Just dropped into New York to shag someone

Hola y'all

You haven't heard from me for a while, because I have just been flying to New York, and had some peculiar experiences already! I've done the flight across the Pacific many times, and I hate it. The United Airlines food which - in business class - is no more edible than it was when I used to fly in economy class. I recall at one point, feeling starved between meals, and begging the hostess for an apple, or a biscuit, to which she replied: "Honey, we simply do not have the stock to be constantly feeding you." When the "food" finally does arrive, the portions of roast chicken are so small it is a wonder they do not simply dissolve in the sauce.

And don't you love going through customs when you land in LA - the fingerprinting, getting photograped, the questions (hint: when asked "what is the purpose of your visit?", do not answer "jihad business" - I did that once when I was young and stupid and was thrown in jail. Long story - I'll tell you sometime). Then when it's time to reboard the flight onwards to New York, you have to go through the metal detectors again, shoes off and your baggage gets x-rayed again. Fluids and liquids for carry-on must be less than 100mL and presented separately in clear plastic bags. All your carry-on luggage is spilt onto a counter, and every item is sniffed, shaken, smelt, inspected. (Miami Airport, I recall from last time I was there, was even worse. Every single person had to go into a futuristic one-person chamber. The automatic doors close around you and you feel a breeze blowing all over your body and through your clothes. An explosives detector apparently! ).

So now, in New York, I have been paid a reasonable amount of money to have sex with a rich young guy called Jack in a Central Park West apartment, not too far from where John Lennon was assassinated, and where Yoko Ono has prepared a beautiful memoral for him in Central Park. I was recommended by Felix, a hot university guy from the gorgeous city of Ithaca NY with whom I shared a short and stormy relationship, but it didn't last - apparently because, according to Felix, I am "unstable", "trashy" and a "piece of work". Actually, it was more to do with the fact that Felix was a jealous guy who was unable to discern the difference between physical and emotional fidelity. I would have stayed with him, but he wanted me to give up the only job I know how to do well.

Anyway, I had an appointment scheduled with Jack at 9pm. I was staying downtown at the Chelsea Hotel, which is only a couple of doors down from one of the finest gay nightclubs in the world, "Splash" (or "SBNY" as the signs at the door say, short for "South Beach New York"), and only a few blocks away from the most amazing clubbing experience every Sunday night at "Spirit" (and also not far from some of the crappiest clubs in the world, including the awful "Krash" where a bouncer once stuck his hands down my pants to try and find the drugs he thought I was attempting to smuggle into his club). I was getting ready at 7:30pm, trying to choose an appropriate jockstrap, but then I decided I was in a kinky mood and no underwear would be appropriate. New York is fucking cold at this time of year. I much prefer it in the Summer and Spring-time, as I don't do cold. It's hard to put lots of layers on and be sexy at the same time - I decided I'd wear a nice tight black AX shirt, jeans with a hole just below the butt, leather jacket and scarf which I knew would be bloody cold, but also fucking hot.

I decided not to take the subway to Central Park West, because the wind and the rain (and, maybe even snow) would conspire to fuck up my hair. It rains like a bastard in New York. I asked the concierge to phone for a cab (don't try and hail a cab in New York, because they'll always drive straight past you!).

I asked for the cab driver to drive me around the city a bit, because I wanted to check out the sights - they brought back so many memories of my previous times here. Gugenheim Museum (it's back to its old self again, and the scaffolding has gone!), United Nations Building, Chrysler, Empire State. I even went past "Bed", a restaurant I'd been to once full of queen size beds (you earn the right to have your meal in bed if you're willing to cough up for an exhorbitant bottle of vodka or gin!).

On our arrival at the Central Park West apartment, I tipped the cab driver generously (why is it New York cabbies don't talk much? They're so much more conversant down south in Miami and New Orleans!), and I went through the gates to a magnificent brownstone. Jack was in apartment 312 apparently. I pressed the button on the intercom and a gruff voice told me to come on up without even asking who I was.

The elevator was modern and smelt like a good hotel and was made of reflective metal so I could admire myself. I thought I looked pretty darn hot. When I buzzed the door to room 312, I was feeling a little apprehensive, aware that my mouth was dry, my heart beating a little harder. I always feel like this before I'm about to do a job.

The tall man who answered the door was neither ugly, nor especially attractive. Nor was he the type of guy I'd imagine Felix would associate with. The guy I was looking at was in his 30s, thinning hair, tufts of chest hair spilling out of a pale blue silk kimono. A stocky build - I'd call him a bear and, with a little more working out, he might even be a hot bear.

"I'm Trent," I breathed, "Shall we have some fun?"
"You're so very hot," he replied in an accent that was vaguely English.

He took me inside his amazing apartment. There was a lot of artwork on the walls, mostly naked males rendered in charcoals and paints, and an amazing life-size pewter male-torso sculpture that was silver and gold (I have to have one of those!). The lights were low. He led me to a bed with an extravagent over-sized leather bedhead. He poured me Bollinger in a tall champagne glass (had Felix told him my tastes?), and I was kissing him, and his hands were fumbling with my belt (I helped him out with this task, but come on, it's not as difficult as bra straps with which, I confess, I have had a little experience, though not much!). I pulled the cord on his kimono and peeled it off him. Nothing else mattered.

After I had sex with him (and it took me a while as a top because I wasn't all that into him), I left him my card and told him to call me at Chelsea Hotel if he wants more of the same, but please EFT the funds into my account. He gave me an extremely weird look and few minutes later I'd understand why.

Because, after dressing, I walked down the corridor and heard a phone ring from behind one of the doors, and then I heard a rather nice American voice answer "Aloha! This is Jack speaking!"
The voice was coming from behind a second door labelled 312! What the fuck??? Closer inspection revealed that the guy I had fucked was in room 312B, and this other guy was in room 312A, but the "A" was faded. So Jack was in room 312A and who the hell did I just have sex with?


More later ....


xTrent

Hot night in Melbourne, a dangerous liaison in San Francisco

Melbourne is fucking hot at the moment. When it's hot I feel like swimming, going down to Torquay where the waves are big and just letting the water wash all over me and cool me down. It feels like washing away my sins. I love Torquay, because I can pretend that all my problems are back in the big city.

Last night I think they said it was the hottest night on record in Melbourne - 30 degrees Celsius. I wish I didn't have to work, but I had a client. I knew I would hate him when I watched him from the balcony from my city waterfront apartment. He had a baby seat in the back of his car. He probably had a wife as well as the bub.

He was good looking. A lot of my clients are good looking. It's not that they couldn't get it for free if they only went to a gay bar once in a while. But the good looking ones are closeted, usually from European conservative backgrounds (too often Roman Catholic), often married. I hate those sorts of guys. I dunno - maybe it's cos I know I can't have them because they're committed to living their sham marriages as God intended. It makes me so angry how religion has turned the world ugly - those crazy suicide bombers in Iraq who don't give a shit about anything else except their nonsence Islamo-fascist cause, the ex-Hitler Youth Pope who maintains that gay is evil, our PM John Howard who just doesn't think gay people are good enough to deserve the right to marry. But I digress...

Anyway, this guy I had last night was just so damned good looking. He would have been about 30. Piercing blue eyes, and you know I love blue eyes! And a bod like an angel from those Renaissance paintings that I love. He wasn't nervous at all, which was unusual for a first time client. There wasn't much talk, as he was kissing me. He smelt of Joop aftershave. I tried to stifle my sneezing cos Joop makes me sneeze, but also, in a strange way it makes me unbelievably horny (You can stop a sneeze by pushing the tip of your tongue against the roof of your mouth). I noticed the wedding ring as I unbuckled his belt and pulled the belt straight out of his pants. As he was doing me (and I hate being done!), I noticed he was pulling out. In the corner of my eye I caught him trying to take the condom off (this happens a lot). I said no fucking way! I made him put the condom back on, and, as he was going in I asked (because I was pissed off): "So does your wife know you're here?"
"Course not," he said, his mind elsewhere.
"How do you know she isn't sleeping around behind your back?"
"Cos," there was irritation in his voice, "She trusts me. And besides, she wouldn't ..."
"But you would. And she trusts you. What does that tell you about the trust you place in your marriage?"
He wasn't going to take the bait. His thrusts were getting harder, and I could tell, angrier. I wished he'd just get it over with. And he did. Eventually. I wanted to smack his fucking brains out. When it was over he paid his money, and left, for which I was thankful. Sometimes I hate doing this shit, especially if I have to bottom.

You have to watch them all the time because they often try and take the condoms off. I know it feels better without a condom but you must use them, because in Sydney I read that 1 in 10 gay guys is HIV positive. I assume it must be similar in Melbourne, because there are a lot of guys here willing to bareback. I don't like to be a condom Nazi. Insisting gays always wear condoms does seem like just another way for society to oppress gays - tell them they can't enjoy flesh to flesh sex. But straight people can, and must, have bareback sex if they're to have kids (and having kids is something the government is encouraging in this age where we're breeding like Pandas). But you must wear condoms. Even though straight people don't have to. Even though it doesn't feel like it's quite as much fun. Even though it makes some guys go floppy. Even though it diminishes the pleasures of penetrative sex, to the point that - for some men - it isn't even fun at all. You must wear condoms because it is the only way you will have a long, happy future where you can travel the world, and grow old with that someone special.

There was a close call once, where I did have bareback sex, and it was stupid. I met this guy at the Powerhouse, which is a gay bar on Mission Street in San Francisco. Not the classiest of joints either, I might add. In the haze of too much alcohol and, perhaps, some crystal meth that I was offered, I found myself dancing with a latino guy. As I know all to well, a bit of pashing in a club like this, leads to some pretty heavy petting in the backroom, which - in this case - led to more heavy petting in the back seat of his car. I didn't feel comfortable because there are too many homeless people swarming around, especially in the area around Mission and Market Streets, so we ended up going home to his place in the Castro (a neighbourhood which is the epicentre of the gay universe - 80% of the people who live there are gay). Back at his place on an old sofa with foam exploding from it, he was on top of me, ripping my shirt off, then my jeans, then my jock strap (I love wearing jock straps!), until I was naked. I asked him if he had a condom, and his reply was "I have lube!" Then he assured me he had been tested recently, and was clean, and that this would be so much hotter than a condom, and who the hell are those straight people anyway who try and force you to wear a condom, and that it's more romantic without a condom (like, this whole scenario was just so romantic anyway!). Before I had even given him permission, he was in me. It was so quick. Afterwards, he just sat on that couch and he started to cry (some gay men cry really easily, but I'm usually hard as nails. I didn't even cry at my grandma's funeral). I asked what was wrong and he said he was HIV+, and he's really really sorry. I felt a rage rushing through me, but also total panic. I wanted to bash him in the face but I couldn't, I just sat there and blinked. I remember, sometime later as the sun was coming up I was back in my hotel room, ringing an emergency number in the Bay Area Reporter (the local gay rag), to enquire about PEP - the post-exposure drugs. Within a few hours, I was at a doctor's surgery, the type that specialises in "gay medicine". PEP isn't just a pill you take and it's over with. It's a hard-core drug regimen that you must stay on for weeks, the same stuff you'd be taking if you had full blown AIDS. I was constantly vomiting when I was on it. I lost a lot of weight. I began to fear that the drugs would make my face waste, and cause me to grow a lump of fat on my back. It didn't. But it scared the hell out of me. My subsequent HIV tests were negative. Thank God.

And I mean, Thank God!!

Always wear condoms, you guys.

xTrent