Hey kids, I’m preparing Thanksgiving dinner, but I’m taking this break to let you know how thankful I am that you read this shit. Especially since, apparently, i’m ‘harsh’, to quote some club booker in London who no longer books me. I thought only the Comedy Cafe avoided my calls, but now I know this other club, in Leicester Square, finds me terrifying. Really? In London, in 2008, a little gay like me is scary? That’s hot. Now if I could somehow get my worrying message out there, maybe text murder threats to children with Leukemia just to prove Americans understand irony, which might wipe Baby P off the front page and, soon, I’ll sell out Wembley, without having to be mainstream and closeted.
My plan is working perfectly….
Gay Times
December 2008
Sometimes my Brazilian is like a child. I practically cut his meat. However the language barrier seems to be working in my favor. Usually, the more a boyfriend gets to know about my demanding and overwrought character, the less he likes. The Brazilian doesn’t listen less; he has, with his linguistic challenges, selective comprehension. But so do I.
I sift through his moaning about stalkers and finance problems, hoping for words of support. Truthfully he’s extremely self-centered, which I ignore, while pretending that quick, rough, slightly violent penetrative sex, with, eventually, a condom, whilst he pinches my side and pulls at my hair and I try to wriggle out of my robe, as he’s giggling then pounding harder, so hard he can’t stop coming, is enough. He fucks me like were cellmates, until he’s threatened by my sexually explicit writing in this magazine and angrily goes to bed early.
I pay for everything – every meal out and all the food that goes through the flat. I don’t mind, he’s a fledgling gay, although I was never that broke; and I was always willing to hold the hand or rest my arm on the shoulder of my date. While out in public, he defends a gay buffer between the two of us as his eyes dart quickly, like he’s prey. His cousins are everywhere. I wonder aloud where they think he’s been sleeping.
“At friends.”
“Every night?”
“In Brazil, it’s normal.”
“In London, it’s homeless.”
He blames his family’s homophobia for his coy behavior. I tell him he’s the culprit.
“You’re afraid to commit. You dumped your fiancé to come here. Now you’re gay and terrified.”
He looks hurt. I know I sound terse, but I’m avoiding adjectives because they confuse him. Why are men so fucking useless when confronted? I watch him tear up and wonder how wars ever get fought effectively?
I’m afraid too. The fact is I’ve chosen an urchin, a nephew really, as a romantic partner. Someone new to London, who’s insular and who’s still never touched my dick. Not even a prick on my dick. Nothin’. Nada. Zip. Oh, I’m all over his, but he’s never even seen mine, which has nothing to do with my size, or lack thereof, or it’s appearance, although I’ve been assured by many strangers mine is a pretty penis. Do you sense my anxiety? Let me illuminate. I’m cutting my dick right now, hoping Brazil will smell the blood, wake up from his nap and like any wild Boar rush at me for a gulp. But that won’t happen because he sleeps like death, so I’m erect constantly. Get the point? Do you?! I’M FUCKING FRUSTRATED!
I may not be scholarly, but I’m old enough to realize I’m avoiding something by steering clear of intimacy, as I drop my anchor on Fantasy Island. I mean, who doesn’t want to get skewered by a thick, hairy, juvenile foreigner? We all have rape fantasies. Why should I, or my priest, or my elected officials, or my cellmate be any different? Perhaps my need to be pursued is overtaking me.
So it’s no wonder that whilst in Budapest, at a 16th Century Turkish bath, I let myself be fingered by a man who looked like he might have been the structure’s original architect. We’re in a large, round, warm pool, with a curved, dotted ceiling above. There is almost total silence, which is necessary for gloom and male cruising. Two bearded seniors are cradling each other, and I’m supposed to pretend this ancient place is, as my tourist brochure alerts me, hetero. Although, I suppose, in a Renaissance way, furtive hand jobs are quite mainstream, if Shakespeare’s closet is anything to go by.
My Buda babe is tough, and he grimaces whenever he pushes his index up my poop shoot. He’s got big, hard tits and a large, solid, white ass that he exposes, rolling onto his stomach and resting on the shallow stairs, like a scheduled exam will soon commence. And commence it does. No one seems to mind. I take his temperature, he takes mine, while an even bigger dude flicks my nipples. It’s the kind of synchronized swimming techniques that might’ve spiced up boring Beijing.
Later, back in his cabin, I’m pressed against my architect and his D & G sportswear. These Hungarian queens dress like George Michael is president. Through the door’s crack, I see an adorable youngarian following an octogenarian. I lick my finger, as the young feed on the old.