I never met another boy (or man) who could live up to the high bar set early in my life by Rich White. Looks-wise, I mean. And so I didn't even really try. I never was much to look at even in my younger years, what with my frizzy red hair and short stature, so I wasn't one to be making demands on others in the looks department and so I just never did. But being that I was a Scorpio, I guess, and born on Halloween no less, it wasn't like I had the option of being chaste or saintly. Those strikes against me, or in my favor according to who you ask, sent me on an endless search for sex in the lowliest of places.I was told more than once that I had a nice ass, and I spent a good amount of time sizing it up in the privacy of my apartment, and so I decided that was my best feature, my best asset. That and my sarcastic humor. Over the years as I went from young and naive to old and bent over from snorting coke and tossing back Southern Comfort like it was punch at a Jim Jones retreat, that became less of an asset -- my biting humor I'm talking about now -- and so I've worked toward reigning it in. It got a lot easier when I got on Interstate 10 going maybe 55 miles per hour in Mona's junker Dodge Dart. If it hasn't come through in my writing, this humor I keep bragging about, won't shut up about, I guess that's a good sign.
I've always believed, however, that my ass would be the last part of me to go, and I still believe that to be true, if my experiences in the various rest stops from Florida to Texas are any testament. There are twelve rest stops on westbound I-10 in the stretch I was on for ___ days and nights, and I'll be damned if I didn't stop at thirteen of them. (This was possible because I was so obsessed with stopping at each and every one of them -- because of the mysteries and promises they held -- that I turned around and drove back east for an embarrassing amount of time when I thought I'd missed one and stopped at a rest stop on that side of the interstate as well.)
For those of you who are curious -- and why would you be reading this if you weren't? -- there is a surprising amount of man on man action in rest stops and truck stops on interstates. My only experiences were when I drove north on I-75 from Florida to New York back when I was first escaping my homely hell, and then more recently when I escaped again, I-75 north to I-10 and then westward to San Francisco, or the West Coast anyway, or out of Florida at the very least. I was too green and scared to notice if anything was happening when I drove the U-Haul to New York City in 1982, though there were a couple of times in Pennsylvania and New Jersey when I suspected something. Ten years later everything is different; I'm a sick old fag in my dead mother's car going west instead of north, jaded and angry and bored.
And then I stopped to pee and everything changed. Suddenly I was back in New York City, in the Grand Central Terminal men's room downstairs, trying to pee and trying not to look at the boner in the next urinal over. But how could I avoid looking? If a man is standing next to you peeing, it's impolite (if not dangerous) to check his stuff out; a glance is allowed if it's timed right. If a man is standing next to you with a boner, stroking himself, then that's a completely different game.
For me, sexual expression became about body parts, and I'm not referring to arms and legs and faces, those things came later, if at all. Ten minutes or more can easily be spent concentrating on your neighbor's dick, your own dick, the swan logo on the urinal, the chrome hardware, the constantly flushing water (pretending to be nearly finished for those who might be waiting), the jizz shooting into the water swirling away, with no information about the man except for his skin color and possibly some religious affiliation. Nothing more is needed for this exchange to be complete. Of course there are variations on this scenario and hundreds of ways they can play out, and I've been witness to nearly all of them I humbly admit.
I spent a grotesque amount of my life standing at the urinals in Grand Central, Penn Station, Port Authority and other public urinals, hoping the man who struck my fancy enough to pull up next to him would, one, be playing the same game, and two, would find me to his liking as well. Like I said, my ass has always been my best feature (fortunately I was young and elastic when Rich White did most of his work on it in our youth), but one can't very well show off that part of himself in a public restroom -- perhaps surprisingly, since easily half of the men I "peed" next to over the ten-year period I lived in the City weren't really there to pee, or not exclusively.
My dick isn't huge. I suppose it's proportionate for a man of my stature, but it is nice-looking. At least I think so, and I've had zillions of comparisons. And it is interesting, with the orange-red pubes and the purplish-red head emergin from the pale white foreskin, blue veins readily visible. It's quite the color sensation, if you ask me, a veritable rainbow in my pants, though I haven't shouted that far and wide (until now) because I do feel that the organized homosexuals have overused so many aspects of the otherwise humdrum. All I'm trying to say is that while I spent countless hours in ten- to twenty-minute intervals at various urinals around the metropolis and therefore have the experiences to draw upon, those were the exception rather than the norm of where I was choosing my potential mates. And again, I must say that the word "mate" is used in the most vague sense, but is useful to help me avoid using bitter-sounding terms like "fuck buddy" and/or "trick," etc.
So the question that is likely on your uninitiated lips is probably somewhere along the lines of "Where does a gay guy go to show off his best asset in public then?" Why, to the porn theaters of Times Square! Since I lived the whole ten years of my New York existence in the same apartment, a five-flight walk-up in Hell's Kitchen, they were dangerously available to me.
