Loneliness?

Prostate Cancer Update 2/2023

WTF! The Memoirs of a Recovering Homosexual

1981
Blues Bar aka Sally’s Hideaway
It had to be love at first sight. I entered the dark laden bar on West
43rd street just off of 8th avenue. I took my seat at the bar like I always do. I ordered my favorite drink - rum & coke on the rocks - and I stared into the mirror opposite me wondering why this fat guy come to this hustler bar night after night looking for Mr. Goodbar. Two prostitute drag queens sitting next to me was arguing with this guy. He was hitting on them and they weren’t having it. I guessed they didn’t like the company and left the bar. This guy came over to me and looked me in the eyes what looked liked green eyes in the darkness of the bar. “buy me a drink!” he commanded and I did. He must have hypnotized me cause rule number one in a hustler bar - never buy a man a drink unless he gives up the dick first. He gulped down his drink, “Ok let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To your place.”
“I live uptown in Sugar Hill,” I answered.
“So, you got my back. Let’s go.”
We left the bar with him leading and me like a fat horny bitch followed.
    By the time we got to the subway platform our train pulled in and we boarded. Like a gentleman he let me have the opened seat. The train was crowded. it was until then that I realized  that it was still early, too early to go home. “Well,” I thought to myself, “If he turns out to be whack, I’ll still have time to return to the bar to pick up a hot hairy hung black man” As I sat crunched between the fat lady who didn’t sing and the Pillsbury dough man, I sized up the light skinned black man who captivated me into submission. He stood in the doorway of the subway car. No hat on his black mangled curly hair, no gloves on his huge hands he wore on this cold February night. He had sneakers, a flannel shirt and a wool jacket protecting him from the frigate weather. It was his worn out tight fitting jeans that caught my eyes. I became agasped when my eyes fell onto his crotch area. “Oh my,” I thought, “Haven't seen a basket that big since Raymond and Raymond had 10 inches” lol So, the trip home sent vision of sugar plums and cocks in my head.
    Half hour later we were ascending up from the subway in the Sugar Hill section of Harlem, NYC. I lived in a rooming house on the first floor of a brownstone. The bathroom was one flight up. It was a community bathroom. “Larry” I learned his name on the way uptown on the train, headed for the bathroom. I should have been frighten for my life. I mean, Larry was one hot sexy dude, (with his clothes on), why didn’t the drag queens want him. “Well,” I thought to myself, “Be careful he must be a bad ass hustler worse than them,” lol.
    My room door opened, it was Larry from his trip to the bathroom and wouldn’t you know it, I had to go to the bathroom. Dared I leave a total strange hot black man in my dinky little room alone to rob me blind? But I had to go so go I went.

to be continued:

Miss Bebe Revnge

It’s been two years since the death of Bebe Montana Jackson’s husband. Since her moved to Greenwich, Connecticut she has been a shut-in fearing the ghost of Miss Brandy Alexander. Nights of twist and turning in her bed filled with nightmares of the devil’s sword ready to strike her down. All this aggravation changed her from a beautiful voluptuous drag queen to a bitter dilapidated drag hag. No future for her, no hope, but a life filled with sexless, loveless, days and nights of misery.

THEN CAME JAKE!

Jake was the baby brother of her husband, a twenty-three year old cafe-au-lait man of 6’5” of muscular football built testosterone. Manliness oozes from his every pore. this smooth talker, smooth walker son-of-a-gun stood in the doorway of a one Miss Bebe Montana Jackson. What did he want? Once Bebe set eyes on his magnificent body she couldn’t care less after all she is an ole southern whore who haven’t had a man in two years, lol.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Eric Booth playing at the out like that festival

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