For GT Magazine, April 2007
Scott Capurro
French Farce
Sheathed penetration is hard to come by in France. To a Parisian, anything plastic or covered in rubber that stands between him and nature is artifice and unseemly. Even in the two-star hotels I frequent, fresh flowers line the front desk. Evian water in glass bottles adorn my tiny bureau. And the French boy in the elevator, babbling in his native tongue as if he’s interesting, follows me past his to my room, leaving my door ajar. Slightly. Nothing separates us from one another. A foreign – say, English – visitor might spy me tearing Pierre’s ass apart and be aghast. But I knew I’d be fine. Pierre is liberated. He’s also white and takes vitamin C.
The deals one brokers with oneself when avoiding becoming positive are a numbers game. I should know. I’ve been at this for a long time. Let me introduce myself. My name is Scott Capurro, Scotty to my enemies and Scotia to people who crave a broken nose, and I’ve been asked to write a column for this here magazine, possibly because I lead a notorious double life. By day I’m a yoga practicing lezzie wannabe who chants and drinks green tea. By night, I’m a sex addict who’ll fuck anything that can crawl or swim home. Oh, and I’m a stand up comic with a penchant for either shocking or offending. Or converting. Straight men get positively giddy around me, they flash their ginger pubes and share secrets about their favorite safe word, whilst their girlfriends look on, stunned. Problem with girls is, they don’t compliment their boyfriends. And men are the most vain. Say “Nice shirt”, and he buckles. Then confesses. Then barebacks, which is fine because he’s straight. Right?
If a guy is sober and clean and under 30, I’ll not bother with a condom. I open my bedside drawer, indicating with a nod cellophane packets nearby; then rimming him if he’s hairless, preparing him properly for a nice fuck. But when push comes to unwrapping, I slyly skip that step. My doctor in San Francisco tells me that the chances of getting HIV as a condomless top are about the same as swallowing semen, and baby, I’ve swallowed a lot. I mean, a boatload. I’m not bragging, I’m just thirsty. And 44. At Chariots last Sunday, three guys came in my mouth. One in the dark. I have no idea what he looked like, but I know how strong my stomach acids are, and really, if one got AIDS from swallowing, we’d all be AIDS-y, including, I have to imagine, my mother. Certainly my stepfather. And most definitely, ME.
Years ago, when I first moved to San Francisco, I would’ve been horrified by my current sexual behavior. In 1990, my friends were dropping dead and I was attending safe sex seminars. These were grim, acid-washed times. I would barely shake hands, so licking balls seemed way too close to the mark.
Then, when a stray drip of cum hit my tongue during a misguided hand job in a bookstore in 1995, it changed me. Like fresh blood to a tamed beast, my eyes grew red and the veins in both my necks practically burst. I was hooked again, not just on the taste, which is like fresh rainwater, but on the very consistency. In my mouth, cum melts like Honey Vanilla Hagen Dasz. It’s a flavor that’s been discontinued, but thanks to penises, not totally forgotten. At least, not by an indiscriminate cocksucker.
So if swallowing won’t infect me, then I imagine fucking a sweet hole won’t contaminate me either. The percentages are so low, less than 1 in 100. Or is it 1000? Either way, my turn won’t come around for, maybe, another 50. Or 500. So I have yards, miles of ass to climb. And really, if I were gonna get AIDS, I would’ve gotten it by now. HIV is so September 10th, and I’m quite trendy.
But do I want to live past 50? Ok, 60? When I was younger with a life partner and a Siamese, I pictured myself in elegant retirement, playing classical piano and refinishing patio furniture. That relationship dulled, along with my eyesight and hair color, and now I wonder, how much longer do I have to pretend I care about global warming? What if my lifespan were lessened? Would enthusiasm return? A compact life might feel as refreshing as an art-house movie, reflected off a French boy’s round, pale, juicy ass.