Discover more from The Last Hundred Miles
December 17th, 1979
Pollyanna goes to New York City and pisses on men in bathtubs:
Last Wednesday night, in yet another attempt to maintain my sanity, I went out again. Wednesday night is Hotline night at The Snake Pit. For the evening, members of Gay Hotline sponsor the bar and, for a cover charge, provide entertainment (piano player) and bring themselves and friends. One can usually expect the bar to be filled with a variety of men– both those with Hotline and the Hill people who, like myself, come out knowing there will at least be more than two old drunks hanging out at the Pit. I was happy to be in a crowded bar at least; and settled into my usual position at the railing, a good vantage point for surveying must of the room and, especially, the door; so as to see who comes in. Several pretty men– a few slight cruises. I am not keen tonight on tricking casually. My rhetoric of the past week of so is fresh in my mind. Sick of recreational sex, tired of getting sexually involved with tricks and then being left hungry for more– to get to know them. And getting dumped or disappointed or bored or all of the above; usually on the second date. Sick of it; but also sick of sitting home every night staring at television like a zombie, never going out. So, I am content tonight just to stand here watching the bar; drinking beer. After an hour or so of this a spot opened up at the bar and I bellied-up– to sit and relax and watch the crowd thin out. Before long a rather good-looking guy who was there with Hotline was standing next to me and started a conversation. He was nice looking, seemingly intelligent and personable. Then there was another guy who started talking to us. I had seen him there once before and had even propositioned him (he declined). We were all three enjoying an involved conversation when I became aware of the man standing next to me at the bar. He and a friend had come in while I was talking. A quick glance over my shoulder, our eyes meet: I know at once that I really could get into this one. I look back; he is still looking. We smile (oh, that first sexy grin– I love it). Back to the conversation– both of us aware of the other being aware though. I look at him and see him staring at my ass with a long grin on his face. I laugh: “what are you looking at?” “Just trying to see what your name is,” he said. I had slapped my adhesive name-tag the Hotline people issue you when you enter “I am always embarrassed to wear one– they are so trite) on the seat of my pants and had forgotten about it. I peeled it off my jeans and pressed it onto his shirt (oh, that chest is hard and wonderful). I saw from his name-tag that his name was Dennis.
“My name is Dennis,” I said, “What’s yours?” “Larry,” he said. Immediately, there was a wonderful rapport. And, besides all that, he was amazingly good-looking. Just my type. Tall and dark; swarthy, curly hair and thick mustache.
Inwardly (needless to say) I swooned. Conversation was short and the cruising intense. He asked me to come home with him. “Fuck the rhetoric,” I thought, and went home with him. Through the cold starry ride to his house a few blocks away I rubbed his back with my hand across the seat and we laughed and teased each other and I found out the vital statistics. He’s in real estate, lives on Capitol Hill, owns a couple of apartment buildings and seems to be very relaxed and enjoyable.
I fall in love before we park the car. His house is gorgeous, beautifully decorated, comfortable. We go to bed immediately and our bodies are perfect together. He has a muscular tan body with thick black hair across his chest and stomach. His thick cock lies pink across his abdomen white from swim trunks in the sun. He is obviously deep into his thirties and his skin has that muscular thickness to it that I have only known in older men. We are intense with each other. Our mouths devour each other. I fuck him. He moans with pleasure. Yes, baby; that’s it. Oh, baby, I love you. My fucking develops a cadence with my internal litany of adoration. Each thrust of my cock is in rhythm to a mental reverie of adoration– a litany of love. We are finished with sex and he lays in my arms and I stare in the lamplight at his wonderfully handsome face. “Oh God,” I think to myself, “I really like this man.” We sleep curled together like puppies. The morning is dismal rain and a hangover. I wake at dawn as he lies sleeping in my arms. I hug him closer to me and kiss the patch of hair on his back, between his shoulders. His body is warm from sleep. Wide awake now, feeling like hell from too many beers and a pack of cigarettes in a couple of hours at the bar last night. I watch dawn, cold and wet turn the windows in his bedroom from black to murky grey. I nap until 8:00 o’clock when I dress quietly, shivering in the cold. When I am dressed I lay across the bed and kiss his face. He wakes with a sleepy smile. “Where you going?” “Gotta get to work– I’ve been so busy this week; I just can’t go in late–”
I try to leave and he keeps pulling me down on the bed. “Oh I forgot to tell you,” he said, “your boss called this morning and said for you take the day off.” We kiss and hug and snuggle in the warm bed. The very last thing on earth that I want to do is leave this gorgeous man and this warm bed and drag myself downtown through drizzly rain with a mild-to-bad hangover. “I must go.” From my shirt pocket I produce a business card and put it on the table by his bed. “I must run, I’ll be late– here, call me later today– ok?” “Ok” He pulls me back down on the bed. “I’ll call you” he says and rams his tongue into my mouth. I melt. Finally I pull myself up to leave– “I really have to go now” I said– “but you have to call, because I don’t even have your phone number. Besides, this way I can feel like a school girl at work today– waiting for the phone to ring.” We kiss again and I let myself out onto the rainy, cold street.
He never called me.