December 11th, 1979
The dumb beast goes out.
I’m not sure what provoked the action, but at some point last night I decided it was time to make an appearance at The Snake Pit (my name for the neighborhood bar at the end of the block.) I never care very much about the outcome of my trips to the Pit– unlike other bars, The Lost and Found, the Eagle– Mr. P’s, where you feel disappointed if the night ends empty handed. Going to the dump at the end of the block involves no investment of time, energy or thought. And it doesn’t matter how drunk you get– you can roll home if necessary. But, when I got there last night and walked into a gloomy bar with four ugly fat bureaucrat types hanging on the bar, Tommy, blind drunk at one end of the room preposterously slow dancing with what looked like a mid-forty-ish shoe salesman– Beebe in her shrill thick German accent describing in too loud a voice to no one in particular European Christmas customs– I immediately felt that this was too great an insult to my psyche after this weird self-imposed exile (which has lasted now since, God, late August; since my breakup with Robert, I’ve only had my two-week fling with Tommy and tricked a couple of times.)
No, no, no! I am entitled, I deserve to at least be amused when I decide to go out. I simply insisted on at least something mildly interesting. So I left. Shivering, I walked down Pennsylvania Avenue to Mr. Henry’s. Absolutely dismal. A few drunk straight men in slurred animation, deaf people at the bar in animated sign language and a fat old woman. I stayed long enough to see the place was dead tonight and after not being able to cruise one of the deaf guys, walked on down the avenue to the Tune Inn. At least I wasn’t disappointed there. You know what to expect at the Tune Inn. Strange redneck ambience with odd assortment of Capitol Hill types as clientele. I sat with my back to the television screen and watched the people watch the football game. After marveling at the old spry bartender (he reminded me of my father and I wondered what it would have been like if my father had taken care of himself and gotten old) I left. Out in the cold again. Ok. One more time. I’ll try Mr. Henry’s again. Same scene. Back again to a table near the bar. Ok Laredo, try that deaf number one more time. No luck. He ignores me. Out in the cold again. Heading home. Frustrated at the idea that Capitol Hill should be so devoid of night life. I lunge through the cold night shaking in my worn out leather jacket wanting, simply for something to happen, something to interest me. I am at the intersection leading into my block. Standing on the corner under the glare of the streetlights: The Snake Pit like some old sad woman across the street, my last option. As I stood there, trying to decide between the Pit or a return to my womb, the house and dogs and dope and TV and beer, a gorgeous man– oooh baby– one chunk of malehood swaggered by and went into the 7-Eleven. My fantasy knob was on high volume. Good lord, what a body. I stared at him through the windows– massive body– broad shoulders bulging against green army fatigue jacket– round fleshy globes of ass pressing into tight jeans.
Broad street-wise face and utter masculinity exuding through every inch of that wonderful body. When he came out of the 7-Eleven, I walked behind him; he saw me following him, looked over his shoulder, I caught up with him. “Hey man,” I said, “you want your cock sucked? Hey I’ll do it real good. I’ll make it feel good.”
He said to me, “You gotta place?” It was obvious to me that he had the mentality of a gorilla. I wanted his hot cock rammed down my throat. After he asked me if I had any money, I decided this was not something I should pursue. Back to the corner. For the next two hours I stood on the corner examining hot men and propositioning perhaps 10 men. No takers. Finally I stumbled back to my comfortable home. Today I worked like a maniac and last night resembled a dream.