My Night Getting Peed On

I‘ve never been good at making up jerk-off
fantasies. I’m condemned to rerunning scenes that actually happened to
me.

One of the earliest comes from the 1960s when I was on the corner of
Christopher and Greenwich, and a handsome confident type came up to me
and told me to step over to the curb. A car pulled up, and the guy
leaned down and asked the driver if I was okay. He said I’d do fine,
and I was sort of pushed into the backseat. They handed me a joint from
the front seat but didn’t talk otherwise. We pulled into a high-rise
apartment building, and while the driver was parking, I was brought up
to their apartment. Soon they were both working me over. Or rather I
was being fucked by one while I sucked the other. They were both tall,
handsome models, well hung and quite cold. They decided they both
wanted to fuck me. One of the guys stretched out face-up and I sat on
his dick while the other kneeled behind me and stuck his dick in, too.
There were several other combinations in which my mouth and ass were
used. When it was all over, they leapt up and went into the kitchen
where they made themselves drinks and laughed about something. I was
allowed to slink out ignominiously. What a turn-on…

Another pair in my life, but in this case more recently, includes a
young, handsome Irish lawyer with a thick brogue, a rugby man’s butt
and manner, and a Brooklyn house of his own. He and his European lover
have worked me over several times—shaved my body, beat my ass,
pissed on me in the tub. I have a fetish for kilts, and the lawyer
greeted me the first time (we’d met on the internet) in full regalia.
He made me undress right away and lie on the floor looking up his skirt
at his hard dick and magnificent arse. Then he sat in a straight-back
chair, pulled his kilt back to reveal his big erection, and ordered me
to sit on it, right then and there. Now he has another less-kinky
lover, but sometimes I’ll see him (at the Dublin airport, at a cocktail
party) and he’ll always draw me aside and say, with his mad, glittery
blue eyes, “I want to fuck the shit out of you.”

One of my best tricks is an East Side doorman who sometimes comes
over after work in the early evening. He wants me thoroughly douched
and dressed in a suit and tie—maybe like one of the real
gentlemen he has to bow and scrape to all day. Since I’m nearly 70,
sometimes I don’t get it up, but he doesn’t like that. “Next time I
want a clean ass and a hard dick,” he’ll say. I take a Cialis. He has
this completely nondescript face you’d never notice in a crowd—a
balding blond in his 30s, a hard but un-worked-out body, more square
than triangle, and a foot-long kielbasa. He likes me to wear suspenders
and high over-the-calf black stockings and sometimes men’s garters to
hold them up. Once I put my tux on for him. Soon we’re stoned and I’m a
disheveled mess of ruffled shirts and dangling bow ties and ripped-out
studs and cuff links and big baggy boxer shorts around my gartered
ankles and he’s plowing all this crumpled finery. One time he brought
over women’s panty hose for me, but that didn’t turn him on I
guess—we had no repeats of that. Strangely, he must be a romantic
under all his gruffness, because his online profile (charmingly
misspelled) calls for “a real relationship, we’re true, cuz u know
things i dont and vice verssa.”

Over the years I’ve had ringleted Orthodox Jews, I’ve been fucked on
every floor of a Park Avenue office building at midnight by the Cuban
night watchman, a Dutch sadist has offered to keep me in a cage and to
feed me till I become still fatter (that’s the whole feeder-gainer
scene), I’ve sucked guys while they pooped in the potty. One last one.
I was living in the Palazzo Barbaro in Venice, and in that dark stretch
near Harry’s Bar I picked up a balding German with a beautiful, sensual
face. I brought him back to the palace and soon had him stripped down
to the biggest uncut dick I’ve ever seen. Afterward he told me he was a
novelist (there are so few novelist tops!) and bisexual. I never forgot
him. But 10 years later, I was interviewing a prominent German woman
politician and I mentioned his name and she lit up and said, “Oh, he’s
wonderful.” Sigh. “The best. And he’s one for our side. You’re not
going to tell me you ever had sex with him. Oh, no.” She laughed, fond
memories playing across her face.

“Of course, you’re right,” I said. “Gay men can only drool over that
one.”

Why are some men so kinky? you might well ask. Though kink is
sometimes called animalistic, it’s precisely what animals don’t do.
Monkeys and lions never think of new positions and complicated
scenarios. Because we have language, we inhabit a symbolic world and
are haunted by memory; the simplest gesture (locking someone in a cage
and force-feeding him) takes on a powerful resonance of childhood
eating disorders or a longing for (and fear of) complete possession of
the elusive beloved. We can turn the simplest fuck into a circus of
psychoanalytic possibilities.

Perhaps the sexiest thing in the world is to hold hands with someone
you truly love. But that doesn’t happen every day. And short of a
love-jolt, the best way to get off is through kink—a variety not
engendered by a superficial desire for novelty but rather through a
sincere groping after the fantasies that animate us. We find out what
those fantasies are by enacting them.