Pee Prepared

Acting Out in the '80s

Way before James Dale was tossed out of the Boy Scouts, that troop wholeheartedly embraced me—at least in someone's scripted sex scenario. Back in 1980, role-playing possibilities were endless since every interaction between two gay men, no matter how intellectual, had one basic undercurrent: "Fuck me!" Queer sex was everywhere, especially at the International Stud, a frenzied West Village backroom bar where you were groped from the second you walked in, and left with strangers still attached to you on both sides. It was there that I met Cliff, an accountant who promptly lured me to his nearby apartment to complete our moderately hot biological auditing session. I later realized he did so because he had specific scenes in mind that were more comfortably acted out in private—the kind that even the Stud crowd might not have appreciated.

Everyday sucking and fucking weren't good enough for Cliff—oh, no! This guy was a regular Spielberg who built elaborate dramatic situations around every little sex act. Cliff couldn't just do me in the traditional manner—the zhlub had to make me pretend to be an aspiring Boy Scout being inspected by a counselor (luminously played by Cliff himself) whose relentless oral actions were somehow part of the indoctrination process.


It was all about him, and naturally I like sex to be all about me, me, me!


Actually, I could have easily handled that, having acted in some school plays, but there was a problem—Cliff had the scene etched so intricately in his mind that there was no room for improvisation. The more direction he gave me, the more I got nostalgic for a plain old hummer. He instructed me on the coy look to throw him at the moment of insertion and even offered to provide a script of the scene if that would help me perform it better! The freak had it all written down! (Talk about "Be prepared.")

This deeply offended me, not only because I'm the writer, but because what was supposed to be a spontaneous encounter was suddenly like landing a volunteer job in a bad Off-Broadway play. Pay me, bitch! What's more, I felt really cheap, sensing that this script had been acted out with dozens of partners before me. I know I'd met this guy at a public sleaze barn, but I still wanted to feel a little bit special. He had no respect for my craft!

And that wasn't the end of my performance anxiety. Cliff's next demand was so kooky that I started mentally cleaning mantel space for my inevitable Obie. The endlessly resourceful little devil now wanted me to unceremoniously pee in his mouth! I don't think people who like that kind of thing are the least bit warped—I'm sure it's all perfectly delightful—I was just appalled that the guy couldn't have cared less that this wasn't my fantasy. Not once did he say, "Do you have a script you're shopping?" or "Can you think of something creative to do with your bodily fluids?" It was all about him, and naturally I like sex to be all about me, me, me!

Mercifully, my objections became moot when I tried to emit the requested stream of liquid—deep down, I'm a people-pleaser—and found that my reticence had left me completely dry. I couldn't unload a single drop! I prepared for take two, but was relieved to find that Cliff really didn't want the wee-wee after all. I guess he just liked the idea of it.

Well, I didn't like the idea of Cliff, though I did see him four or five more times.


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