Written in 2006.
The first person I gave my ass to was 22 years old, worked at MacDonalds and got around on a bicycle because he had lost his license in a DUI incident. Oh, there was that event years earlier with that fireman . . . but fear, pain and lack of experience brought an end to that less than a minute after it began, so I don’t count it. The kid was the first real time for me.
It was a torrid two week affair that ended with a single phone call fifteen years ago. I’d not seen nor heard from Andy since. That is, until last week. I was sitting at my computer Tuesday evening, occasionally petting Homer, the dog, and sipping a Presidente on the rocks as I sifted through some of my old writing when the phone rang.
‘Uh-Huh,’ I answered.
‘Hello,’ a scratchy male voice said. ‘My I speak with Jazz Ding?’
‘Congratulations,’ I came back, ‘You are!’
‘Are you the Jazz Ding who used to live in Atlanta?’
‘The same.’
‘You moved in the early 90’s?’
‘Sure, sure . . .who is this?’
‘Well, if you’re who I think you are, I met you right before you moved . . . at the Armory.’
My memory went into overdrive racing back to Atlanta and the last weeks I lived there. I’d called the Jewel of the South ‘home’ for 25 years and now I was moving to California. It was a job transfer, but one that I orchestrated. After ten years of marriage, I found myself forty and divorced. This was painful . . . for a few days; but then, realizing that pain was for idiots, I started thinking about the future. I gave myself permission to have anything I wanted . . . and having done that, what I wanted became very clear: another man. But to have that I had to become a new man, a task I found difficult in my old familiar surroundings. I spent my last six months in Atlanta taking baby steps toward coming out, and pulling the necessary strings to have me in California, where nobody knew me and I could reinvent myself.
Unlike some who burst into their gay life with great gusto, I took it slow. First I moved into Atlanta’s hip and gay friendly Poncey-Highland neighborhood. Then I joind a gay gym and started spending hours each weekend in Piedmont Park, which had a long standing reputation as a haven for guys looking for guys. Then slowly, one bar at a time, I started going out. I met people and even brought a few home. But our frolics were hardly serious; I was so inexperienced and so afraid of disease that my hotest dates usually ended in mutual masturbation.
But then, about two weeks before I moved, I wandered down to the Armory.
It was a remarkable place and still retains its position in my memory as one of my favorite gay watering holes. Essentially a dance club, it was cavernous and dark with several side rooms and lots of nooks and crannies. The music was very good . . . and somehow the Armory managed to attract . . . well, real men. They were generally adults, usually employed, often rugged — hardly the crowd of twinks and circuit boys you’d find at most gay discos.
You know, it’s interesting how important the gay bar is in queer society. I mean: if you gay Google any city, ‘Gay Minneapolis’ for example, you’ll get a handful of sites set up to inform or entertain the gay community. They almost always start with a list of the local bars, baths and hangouts. It’s not that we homos are all wanton drunks. Hardly. Intsead it’s a historical tradition. For years the only place we could hang out and meet each other was at the bar. In some places at some times, even that was not safe, but by and large gay bars have always functioned as quasi community centers. They serve the same need for gay people that the community church did 500 years ago. They bring the people together, provide them information and a focus. They are the glue of the community. In every city in America, locate the area where gay bars cluster and you’ll find the neighborhood where gay people feel most comfortable living.
That night so many years ago, I was leaning against the wall in one of the dance rooms at the Armory, sipping a beer and doing my best to look mysterious. There was a young man across the room, leaning against the oppostie wall, also sipping a beer and looking at me. He was tall, well built and had curly blonde hair. He was wearing a red plaid flannel shirt and a well worn pair of jeans and looked like he was ready to head out on a weekend camping trip. 
I was immediately interested and was formulating my own approach to him when I saw him push himself off the wall with the heel of his boot and slowly make his way around the perimeter of the room to finally stand directly in front of me. He looked at me from under his eyebrows, his head bent slightly down and his eyes showing wide white crescents under his irises. A twisted smirk crept onto his lips.
‘Ya wanna dance?’ he asked. His youth had become more apparant with almost every step taken toward me. But his voice was deep and full with a sexy rattle to it and if anything he was more attractive than I imagined. Sure he was a kid, I thought, but what the heck. ‘Sure.’ I said.
We flopped around on the dance floor for a couple of numbers, ‘Drama’ by Erasure and then to ‘Grove is in the Heart.’ He pretty much stood in one place and jerked spasmodically, occasionally squatting to the floor then shooting up in a peacock show of his jumping prowess. I crossed my arms and legs back and forth in a scissor step letting my crossed legs spin me around James Brown style from time to time. I imagined the eyes of the other guys against the wall watching us. I was sure we were hot.
It was nearing 2 am, the gay bar bewitching hour when the last call is made. We were moving off the dance floor when he reached over and grabbed my arm. ‘Come on . . . let’s go.’ he said, continuing to walk and keeping his focus straight ahead. Soon he was directing me in my car to a very basic apartment somewhere near the I-75, I-85 split. It was a huge ugly compound with row after row of barracks-like buildings. We climbed a flight of stairs in a building near the back and opened a door to enter his apartment.
‘Helllooooo,’ squeeled a voice from the kitchen. I looked left to see a small thin boy in a ful length kimono spin around to face us from his position near the sink.
‘This is my roommate, Todd,’ my escort announced. ‘Todd, this is . . . ?’
I toyed with giving him a fake name. I’d done it several times before when I wasn’t sure I wanted anything beyond a night of meaningless fun. But though my mind raced I was unable to come up with a suitable alias rapidly enough and finally blurted out, ‘Jazz.’
‘Jazz,’ he said holding his hand in my direction as if he were pointing out a fine piece of art. ‘And I’m Andy.’
Todd came towards us from the kitchen, one hand on hip the other waving back and forth with each step causing the long sleeves of the kimono to fly like a flag. ‘Oh, my, my, my,’ he cooed, arriving before me and then looking me up and down and back up again. ‘Well I guess someone hit the jackpot tonight!’ His dark eyes met mine and held me for a moment. I thought he was wearing lipstick and the faintest hint of rouge . . . but wasn’t sure.
He turned quickly on his heel and leaned forward to give Andy a fast kiss on the lips. ‘Don’t let me disturb you,’ he called over his sholder as he moved back into the kitchen. ‘I’m just going to finish doing these dishes and then go to bed.’
Andy led me over to his ‘room,’ which was really just an dining alcove off the living room. It was a one bedroom apartment and Todd had the bedroom. Andy had hung a sheet from a line stretched over the opening of the alcove and thrown a matress on the floor to create his own space. As the curtain closed behind us, we fell into each others’ arms and began kissing, slolwly and passionately.
Soon we were naked in each others arms. Andy’s young body was smoothe and hairless except for his underarms and the tight bush that encircled his fat cock. Next to him I looked like a wooly mamoth. We explored each other slowly and I felt the goose flesh rise and fall on me over and over again. When I finally gave myself to him, a searing rip of pain took my breath away. He could sense it and stopped for a few moments then proceeded very slowly and with complete attention to me. I focused on breathing . . . slow, measured, deep breathing into my ass. I began to relax and soon he slipped inside of me.
I had to deal with the pain for about the first three times, but by then I’d gotten over the fear that made me lock up when a large blunt object came close to my hole. With the fear went the clenching and resistance that caused the pain. Soon, I had complete control of my musculature down there and was able to relax and expand almost at will.
The next morning I woke to the sensation of his mouth on my cock. As I hardened and became more arroused, I made to pull him from me so that I could service him; but he was hungry and worked me worked me worked me until I shot my load down his hungry throat. We lay there wrapped around each other in the silence of the morning.
‘Do you have to work today?’ I asked.
‘Not until 5,’ he answered.
‘Hmmmm. Where do you work?’ I pressed.
‘The Golden Arches,’ he said, ‘ . . . . MacDonalds.’
‘No Shit!’ I remarked. As much fun as I was having I was suddenly slapped with the reality of the situation. I was sleeping with a kid who was young enough to be my son! I was sleeping with the Fry Boy from MacDonalds!
‘I was thinking about taking the day off,’ I said. ‘Maybe we could hang out ’til you have to go.’
‘That would be great!’ His head had come up off my chest and his dark eyes were filled with puppy-like excitement.
Just then there was a knock at the front door. Andy hopped from the bed, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around himself. ‘Who is it?’ he called as he approached the door.
‘Your father!’ came the response. I stiffened. Holy Shit! What did this mean? Did his dad know he was gay? What would he think if he found me in his son’s bed? What if I was actually OLDER than his father? My heart and mind raced in a full panic. My own father had no idea about this new twist in my life and would probably have stroked out in similar circumstances. I reached down and wrapped the sheet around me like a bad actress in a daytime drama and scooted to the edge of the mattress. I watched Andy’s hand moving in slow motion towards the doorknob. It seemed to take an hour as the pannicked pictures of the impending confrontation raced through my head. He reached the knob and slowly, a turn and a click and a crack and then a fully open door . . . with a smiling man walking quickly in and wrapping his arms around Andy. He kissed him on the cheek and then held his son’s head in his hands. ‘How’s my boy?’ he asked.
‘Fine.’ Said Andy. ‘Isn’t it a bit early for a visit?’ he asked.
His father was carrying a bottle of some kind in a paper bag and moved with it off toward the kitchen. He was average in height and build and looked . . . well, he looked like a balding version of me. We seemed to be about the same age.
Another man, slightly smaller and darker in a long trench coat came through the door. ‘Good morning, Andrew,’ he said taking care to enunciate each syllable. He glanced toward the sleeping nook as he stepped in, his eyes settling on me, wrapped in my sheet.
‘Oh!’ he said stopping. ‘Well . . . I see you have company!’
I waved from my spot across the room.
‘Uh . . . yeah,’ said Andy. ‘Um, this is Jazz.’ I detected no tension in Andy’s voice. And while his father turned and stared out from the kitchen and the other man had not moved since spotting me, I detected no hostility there.
‘Hi.’ I said, giving my upraised hand another wave. Andy’s dad set the bag he was carrying on the counter and walked out of the kitchen and across the room toward me. He was smiling.
‘I’m Bill,’ he said holding out his hand. As I reached out to take it the sheet fell from my chest. The notion of my obvious sheet-wrapped, cum-crusted nakedness before the boy’s father registered as somewhere between frightening and silly in my mind. Bill looked back over his sholder and, still holding my hand, nodded back towards the other man. ‘And this is my buddy, Carlo.’
‘Oh,’ said Carlo, putting one clenched fist on his hip and tilting his head slightly to the side. ‘So that’s what I am now? Your buddy?’ and with that he turned and took Andy’s hand. ‘Come on Andrew; let’s go make mimosas!’
‘Sorry,’ said Bill turning back toward me. ‘Carlo is my lover.’
‘Thank you!’ Carlo sang from the kitchen.
‘He’s soo touchy,’ Bill said turning back to me, still holding my hand. ‘I just never know what to call us, you know? He’s not my wife, when I call him my partner it sounds like we have a business relationship and calling him my lover makes it sound like all we do is have sex . . .’
‘And God knows that’s not the case!’ called Carlo.
‘Oh, shut up!’ answered Bill, still holding my hand. ‘Anyway . . . it’s nice to meet you.’
I don’t think my heart had taken a beat since Andy opened the door. I felt stupified, and pictured myself with a blank expression on my face and my mouth open.
‘You’re gay?’ I half asked, half said. All three of them broke into laughter.
‘Oh Pul-eeze, Mary!’ sang Carlo. ‘Where ever did you find this one, Andrew?’
I wanted so desperately to be cool, and now I felt like a complete boob.
‘Sorry,’ I answered, ‘It’s just a little surprising this early in the morning.’
‘Yeah,’ said Bill, ‘Imagine how I feel walking in and finding you in bed with my son!’ The laughter kicked up a notch.
Just then, Todd emerged from his bedroom completely naked, sporting the remnants of an early morning hardon. Yawning and rubbing his eyes he stumbled to the kitchen and threw his arms around Carlo.
‘Kiss me!’ he moaned. Carlo pushed him away and waved his hand before his mouth.
‘Ewwww!’ he shrieked. ‘Go brush your teeth, you heathen!’
Bill was still holding my hand and now he was leading me toward the kitchen, my feet catching in the sheet still hanging from my chest. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’re having mimosas . . . it’s our anniversary.’
‘Six years,’ Carlo responded.
‘Wait,’ I said, stopping and taking my hand from Bill. ‘Let me toss on some shorts.’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Andy, ‘We all kinda let it hang out here.’ I looked to him in the kitchen but my eyes fell on Todd standing there scratching his ass and rubbing his eyes, his little prick bounding with each scratch.
As I turned and walked back to the sleeping area for my jeans, I wondered if I’d finally found gay life. I’d only been at this a few months and really hadn’t seem much more than a few bars and a couple of bedrooms. Other than the strangeness of Bill being Andy’s father, was this how four gay friends behaved when together? In my entire ‘straight’ life I’d never had friends so free and open with each other. It was like watching a twisted TV sitcom.
Andy met me halfway to the kitchen with a mimosa in his hand. Bill and Carlo were bantering over the open refrigerator door about the proper proportions of Orange Juice to Champaign.
‘Sorry,’ said Andy, holding the glass out to me, ‘He always seems to find the worst time to barge in.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘This is fun.’
Over the next hour and a half I got the full story from Bill laced with short burst commentary from Carlo. Bill had met Andy’s mom at a Grateful Dead concert in the late sixties (I’m not making this up). They were both happily drugged and stripped of inhibition and, when the show was over, went out to the parking lot and her daddy’s huge Oldsmobile where they did what came naturally. They saw each other a few times after that first meeting, but that was about as serious as it got. After all, it was the sixties.
Of course, she was pregnant and the decision was to have the baby and hang out together as long as that made sense. It stopped making sense less than a year later. Andy had come to live with his father 14 years after that, long after Bill had his gay epiphany and just as Carlo was coming into his life. Fathers and son gelled quickly and the family unit was in place.
I sat absorbed in Bill’s story and Carlo’s commentary . . . and almost forgot about Andy. He sat quietly, politely, and seemed to grow younger and younger. I reached out to him with a question or two, but his answers were short and complete.
‘Andy, I hate to be so tacky,’ I apologized, ‘But I have to ask . . . did you know you were gay when you moved in with your dad?’
‘What?’ chirped Carlo,’ You think he caught it from us? Or maybe we recruited him!’ Then, turning to Andy, ‘Again, child: where did you find this one? And are you sure he’s not some Baptist Republican having an ‘experience’? ‘
‘No,’ answered Andy, ‘I was gay . . . from forever, I think.’
‘Andy?’ I asked.
‘Yes! But I’m Drew now.’ Still scratcy, the voice had lost its tentativity and had taken on a rising joy.
‘Holy Shit!’ I said, ‘I never thought I’d hear from you again.’
‘I know,’ he replied, ‘Or rather, I remember. That’s why every time I come to California, I look for you in whatever city I’m in. I’m in San Diego this week and . . . you’re pretty easy to find.’
He was in town on business and we quickly set up a lunch date for the next day.
‘This is really strange,’ I said. ‘I have so much to tell you . . . and at the same time I don’t know what to say.’
‘Yeah,’ he replied, ‘Me neither. Finding things to talk about was never our strong suit.’ The pause was almost awkward, but he jumped into the silence just in time to rescue me. ‘Let’s not belabor the point on the phone,’ he said. ‘Save it for tomorrow.’
‘Ok, I’ll see you at noon.’
‘Yeah . . .noon.’ And he was gone.
I shook my head as I hung up the phone and took a long drag on my Presidente. ‘That was a real stab from the past,’ I said to the dog. He looked up at me with those big sad Cleopatra eyes of his and seemed to raise one eyebrow slightly. ‘I don’t know what to expect,’ I went on, ‘I don’t know if he wants to punish me or piss me off or just renew a connection.’
‘Go with it,’ Homer seemed to say. ‘Whatever it is, it’s bound to be more interesting than eating a hamburger at your desk.’
‘Yeah,’ I said scratching under his chin, ‘bound to be an experience of some kind . . . ‘
‘Brilliant, Einstein,’ he seemed to come back, ‘Now put the drink down, get your ass up and take me for a walk.’
Our affair had lasted two weeks and ended when I moved to California. I knew I was being transferred when we first got together and thus saw the end at Hello. That was fine with me, I was just having an experience. Unfortunately, I assumed that he was just ‘tricking’ as well. When I told him I was moving on about day five, he came completely unglued. Turns out the young man was smitten with me in the way that young men sometimes get smitten with older guys. He screamed and railed, cried and collapsed . . . and by the next day seemed to have taken it in stride.
‘I know I’ll never hear from you again,’ he said.
‘Why would you say that?’ I asked, ‘I have no intention of letting go of you.’
‘We’ll see,’ he came back. ‘Let’s just enjoy this week and let it be whatever it’s going to be.’
Seven days later I was on a plane bound for Irvine. I smiled thinking about Andy and what we’d done, about my big experience. What I’d dreamed about for years was true: there was nothing quite like sleeping wrapped around another man. It was a sensation that had been a hunger for me. And now I knew I could satisfy that hunger. I was a man at 30,000 feet.
A couple of days later, I called Andy. The conversation was self-conscious, stiff and difficult. It was as if we were both working very hard to appear excited and interested in the other . . . and by trying so hard, we were failing miserably. Hanging up I realized the fundamental problem of the older guy – younger guy thing: once you get beyond the sex, there’s usually not much to talk about. That phone call, fifteen years ago, was the last contact we’d had. . . until now.
Continued . . .