May 8, 1978 - Journal Entry

Alice and I had a small spat at my SRO room this morning after I said in bed, "There's noplace else I'd rather be than between your legs."

"Is that all you want from me?"

"That and..."

"What?" She was pissed. "All you ever want is sex."

"I'm sorry that I want you."

"Want me? All you want is to fuck me."

"Sorry." The fury of my libido doesn't match her desires.

"It's all about you."

"I try and make you cum."

"Only so you can fuck me more." She sounded like she was accusing me of rape, but then said, "I have a horrible hang-over."

Bourbon and beer at Max's.

For some reason I was rock-hard and held down my erection to keep from forming a circus tent under the sheets.

"I can't take a shower here."

I shared the bathroom with six other men. Classic SRO accomodations.

"Let's go to my place," Alice suggested.

"I'll make breakfast."

Bacon and eggs was the first meal I had made us. Neither of us spoke and she left without saying good-bye.

That was weird but whenever someone walks away from me, I wish for them to turn around like Orpheus in fear of Eurydice not being there. Instead I stared ahead knowing Hades has his tricks, plus people are never really gone, they're just not here for a moment.

LATER

That evening I called Alice on the phone and she told me, "I slept all afternoon and had weird dreams. Boy was I wet, when I woke up."

"Guess it as a good thing I wasn't there."

"No, I wished you were here. Guess our timing is off for making love with a satyr."

"Better a Satyr than the Marquis de Sade."

"For me."

"Me too, I answer, but God knows why our civilization can't support libertines more.

Blood, sex, death, money, and power in 18th Century France versus the chaos of the East Village in the 1970s.

It's a good contrast of wickedness.

My homosexual experimentations have been discarded. I don't see many of my gay friends. Only William. The entire experience consisted of sloppy kisses, small cocks, loose anuses, lisps, queer mannerisms, generally bad sex, but a lot of laughs and dancing and I owe the boys that. They were my friends when no one else was. They kept me alive in a world hostile to outlaws.

I found more pleasure in my hand than a stranger's touch.

I never went to any orgies with them, but once at the Cave I took on several men. Not being able to see their faces. Having a cock in your mouth and another in your ass was close to total degradation, unless it was your cock in someone else. William was there that night. He looked on and jerked off with tears in his eyes. He wanted me for his own, but I belonged to no one. No men. No women.

Not until Alice.

She has my heart.

A Shower With Naked Men

In 2009 Brock Dundee and I drove 3000 miles through the Midwest; Chicago to St. Louis to Kansas City to Iowa City to Minneapolis and back to Chicago. Most of the trip was off the Interstates. Neither my traveling companion nor I saw a single hitchhiker on the side of the road, as if Homeland Security had renditioned that American icon into a secret prison someplace hidden from justice.

At truck-stops, diners, 7/11s, and bars I asked hippies, motorists, students, and friends, if they had recently seen any hitchhikers. Everyone said no.

Hitchhikers like hobos and beatniks had gone extinct.

People were scared of everything, but Americans were once brave.

I started hitchhiking as a teenager in the late-60s. My high school was located outside of Boston on 128. I ran track. No bus lines or subway train ran between my town and the high school. Hitchhiking was the only available transportation outside of walking ten miles.

Every afternoon around 4 I would stand at the 128 onramp. I was 14 years-old. Dusk would fall fast in the late autumn and strange men would stop for me.

Once I was in the car, they would ask if I had a girlfriend. Answering 'yes' or 'no' didn't matter, since their questions became more lurid with each passing miles.

"You ever have dreams about naked men?"

My hand rested on the door handle.

"No."

"Not even Tarzan or Hercules?"

"No."

"Do you like gladiator movies?"

Their interrogations were remarkably alike regardless of their car or age. It was almost as if they were reading from a script. They also smelled of Aqua Velva. Some of them looked like priests. None of them were Tarzan. By sophomore year I had the dialogue down and they drove me home with high hopes. Some even offered money to let them suck my cock. $10 was the cost of Levis.

"Sorry, I'm saving myself for my girlfriend."

I remained a virgin throughout high school.

It now seems like a waste.

Then again I was more into science fiction than gladiator movies.

Oh, those bikini invaders from Venus.

For a classic film warning about cruisers, click on this URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EqIIeGmhL2Q