He realized that he didn't know anything about relationships. How to start one, how to be in one, how to maintain one. His life had been a series of one night stands. Bookstores and bathhouses. Sexclubs and after-hour house parties. This is what he knew to be dating. This is what he knew about getting to know someone. This is what he knew about Love.
The left over party-ers, to drunk and horny to go home...alone. To lonely and sad to spend time on their own. Without the prescence of another...no matter who it may be; although he had standards, three o'clock in the morning isn't the time to be picky. He was out for a reason he thought, might as well make good use of the time. I mean, who's going to see, right? The clerk behind the register could give to shits. As long as you didn't start any trouble and were relatively respectful. There were nights when he created fantasies for himself, to pass the time. To make it more interesting, but most of all, he would be wanted. And if he was lucky, by a whole lotta men. He would be able to pick and choose at his will, whom he would allow the privledge, to be with him for a certain amount of time. Don't misunderstand, he wasn't trolling, he was "hunting" for a certain type. Actually, it depended on his mood and the type of crowd that were milling about the theatre/book store. The nights varied as to the clientele, some nights, Older White Men with a mix of young black men from all over the city. Young men who were out of place in their neighborhoods. Young men who couldn't express themselves sexually in the crowds they associated with or disclose to their families for fear of alienation. Puerto Rican men who left their families for a couple of hours, to indulge in a personal delight that isn't considered masculine. Asian men, Muslim men, now whether they were actual "practicing" Muslims or just into the "look," you can never know but one thing was always certain, this wasn't their normal behaviour during waking hours.
Bathhouses were a little different. You could literally live out of one. He knew quite a few men who did for one reason or another.
He believed at times that he wasn't destined to "be with anyone." His mother once told him straight out, that any relationship he had would be fucked up because of her and his father. He loved to blame them every so often....He kept it real, for sure.
He looked back through his mind and tried to see all the faces he came in contact with....from his very first hookup as a teenager, to his first fuck with an authentic Italian man, from Milan, Italy. Paulo was his name. "Pronto, Posso parlare con Paulo?", was a phrase he learned after he left. Then the random bed partners. A plethora of German, Swiss, French, Belgian, Dutch lovers/whores and hoes, he fitted himself into that description as well.
His time spent working in a male brothel in Cologne, Germany. The drugs that took hold of his life.
What was the life he wanted back then???--it consisted of working in the brothel, going out for drinks and a meal with the other men/boys/husbands/fathers...cause truth be told, they were all there, working for one reason or another. His were selfish. Speed. Ecstasy. They were like childrens dime store candy. Acid became a guilty pleasure. Strawberry Dots, Purple Hearts. The terribly mind altering mix called Platinum with something that looked like a bag of silver on the small square as it's sign.
This is to much he thought...........
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