By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
By Alison Flowers
By Albert Samaha
By Jesse Jarnow
By Eric Tsetsi
Instead, I eventually end up working the streets, where I run into Fernando, an old trick I once met in a gay dive. He's packed on a few pounds, but if I'm benefiting from the death of body fascism, I have to be a little more lenient about others' physiques. Besides, he looks totally hot. We make a date, which starts well enough when he engorges his mouth with my pork sword in the bathroom of my apartment. Top that, Lindsay Lohan! But at Hiro, Fernando keeps demanding free drinks and calling me "Daddy," which I hate because I want to pretend these relations are all fair and balanced, not about some younger person with self-esteem issues needing a father figure. His fantasy happens to kill my fantasy. But hey, sex is still sex. He brazenly yanks my pinga out in the club—by now, it gets applause—and after I demurely zip it back up, he boldly suggests we finish up at a nearby adult-video store. He whooshes me there and actually completes me through a glory hole. Now I'm even having anonymous sex with people I know! With a condom! Creative!
I've clearly turned radioactive, exuding a fuckability that might soon require a gay No-Pest Strip. In Hollywood, you're washed up at 27, but clearly, in the West Village, you're a sex symbol on a walker! Back at Pieces, a young guy sings lousy karaoke, but the fact that you can see his piece through his pants somehow makes him Pavarotti. I get super-aggressive and tell him: "Your choice of 'Electric Avenue' was inspired. But I'll need to hear it again when you're fully clothed so I can concentrate better." He lights up and moans: "I wish my boyfriend would say things like that!" As he leaves, the guy furtively slips me his number, and I feel like I'm starring in a very sexy movie for Showtime. But the next time I see him, he's nervously glued to the beau and won't even look at me. I'd throw some bar nuts at the little weenie tease, but I probably needed a humbling anyway.
To be continued next week . . .
One more thing: If you're as fed up with hearing about my sleazy sex life as my poor mother must be and you're craving a return to trashy gossip about OTHER people, then click on the blog! Enjoy: La Daily Musto!