role on the streets by night,
all the while maintaining my privacy and secrecy from my two "straight"
roommates.
We were given free tickets to a Broadway play...some drama that was
destined to close as soon as it opened. It was a 19th century play, with a
modern narrator. played my a young "wanna-be-a-star" actor, that impressed
me more than the material he was paid to say. I had never heard of him, but
he was striking, in a Clint Eastwood, sorta way...tall, lanky, great face,
and a voice that rivaled Gregory Peck's.
I would love to meet him after the play...but it was one of those awkward
situations that you find yourself in, trying to compliment a performance or
production, when it merited no praise. What do you say?..."I just loved the
costumes"...or..."What can I say...you were just too, too..."...backstage
bullshit banter.
I think I was one of the "fifty" who stayed for the curtain call. Most of
the audience left during intermission. I waited outside the stagedoor
outside the Cort Theatre. He apparently performed without make-up because he
came out the door almost instantly. I wanted to go over and ask for an
autograph, but as bad as the play wan, he would know I was a phony...so I
thought I would follow him at an unnoticeable distance. He crossed Seventh
Avenue, then Broadway, going north until he reached 54th and headed west. At
the corner of 54th and eighth, there was a little bar that had Christmas
decorations strung, year round. I watched him enter. I followed and he was
standing at the bar, about to order a drink. I non=chalantly moved up the
bar until I was standing beside him.
The bartender, a dead-ringer for John Ericson, smiled at me and asked,
"What'll it be?"
"A coke...with a twist."
My "actor" looked at me and smiled, "You think you can handle that?"
"Yeah, I don't drink."
"Why come to a bar, then?"
"To meet people."
"Fair enough...", he stuck out his hand. "I'm Ian Brooks."
"I know."
"You do?"
"Yeah, I saw you in a play tonight,"
"Ob bother, you didn't...?"
"Yes."
"Did you stay 'til the end?"
"Yeah for the whole,"one", curtain call."
"Pitiful...wasn't it?"
"Parts of it were good."
"Which parts?"
"I liked the narrator,"
"Now, I know you're kidding."
"No, I was quite impressed by you."
"My acting or otherwise?"
"Both."
"Did you follow me here?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I wanted to meet you and I was hoping I would get the chance."
"What's your name...since I not fortunate enough to have a Playbill with
you in it..."
"Mark...I'm an actor...or rather a student actor. I'm a junior at the
"Academy".
And then very suddenly...
"Are you gay?"
"Yes."
"And you followed me, here?"
"Yes."
"Were you hoping that I was gay and would ask you to go to bed with me?"
"Yes."
"Well, would you like to go to bed with me?"
"Yes."
"Drink your Coke and let's go."
JUST LIKE THAT!!! "Times have changed...I have changed.", I kept thinking,
in the cab, all the way to his apartment on West 85th, just off Central Park
West.
Ian lived on the first floor of a beautiful, brown-stone walk-up. It had
two bedrooms, a living room, and a built in eating area, just off the
kitchen. It was rent-controlled which meant he was paying a measly $140.00 a
month and the price would remain the same as long as he maintained his
lease. The second bedroom housed, Stan Crutchfield, Ian's present roommate
and former lover. Stan had worked as stage manager for many Broadway hit
shows, and was currently ready to come into town with a big musical. They
had ceased making love years ago and were now, good friends. I learned it
was a chore to keep a monogamous relationship going in show business.
The rooms had high ceilings and were difficult to heat. Ian lit a fire in
the fireplace, threw down four or five large pillows in the floor, and said,
"Lie down and make yourself comfortable." He had furnished the apartment
with chosen "pieces" giving the illusion of Beekman
Place...posh...uptown...East Side. There was nothing pretentious or
ostentatious about it...it was Ian's way of showing who he was,,,and what he
liked.
Ian was handsome, manly, and had a great speaking voice and unassuming
stage presence...in real life. Being poor and out of society's sync, I never
felt out of place living in the luxury of Jeff's home and family. But here,
in this place, Ian's, I felt like I had sneaked in a museum without buying a
ticket, with fear I might get caught and expelled at any moment, by some
security guard.
"Wanna drink?", he asked from the kitchen.
"A coke, without a twist, unless you have one."
"What's with you and those goddamned Cokes? Don't you ever have a real
drink?"
"No...when you come from a family plagued by alcohol, you have no desire to
drink."
The next hour, we spent lying in the floor, in front of the open fire,
asking questions, answering as honestly as was allowed, telling stories from
the past and the present like two buddies getting to know each other on
their first night of summer camp. We had propped our heads up with our
elbows, looking at each other, about six feet apart. The conversation was
heading toward the present, time and topic.
"Do you work, besides going to school?"
"Sorta"...as we approached the no-no subject.
"Acting...Or playing?..."
Amusingly, I replied, "A bit of both".
I wondered how long I could keep up this charade as he continued to probe
into my private spectrum? I wanted the conversation to end and the action to
begin. So I rared up sitting on the pillow and looked straight at him..."I
could keep up with an hour or two of coy lies and bullshit about who and
what I am or do, but here goes...", I began, "I am twenty years old, an
acting student at the "Academy". My tuition is being paid by the parents of
my ex-lover who was killed in a car accident a year ago on September 29th. I
have been ostracized, by choice, from my family...a drunken mother and a
child abusing father. I am a talented pianist, alone in New York, trying to
make it on my own. I had plans of spending this Spring in Europe, with my
new lover, who was studying to be a priest, who also was a lieutenant in the
army, who stupidly left me for a six months stint, and was killed in a
helicopter accident, this past September,...yes, also on September 29th,
goddammit. I live in a run-down, broken down hotel on West 52nd street, just
off Broadway. I don't have a "real" job...I'm a streetwalker...a hustler,,,I
sell my body and my services to lonely old men for ten, fifteen, twenty,
twenty-five dollars a pop, to have money to eat and live on, I don't have a
boyfriend. I have two straight roommates that I attend classes with. I was
given a free ticket to your play tonight. I struggled through one of the
most boring productions I've ever seen...except when you entered at the end
of the first act, and I had a strange sensation that I wanted to meet
you...I followed you to the bar...you invited me here...and since I've now
told you the story of my life in a nutshell, if you want me to leave, just
say so!"
A long silence transpired before he began to clap his hands, slowly and
building in volume.
"Bravo!"
"Well...do you want me to leave?"
"No, I want you to come over here and kiss me."
"You, sure?"
"Yes, goddammit, get over here."
I sprang from my knees and stretched my body forward, landing with my mouth
pressing on his. This was the invitation and acceptance I had been longing
for, all evening.
As soon as our lips locked and our bodies embraced, I felt safe...I felt
safe for the first time, since Rich had left me in June.
There's a feeling you get when you know something is "right". You don't feel
it with a trick or in a casual sexual encounter...sometimes, you just
"know". I had felt this with Lance, Jeff, and Rich...only three times before
in my life...and now I was experiencing it again...at long last.
He moved me on my side with our bodies touching head to toe...his left hand
began to explore...up and down my back...over my right him and finding its
mark between my legs. He squeezed my mounting manhood, all the while,
letting his tongue search the crevices in my mouth. He continued his quest
by unzipping my pants and reaching inside for my throbbing flesh. He stopped
kissing enough to pull his head back and look in my eyes to ask?"
"Are you going to charge me for this...How much?"
"Shut up, goddammit, and kiss me again." I joked, "You couldn't afford
me...so this one is on the house.". I made another dive for his lips. This
was the start of something new and special....
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(to be continued in "that-was-then-12---Ian and beyond..."