SEASONS OF LOVE c. 2021 by Saintorr

I used to cruise
the park at night.
Now I sing my hunger
into a mic, a screen,
the online void
inviting men
via my android

Day or night
if there's work to do
I ask my room mate 
to leave for an hour or two
He never minds
just appears 
a little more tired
and worn out from his grind
his own and mine
his own and mine

Living the life
of a pirate's touch
I do, I guess
feed feelings
then cull them into
a warm creamy mess
on belly, legs, arm
and chest

Shooting from loins
In a heated daze
we digress
to the ecstasy's over phase
Back to flatlined emotion
from a love potion
to the wiping up mess

Oh the men
they go and come
and off the table 
they roll
without a word
except a request
a towel to wipe the mess

After the craven ecstasy
of oiled hands
bodies opening to touch
fingers, forearms, loins, breast

I used to cruise
the park at night.
Now I sing my hunger
into a mic, a screen,
the online void
inviting men
via my android



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My Ideal Reader

  1. How does the age and gender of the reader effect the topics that I want to talk about?
  2. Do the topics I want to talk about have to do with a particular location or does the geographic location of the reader effect the topics that I want to talk about?
  3. Does the family status or occupation of the reader pertain to the topics that I want to talk about in my blog?
  4. Do the hobbies of the reader have an impact on the topics of my blog?
  5. What’s the main focus of my blog for the reader?
  1. Age, and gender don’t necessarily effect any thing I want to talk about. I would prefer that my reading audience be close to my age, 50’s or 60’s and that they be queer. You can take that to include all the LGBTQ groups and sub-groups and you can take the Q to mean queer or questioning. Also, I tend to write very much for myself not FOR other people. Just saying.
  2. The topics are more like chapters or posts of either feelings, reflections (more akin to diary entries) or wholly formed stories OR even ideas for stories. Many of my gut feelings are reflective of being a New Yorker, living through a pandemic, being a M4M masseur/bodyworker and being an elder. I am 66. I have living through Katrina, Sandy, 9-11, a gay-bashing and myriads of client and life experiences. So I think I have something to say about surviving, especially surviving catastrophic events! So I would suppose that many topics–in the sense that the topics are diary entries are related to where I am and how I live. Poems that I write and post are more related to dreams, feelings or maybe a prosody I feel in a particular line that I may write (and/or hear the music in my head to go with the words) with or without music and a melody. The geographic location of my reader is a moot point. I would more hope that the content and entertainment value of posts draw the reader to me; rather than me even reflecting, “well, I wonder what that str8t couple living in Montana would like me to talk about in a post today? The mere idea of that invites hard-core fatigue! And would seem to defeat the purpose of my writing.
  3. Yes, definitely. If I happen to attract M4M bodyworkers as readers, (practitioners or clients) then partially I have fulfilled my purpose of writing some posts specifically related to my work and sharing and connecting. How fabulous to reach out and form connections and a voice. Too often in the M4M massage world, the voice that expresses the feelings is silenced by other men. Also, I am aware that as a living entity “massage” is more of an experiential thing than an interesting subject to blog about. How often were you at a party and you said “Oh I just had this fabulous massage.” I mean, talk about a dead end topic. What CAN one say? As a matter of fact, writing only about M4M massage indeed sometimes is even boring to me! When that happens I wonder if anyone would be interested in anything I’m writing that only has to do with all things M4M massage-related? Or I better do my best to make my “story” a damn lot more exciting than a good massage–which, if done well–can put a body to sleep. Not exactly a stolid goal when writing a blog. But, (sound of being catty here) many blogs I’m beginning to read DO put me to sleep! So that gets me to thinking “How can mine be more interesting than those?” In this beginning foray into the blog world it does seems a lot like many of us so-called “writers” are basically wanking off. Sorry to say but true. If someone has nothing to say, then why on earth are you writing or saying it? Further why am I wasting time reading it? I don’t, I hope.
  4. The hobbies of my reader(?) Well, I guess if he is a massage client. But then that’s more of a service than a hobby. This point isn’t really relevant to me now. Even the word hobby has such negative connotations. I cook, I work-out, I knit. Can I share my recipes, my routine or my stitching plan with you? Good Golly Miss Molly I hope to heaven not.
  5. The focus of my blog, diary entries or stories–I would hope serve the purpose of connecting to an audience of–Ew, I’ll say it–like minded individuals–so that eventually I find a like-minded tribe of writers who happen to deal with many of the issues I deal with–or others with bizarre imaginations–who try to “make gold out of shadows” and who write from a queer point of view.

#saintorr #nycmasseur #stevenorr #fabulousfaggotry

2.

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Ode to Sky

c. 2020 by Saintorr

Silken sun rays
Purify me
Refresh sacred self
Empowering, free

In this HIGH sacral space
I rediscover me
up on the roof
Where the hawk flies free

Here leave behind trolls
Natty nowhere emails
Promises of sex
Devotion derails

Ode to it
Owned it
Boned it on the rooftop
Sold it, souled it
Honed it on the rooftop

Ode to it
Owned it
Boned it on the rooftop
Sold it, souled it
Honed it on the rooftop

I fuck the air
In my gold shadow dance
Let go despair
Embracing romance

I come here again
To find me–the man
Feel that longing to soar
Nurture gold in my hand

I stand here
To know me
again and again
For here burning spear rays
Melt the detours of men

Ode to it
Owned it
Boned it on the rooftop
sold it, souled it
Honed it on the rooftop

I’m just another soul
Another hungry ghost
Sovereign of sky
Letting go, to coast

Here touch me happy
Here touch me dream
In Infinite air
Riding jet steam

Writing sky ode
releasing my load
Moving hips elevate
Into weightless cloud mode

Sacred rays melting  memes
Refreshing myself
Awaking my mind
Evolving light dreams

SILKen sun rays
Purify me
I, King of the sky
Empowering, free

Ode to it
Owned it
Boned it on the rooftop
Sold it, souled it
Honed it on the rooftop

Ode to it
Owned it
boned it on the rooftop
Sold it, souled it
Honed it on the rooftop

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To the Bone

I think it’s in the garden
I think it’s in the wind
Say you love me anyway
when I state my sin

I think there’s something coming
Maybe a new wurl
Gonna tie my hair up
Feel my inner gurl

She’ll say you take it easy boy
Don’t beside yourself
Some days you gotta stack
the plates all pretty on the shelf

No harm in being whorey,
no harm in gettin’ high
No harmin you my baby
When your chill pill is the sky

time to ditch the phone
Aim the stone,
shoot down that drone
dream a dream of home

feel your love deep to the bone
dream a dream of home
Fill your love deep to bone

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Werebird

 Werebird* c. 2020 by Saintorr

*like a werewolf, except this creature is half man, half avian.

 

Don’t call me by any human names

I’m a werebird; half man, half sparrow,

starling, dove, crow, haunted raven,

Feeding on the bliss of men

Dancing to their songs

Crying to the moon

for loves long gone

and the absence of human touch. 

Don’t call me 

by any human names,

I’m king of the sky

half man, half yellow-tailed hawk

Surveying my kingdom

from air currents on high

Master of space,

destroyer of fear, hesitation,

procrastination and stasis

For the air up here

Feels like sea foam

Always rushing, floating, 

soothing, stroking

like a hand-of-wind massage

on my body, my temple

Come play with me.

I’m a werebird

half man, half dolphin

half white ape, half witch.

Come talk to me

We’ll read tarot cards, 

tea leaves, yarrow stocks,

throw the i Ching, 

for these are the quiet moments

to treasure, our words piping in harmony

to lover’s calls and bird songs.

For I alone can love you.

I’ll weave s spell

Transforming us from vultures

to eagles, canaries,

petulant parrots

older than a thousand years

Careful-I can bite through my cage

and snap off your finger tip

like a stale crust of bread.

Life has done this to me

clipped my wings,

crushed my beak,

locked me in a warehouse

with other slave birds

FREE ME

Of these rusted shackles

stroke me, entice me,

I’m a werebird,

part man, part angel

part bobby-soxer,

part arresting officer,

with velvet handcuffs,

woven of feathers and fluff,

Part fat, drunken, drag queen 

on a tiny stage, mouthing bitchy obscenities

to a deliriously restless, raucous

crowd of queens.

At night I peck at and follow

the trail of birdseed leading me home

to my tiny wren house.

I am a werebird

you cannot love me

as good as the trees and sky do,

As good as brother moon, father sun,

I’m always soaring

far flung from the confined clowns,

with their chicken coop crumbs and 

ruins of failed dreams.

I’m a werebird,

a ghost, a woman-man thing

walking the streets,

coasting on wind-sheers.

Don’t call me by human names, 

feed me your bliss, let me dance

to your sound of tears,

drumming of dawns,

I wear my wild gown with pride,

the corset and straight jacket

are too tight, my master has 

shredded them and tamed me,

whispering his love

as I hold him

in my muscle-feathered arms

whispering his name. 

Werebird, werebird come to me

Werebird, werebird, set me free

Ocean limbs and seeking skies

Staring through unblinking eyes.

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As I Stand

As I Stand 10-16-20

As I stand on this shore

looking out into forever

Can you hear me shout?

“I ADORE YOU come to me now.”

I hear you, I’m coming, be there soon-

Just a few things I need to do,

Chores, like cleaning up after the cat,

picking dirt and dreams

off the kitchen floor,

Walking up the stairs to the roof

Looking for the hawk

flying in his majesty on the upper reaches

of air currents only he can feel.

I’m coming, in just a bit-

First I need to be showing up for my job (Oh God.)

Dancing in the rain on my crooked roof

Finally, I’ll be sending you my heart

via astral projection

There I’ve caught it,

holding it now

like a stunning thing

vibrating with the innocence and soul of a child

shooting light

like a cotillion of moon beams

I love you for your dancing dreams

This is the stuff wars are fought over

Kingdoms rise and fall

meanwhile this jewel your heart

I hold to my cheek

until I can kiss you

Don’t worry about the universe

just meet me around 5

by the sea wall

I need to look into your eyes,

feel the movement of your breath

echoing in the sounds of these waves

in and out

indestructible moments

there is no love, only us and eternity

Go ahead, shake our your hair

let me shimmy and quake for you

They’ll think we’re nuts

but who cares, they’re dead

and we’re alive.

Do your sexy walk

I’ll make you forget

paying bills,

flies with Twitter accounts

Meowing gurlz on phones

The endless thudding and scraping

of the big, heavy-treading lady upstairs

my living,

in this crappy matchbox of a man cave

(My kingdom, my home).

I’ll fly with you

over rainbows

beyond the grey sheets

of discarded lovers

lying on shipwrecked shores

like so many skeletal hulls

on beaches filled

with pieces of hypodermic needles

bone fragments of Mafia bets gone bad

Call me angel

call me by my name.

#writeyourheart

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MINDFULNESS PROJECT 6-30-19

1.To a Friend

You inspire me to create my most beautiful self

Only to dismiss me

As an unimportant afterthought

Not unlike that 2 inch long waterbug

Scurrying across the kitchen floor

In the dishwater light of my kitchen

2.  To my niece (and her lover, crystal meth)

You are my family

And my heart aches

To talk to you

My brother–your Father

Tells me you really need a family

I need one too.

But when you say “I love you”

They are just words;

You’re never available to talk,

to catch up, to love

Is it because you’re scared?

Is it because of your hatred?

Your damage? Your love of the pipe?

When you say “I love you”

They are just words;

there are no actions

When you talk of love

I talk to a vacuum

3.To a Ghost

 I long

To dig you up,

Unearth you from the

Crawl space of my heart

Dismember and

Chop you into small pieces,

Run you through a blender

And sell it as the secret ingredient

In Power Smoothies

For the jocks on Avenue A

You know–the the shirtless ones

The ones who run half-naked

up and down East 6 Street

when it’s 100 degrees

or 20 degrees

the ones,

The more machine than human

who spit if you stare

the shells of men

With their power love digitized;

sucked out

consumed by their phones

4.To a Vampire

I will mindfully bake a meat pie

Containing your heart

Tear it

to pieces

Feed it

to

the scavenging starlings

pecking at the vomit

left by screaming drunken Millennials

on Lower East side Friday nights

5. To an unavailable friend

My loneliness is boring me to tears

I want to talk to you

But you are

silent

As the floor underneath my feet

“New age people can turn on you” you said.

Oh, that bitchy wisdom

Floating somewhere between

My front door and raw East River sewage

You are a horror

dead and wooden

like a cold, clammy corpse

Devoid of feeling

You are the surface

I walk on

Do sit-ups on

Tap my foot to the beat on

You are the silver screen

I project my shadow on

By Shamanic dancing

on rooftops of freedom

I celebrate

Not being involved with you

In the rage of the primal moon

I forget the sex of you

In the heat of the ride

I birth again my heart’s beating

You are a fly I swat

And fling off the roof

Into the open mouths

of passing  people

Walking by like motorized

eunochs with back-packs

more machine

than human

So I burn sage

to eradicate the decay of it all

6. To All the Down Low Men I have Loved

You cannot control me

I mindfully

Take back my power

Sprouting, growing,

Flowering like shy sunflowers

Seeking the sun in your muscle touch.

But you don’t care

Is to fuck or fight.

the only measure

Of the space in between us?

When you see me, do you see

A different race, a different gender

A different desire (your own)?

And you can’t stand

The spotlight of my heart

Shining on you.

Is it fear

I will reach out to you?

Make a move on you?

Or is it fear

You will reveal yourself?

Your walls crumbling

Like tissue

unveiling

Like a hummingbirds

Emerging from the suffocating muscles

That hide your heart

within your headless torso

Keeping it hidden

There is no mystery to men

Only fuck or fight

Fuck or fight

Oh the boundaries

I take such pains To delineate

Then demolish

Jumping on you

In the privacy

Of my dark mancave

Where we can hide!

Where we can sigh

Like big horny ladies

Or dogs;

Peeling off our masks

mutually exploring lust

devoid of shame

Hammer, pound, finger

Into each other’s muscles

Release–destroy ourselves

Then say goodbye

DEDICATED TO THE SUPER QUEEN

You are

An injection

That has pierced

The interstitial fluid

Running wet between my organs

And gut.

When I observe

Our intimacy

(longing to savor it)

You turn

Ice queen

Swathed in battens of bitch cunt chiffon

Holding your hand up

In a signal of dismissal

One moment;

The next–you inspire me

To dust off

The cobwebs from my heart

The next-you bite,

The venom from your fangs

Paralyzing me

I am chanting

Murmuring silent

Serenity prayers

I am dancing

Like a Shaman

Under a cloudy New York June moon

Eradicating the plague of you

from my warrior’s heart

WHY I DANCE

I dance;

to kill my loneliness

To slay the passing couples that walk in time

Flashing “Keep Out” to me in their lover’s subetext

I am busy

Building walls around myself

Seeking protection

from the toxic karma of

the disastrous Mom’s repeating their negative shit

Ad infinitum;

Just when you thought it was safe,

That bitter queen was right

It’s not New York City;

It’s “New York Cunty”

Oh dear me

How gouache

That I’m passing on inclusivity

How can you be inclusive

When you’re poor?

When the super studs

Make you invisible?

And the talking vaginas

Talk through

And over you

Like you’re a dead body,

An obstacle on the street

To step over

Pissing on the sweet, obedient niceness

Of passing gays playing at being married

To make scat on the lingering groups of foreign NYU

Rich student babies

Whose parents pay the rent

You know…the ones who physically

Move next door to you;

But who remain detached

(except from their phones) for a year or two or three…

Then move away as if they were never here

The ones,

Who hold court at

The Tibetan Café

Using Mummy and Daddy’s credit cards

To wipe their ass

Playing at being continental, worldly

Adults;

These aren’t my people

They are global aliens

Of a foreign, rich entitled world class

The sort never stopped or questioned by ICE

The sort of burrowing, maggot parasites

That NYU loves.

I remember New York

Before NYU took over;

When love was here

among the junkies, the dirt,

the drag queens

the men in chaps

Wondering back and forth

Before Chelsea piers

From one leather bar to the next

But that’s gone,

Real estate development

Tolls the death knell

For overt kink

For anything other

Than entitled kids

Braying for this or that

Organic candy

In East Village Organic

Where even the owner

Warns you

About sharing too much information

(i.e., I’ll take that box of rubber

Gloves off your hands,

I’ll put them to good use–

massaging my clients”).

“Why do you share that stuff?”

Says Humpty Dumpty

The fat, homophotic, yet sweet

Bear from Beruit.

“Because it’s part of me–­

I love the broken part of me

I love the part who touches

Strange men

Without judging

Even when the nausea rises in me!

Who provides release and respite

From the psychologically killing

Crowds of rich breeders

Who provides a pirate-like getaway

From Perfect, hip couples

And entitled women demanding

“What’s in that peanut butter?”

Sometimes consumerism

Breeds the nausea

Love was here

Now it’s sterile

I radically accept

This arch of unfeeling nausea

Toxicity as a way of life…

Woke or die,

Don’t worry,

It’s just another shooting

Just continue

Talking on your phone

Just continue

Analyzing your profit curves

Your social media whore scores

Your humanity ebbing away

Like a tide that goes out

And never returns

I radically accept you

New York Cunty

New York Cunty

New York Cunty…

Amen

Orphans…and unfinished poems…

That is the only way

You know how

Are about as effective

In my addiction toward you

As passing

Gun control laws

during an NRA convention

My heart— is not strong enough

To seduce you

Into loving me

Yes, there under the crawl space

Of my house

I will dismember the corpse

Of your love

  1. FOR THEM

There are a few lovers

I’m not bold enough to go after

I wonder if these are the healthy ones?

As opposed to those I capture

Take no prisoners

(if prisoners are things called feelings)

It’s kind of like

Shooting fish in a barrel

No challenge

But as I age

More and more

I’m leaving challenges behind

My heart suffers enough

Stresses over the loss of groceries

Kicking the wall

Over the loss of a  client

My loneliness is boring

Do you find it so too?

You call me for support

And in your drama fem calls

Your circle round and round

Like a hysterical girl

You only say you need me to listen

Whatever I say

You don’t hear

FOR MUSCLE HIM

I see you

And immediately

And immediately I feel flame

born from sacral chakra

Primal lust reptilean fear

I want you

and I know of yours

I will penetrate you

to show you

the pain in your heart

reveal all

Your pulse palpable

as summer storms

I’m aware

Of firings from my sacral chakra

Part lust, part fear

I want you

And

I am aware

Of your fear

When you see me…

Is it the fear

I will penetrate you?

Or is it the fear

You will show me

The pain in your heart?

You will reveal too much

To me,

Your discomfort

Is palpable as summer rain

I am the wrong skin color

I am too old

You don’t see me

You see only

Projections of your shit

Onto me

And I see

The fear in your heart—

The fear you will reveal yourself

Like a hummingbird

Emerging from the suffocating tissues

Of your thick muscularity

Oh I want you

But you’re not real

Just a figment

Of my imagination

Of my imagination

You are like an injection

That has pierced

The interstitial fluid

Separating my gut from my soul

And yet when I turn to observe

Our intimacy

–to savor it perhaps?—

You are an ice queen

Swathed in layers

Of bitch chiffon

And cunty silk

Holding your hand

Uptight to me

In a signal of dismissal

You inspire me

To dust off

The cobwebs from my heart

And feel again

Then the next moment

You sting

Like the the dull, talentless

Toxic spider you are

I can feel the venom from your fangs

Paralyzing me.

Coming with tricks

Is more healthy

Than a weekly dose of you

I am mindful

That sacred chants,

Candlelight vigils

And shamanic dancing

Under a cloudy June moon

All these things

Can provide

The necessary antidote to you

All of you

Who don’t love me

I will eradicate the plague of you

From my heart

And be at peace again…

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No Wonder! 8-30-19

It’s no wonder I couldn’t keep it hard–what with that big anal wart staring at me from the dark, purple-pink pussy of his asshole! Geesh!

 

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On Being Broken 5-3-19

What does it mean to feel broken? To me it means not reaching our goals; giving up on our dreams. Goals are like flowing waters, they constantly change-or should if we are alive and vital. What seemed important 10 years ago, can seem petty or meaningless when we see it fresh today. One falls in love and falls out of love when the beloved doesn’t supply us with what we want , need or ask for. Experience creates wisdom in us. It is a far better teacher than any self-help lounge who’s written a good book or peddles salvation on daytime TV.

To be in touch with our real selves, our true selves I wonder at what point do we allow ourselves to look deeply inward and see our self-lies, our shit and our shadows? You know, the scripts we tell ourselves every day so that we can present those masks we wear when we want to present our fake selves to the real world; those masks that are so comfortable that we begin to forget how to take them off. Being willing to say we are broken I think is the beginning of true integrity. And to radically accept our brokenness, even better, for that is the beginning of true wholeness.

I believe I made a detour from my own particular rising star. It’s called downloading. When I’m not sexing with clients, I sit mezmorised. My fav shows entrance me. Horror movies in particular transport me to a place of monsters, heroes and survivor girls–or survivor monsters. Here I find peace. This year for the first time I began to revisit my songwriter’s dreams. How? I started to write again. And yet again I am experiencing the same obstacles. And even newer more bizarre ones. I never wrote songs for people, I wrote them for me.; for me alone to hear. If I happened to share and someone was impressed or laughed or cried. It was cool, but other people’s approval was never paramount in my mind. When I tried to “be a professional” I was always met with traumatizing rejection. It’s the same now. Except I can choose to seek judgement, or reward, etc., or stay in the lonely but safe ship of my own private underground world.

We can never unwound ourselves completely from past traumas. Sometimes forgiveness does provide an enormous relief, a freedom and a renewed capacity to love. And sometimes striving so hard to recover from our addictions only causes a new shell of neurosis. Sometimes, embracing sobriety [whatever that may mean to you], can itself warp us with fear into believing that our addict-selves are going to kill us; when actually loving the addict in ourselves and embracing the shadow part of ourselves is the only way to peace. IOW you know your addict is there, but just for today, you choose not to look at porn. But when you go to the grocery store and you obsess for a moment over that younger guy’s hairy legs don’t batter and beat up yourself. Acknowledge what you feel and turn away gently. Smile at your obsession. Then it won’t bite you back..

I have struggled for years with my Mother’s abuse subjecting myself to countless extractions, exorcism-like scenarios, years of talk therapy, EMDR, Primal therapy, even at one point writing a journal-based novel, part fiction and part autobiography [with an imagined confrontation on her deathbed about her abuse, there are countless rewrites] to try and be free from what I thought was the sexual curse of my Mother’s warped sense of love. Only lately as I feel my 65th year coming on like a slow-moving tsunami, am I realizing all the somatic therapy in the world, all the rage and frustration I feel for what my Mother allegedly did or didn’t do to me; all this trapped energy can only be normalized if I accept that it’s there, that it’s part of who I am. And that it’s part of the way I love. If there is a solution to be found to my dilemma, it’s this; only by loving that broken part of myself and accepting it–only by wearing the broken part of myself and not hiding it anymore; only then can my real self shine, love and be at peace with myself and find peace and healing with other people.

Sometimes a tide of deep-elder-wisdom begins with listening to the breath of the earth and to the magic of trees and flowering plants. And like the coming of spring, the first step in true growth when one is struggling with a feeling of stagnation [winter “blues”] may be opening our eyes to the empathic, intuitive knowledge that other people have also experienced pain as we have; along with love and a host of other emotions, including passion, and self-delusion.

When I first began to embrace Buddhism [albeit lightly, as a “California Buddhist”] I felt a great sense of peace through the daily action of meditation. Then followed a kind of disillusionment with the religion. I couldn’t get myself to worship at the throne of the Dalai Lama like so many of my so-called fellow Buddhists. Further I couldn’t accept the innate inequality of American society when it came to the haves versus the have nots. Finally where I studied, it seemed that every level of enlightenment came with a workshop fee and there were way too many levels. Slowly I have begun to meditate again. The rest I leave behind. I know there’s some kind of higher power in the universe whenever I manage to tune into my own sense of compassion for my fellow humans when they are at their worst. Maybe this is as good as it gets. I instinctually distaste the word “spiritual” and, like some living art work, inevitably, both I and my recovery are a work in process, and will be until my demise. Maybe this is all we can ask. The secret though I not giving up and giving in. One must keep striving, asking, living the mucky mucky and beautiful mess of every day in order to keep growing. If it one’s growth is only measured in journal entries, working out, changing eating habits, etc.. I truly believe part of the Buddhist concept of reaching enlightenment is waking up from previous patters of stagnation in our lives. This may encompass everything from feeling love toward women instead of the usual “man fuck” [quick sex, paid sex, porn, etc.]; or something as simple as changing certain addictive eating habits such as late night binging while watching moves. Take away the binging and suddenly you might realize just how bad [or good] the writing of the movie or the TV show is instead of multi-tasking and wallowing feeding yourself until your stomach is puffy all the while crying in front of the TV for the plight of all those fictitious souls. Really a pretty dreary substitute for feeling real feelings in life. But it’s understood. It’s hard to find places to feel with people out there in real life. At least I can do some of this singing in my Old Jewish Lady Choir. He he.

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Surviving Weekends in the Yeast Village 4-29-19

BEST WAIST

Autistic Austin fucked Babes Larou like a young, hot, black Jackhammer with a stylishly pitched flat hat on top of his head. “Are you feeling it?” Babes asked. It really should have been the other way around. That fucker didn’t even make a single, solitary noise when he came. Not even a grunt. Babes of course shot his load all over with a huge womanly sigh. Austin pulled the condom off his dick and lifted it, studying it like a monkey or a Nutty Professor. “Yup” he said. Why did he do that? Maybe to assure Babes that the rubber hadn’t broken. Yeah this cat was definitely autistic Babes thought to himself. For in the beginning of their play after the fumbling hands faked some insincere massage strokes Babes had pulled the younger man on top of him while Austin murmurred “Sex now?” How fucking, putridly romantic.

In the following weeks Babes began to thing a lot about the young Negro. His ass for instance was incredibly muscular, due to his dance studies. Babes finally gave in and texted him “I’d love to hang out with you. Are you free?” “Got class” was the monosyllabic reply. “Well, feel free to reach out if you feel like hanging” he texted. It was a not so desperate way of saying “God I’d love for you to fuck me again–that was so hot.” But he wouldn’t allow himself to go there. The kid was 32 and there was definitely something stilted about his emotions. He already confessed to Babes how he hated crowds and did most of his coming and going activities either very early or very late. Fuck. Oh Fuck. I will not throw myself at an NYU student. I just won’t Babes, thought to himself.

It was Sunday night. He was headed back home from Key Foods on Avenue A. He felt very isolated. He’d reflected that he’d even missed all the hugs from the older Jewish and WASPY ladies, which he usually attended Friday afternoons. He was felt himself aching to be touched. He felt sterile and cold. He passed a large Latin family on the street. He was touching his own heart as he heard the children talking animatedly. I am my own family he silently told himself. He reflected on the family…all that touching and living under one roof. He could hardly imagine it. He longed for a man to call. Lately, he’d been reflecting that perhaps his hunger for touch was precisely what made him a great masseur. Maybe it wasn’t an addiction at all. Maybe it was just part of being human. Especially as you aged and your body deteriorated and began to repulse people. Hard to find tricks. Hard to get clients. Pity that he found himself ostracized by the other faggots to the extent that they all but ignored him. It was so cold. Getting old. And being punished for it by all the younger queens ignoring him. Occasionally, though not much lately, he would run into a “Father fetish type.” It was a relief. He even ignored the fact that he hated being called Daddy. Loathed it. If someone found him attractive it was to be welcomed, valued, relished at all costs. For now men didn’t grow on trees, their dicks ripe for the stroking, sucking and fucking as they had been for nearly three whole decades. Pity. Just when he was beginning to understand how much he needed to be touched he was running on empty finding men to touch him. He wished he was an old Jewish cunt like his friend Annie. She didn’t crave touch, let alone any sort of romantic love. She never even thought about sex. She had confided to him what a relief it was that menopause had stopped all that bothersome, ridiculous sex stuff. The problem there was that instead of the sex drive, force, whatever you want to call it–for Annie anyway–in its place was a constant stream of negativity. Negativity about her health mostly, that really after a while stressed the fuck out of Babes. The thing that kept their communication so vital was that in spite of curmudgeonly comments and put downs on herself, she was so damn smart and made so many superior observations about people. That and the fact that truly she was not a mean person at all. She has a soul, and a tender one at that, in spite of her crusty Jewish exterior.

He used to think “an arrangement” with a boy was pure fakery. Sugar Daddy stuff was forced love of the worst kind. Bah Humbug. Only now he began to open his eyes that attractive Latin boys were beginning to look openly at him. What thoughts were turning the wheels in their minds as they started at him? There’s free rent? Benefits. Not friends with benefits but literally “wrinkles with monetary benefits to share.” Yeah, right bitch. What the hell am I gonna share on a social security check for one thousand a month? Come to think of it, he probably could have the rapturous services of a Pilipino Bodybuilder for a small percentage of that monthly allotment. Not in NYC at all, with it’s treasure troves of expensive, blood-sucking whores servicing the rich for triple digits. But certainly in the Philippines. But then who the hell wanted to live in the Philippines? Also, the problem with musclemen was the boredom he felt after the hot sex was over. Either that or one had to be play the part of a fascist, PC-correct, rigid Gay man. But that wasn’t him. That label “Gay” Jezus, worse than Daddy. Oh the effort of relating to minds after the dick came. Best to keep it a monetary transaction and then be left to his own devices to entertain himself. He was never one for small talk anyway, especially when it came to sex. Ye Gods is this what life had in store for him now? Looked like it.

 

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