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.
December 17th, 1979
December 17th, 1979
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.