by Blue Blake
I didn’t sleep that night, and I was up at the crack of dawn on Sunday trying on different outfits. I settled on a pair of ripped jeans which you could see my arse through and a mesh vest that showed off my nipples. I had seen Sean’s girlfriend in a very similar outfit. She was a punk rocker, and I believed naively this outfit might confuse Sean enough to let me blow him. I had arranged to meet Thomas Morrison at 9 p.m. for supper. He had whined and sulked about having to wait all day, but when I told him he could stay the night I felt him smile down the phone.
At noon, sharp, there was a knock on the door. There stood Sean wearing jeans, t-shirt and a beanie cap.
“Fucking hell, everybody’s gonna think I’m queer with you dressed like that,” he laughed. My heart sank.
“Should I change?” I asked.
“Nah . . . fuck ’em. I know I’m not a poofter and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?” he said. I suddenly realized how stupid I was. Of course I wasn’t going to have sex with Sean. He was a big, straight, Liverpudlian guy who just wanted to help me out with my bodybuilding. He handed me a plastic bag.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Present for you,” he winked. We walked into the living room where I poured the contents of the bag onto my table. Little glass bottles the size of my thumb bounced all over the surface of the coffee table followed by a dozen syringes and surgical needles.
“What are they?” I asked. Sean laughed out loud, “What the fuck do you think they are? They’re steroids!” “Steroids!” I gasped.
“Yeah, you wanna get bigger, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, but I was thinking perhaps an extra serving of Weight Gain 2000 and a bag of chicken breasts, but steroids?”
“Everybody’s doing them who’s serious about being a bodybuilder. Course if you’re not serious. . . . ” He began to scoop up the vials.
“No, no, wait . . . I mean, will I get much bigger?”
“As big as me,” he grinned. I knew nothing about steroids. Wouldn’t my hair fall out and my face end up covered in acne? More importantly, wouldn’t my dick shrink? How could I be super hooker if I had no dick? I shared my fears with Sean who threw back his head and laughed again.
“Does this look like I have no dick?” Saying this, he unzipped his pants and took out his cock. I could have passed out. Here was the man of my dreams showing me his cock above the Khal-Al meat store. And boy, this was the finest piece of meat I’d ever seen in my life. Then he very nonchalantly stuffed it back in his jeans and I realized I hadn’t breathed for ten seconds.
“What do I have to do?” I asked.
“Drop your pants,” he replied. I had a massive hard-on that wasn’t going away so long as he was in sight. Think of something gruesome, I thought. I caught sight of my closet door behind Sean. A month before I had received a strange phone call.
“Is that Ben?” asked the voice.
“Yes,” I replied.
“I’d like to hire you for the weekend. There’s no sex involved . . . I just have certain needs.”
“Certain needs?” I asked. Well, turns out one of his certain needs was being locked in a broom closet, dressed as a school girl, and gagged and blindfolded with only a bowl of Kit-e-Kat to eat once a day. For that he paid me the cost of staying at a fancy Park Lane hotel, plus I got the extra bonus of having my friends come round that weekend, and when I would tell them to hang their coats in the closet they would open the door and scream in sheer terror.
Anyway, the memory of “Felix” got rid of my hard-on right away so I dropped my jeans for Sean. He didn’t pay any attention to my dick. He was busy sucking out the contents of one of the vials into a syringe. The needle seemed enormous.
“This is Sustanon 250. The best steroid on the market, guaranteed to make you huge. Turn ’round.” I turned around and felt Sean’s big meaty hand on my arse.
“Now relax your arse,” instructed Sean, “This won’t hurt a bit.” Saying this, he plunged the needle into my behind and emptied its entire contents. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt. In fact, I felt no different. Just a small prick and it was over.
“Get ready to get huge,” he said. “Now pull your jeans up and let’s go play some pool.” I spent the afternoon playing pool with Sean at the Strangled Swan pub in Camden. The Camden Tiger had closed down. Alice the owner had employed a straight guy to run the place after I had left and he had spent all the takings on Guinness and pork scratchings. Alice had gotten her three ginger-haired sons to beat him up, and she returned to the plumbing business from whence she had come.
In the Swan as Sean leaned over the pool table, Sharon eyed up his meaty arse.
“Fucking lovely . . . are ya shagging him?” she asked.
“I wish,” I replied. “He’s straight.”
“Well, he’s better looking than that cunt Patrick you used to hang around with. I never could stand him, and he smoked like a fucking chimney,” she said, lighting her third woodbine in less than half an hour.
“Yeah, horrible habit,” I said. Saying goodbye to Sharon, I hugged her close, knowing I would never return to the Strangled Swan again.
Sean and I caught the underground to Leicester Square where Blade Runner was playing. I was drunk from all the lager shandies that Sharon had poured down my neck. I think Sean felt the same way. The movie began and I marveled at the talent of Ridley Scott, a superb director who had started off directing British TV commercials. One of my regular clients was the British director John Schlesinger who had made the movie Darling. He lived in a huge mansion off Kensington High Street. His boyfriend, the famous photographer Michael Childers, introduced me to him. I used to see them both. There was no jealousy; they had been together twenty years or more. A few years later Michael Childers ran off with my boyfriend “Tall Steve” to California. Tall Steve had been narrowed down to the last thirty actors to play the new James Bond but didn’t stand a chance because, although he definitely looked like he could play James Bond, his strong Cockney accent knocked him out of the running. He didn’t even get a screen test. So Michael whisked him off to Los Angeles. Michael was really apologetic, but I didn’t care. I was glad to get rid of Tall Steve because all he wanted to do was watch Match of the Day on the television and get rimmed, preferably at the same time. So I spent all my time listening to Liverpool beat Nottingham Forest with my tongue up Steve’s arse.
In L.A., Steve tortured Michael to death with his neediness until Michael sent him back to London. Back home Steve begged my forgiveness. I didn’t give a shit. Steve was no Sean . . . who was suddenly pressing his leg against mine!!! In the dark cinema!!! We kept our legs glued together throughout the entire movie. When the credits rolled, Sean turned to me and said, “I had a fight with my girlfriend Kaz this morning. I don’t suppose I could sleep at your place tonight?” My heart was in my mouth but I tried to appear nonchalant. “Sean, you don’t even have to ask.” Then it hit me. Fuck, what about Thomas Morrison? Oh, well, didn’t I deserve a little happiness?
My mind made up, I threw Sean into a cab and raced back to my love shack above the butchers.
“Have ya got any porno? No queer stuff,” said Sean.
“Tasty Clits,” I said. A closeted client had left the movie behind in my flat along with a pair of rusty nipple clamps. I threw the nipple clamps out the window. I saw Mohammed and Taffik trying them on the next morning while they chopped chickens’ heads off in the yard below.
“Yeah, that sounds hot.” We sat through ninety minutes of bad pornography . . . and neither of us moved a muscle.
When the movie finished, we sat there in the dark until finally Sean said to me, “My cock’s hard.” I didn’t need to hear that twice. I began swiftly pulling off his clothing. I bent him over and ate his arse for an hour then sucked his dick. Sean lay there moaning in pleasure but didn’t reciprocate. That didn’t matter to me. I was in ecstasy about making love to him. He began to thrash around on my couch and suddenly he shouted out loud grabbed my shoulders h
ard and spunked in my gob.
“Why did we just do that?” I asked.
“I really like you,” Sean confessed. “You’re my mate . . . I’ve never done this before. I’m straight. I’ve never done this before.” I drew him to me, and we kissed deeply. I was in love, I was.... Sean stiffened and shoved me away, shouting, “Aaaah! Fuck, there’s some skeleton peering through the window!” Through the window? I was on the second floor! I turned to see Thomas Morrison with his nose pressed against the windowpane! I’d forgotten I was supposed to meet him! He had tried to phone me but I’d switched the phone off. I didn’t want any interruptions in my seduction of Sean. So instead Thomas came round to my flat, found the gate locked, but must have seen the light on from the street. Borrowing a ladder from the restaurant’s yard next door, he shimmied up the rungs with the excuse he thought I was being murdered by a naked thug in a beanie hat. Sean left, I shouted at Thomas, he cried, then I made him buy me tandoori chicken and let him lick my balls till he came . . . he gave me a hundred quid and I moodily snatched it out of his hand.
I started having an affair with Sean. It was tumultuous constant sex . . . for two weeks. We would hang out with each other every night and train together in the gym every day. We became best friends and secret lovers. Nobody in the gym ever suspected that we were sleeping together and that suited Sean fine. Of course I wanted everybody to know but I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to scare Sean away. Then he dumped me for a Vietnamese girl named Minh. She had no neck and her parents owned a Vietnamese restaurant where they served a chicken dish made from stray cats . . . at least that was the vicious rumor that I . . . that someone . . . spread around Earl’s Court.
In spite of our “break up” Sean introduced me to the serious bodybuilding world: steroids, villains, drugs . . . straight competitive bodybuilders who wanted to get rimmed, fucked and blown. I started going to bodybuilding competitions and my close circle of friends suddenly became a crowd of straight muscle men. The almost “twilight” world of bodybuilding in those days was like another dimension. All we talked about was who had won which contest, our diets, and what different kinds of steroids were on the market. It was an incredibly narcissistic lifestyle that at the time felt great but perhaps was mentally stupefying. My mother visited and apart from the shock of seeing how much bigger I had become couldn’t understand why I was living this lifestyle. It all started to seem relatively normal to me. We all thought people who weren’t bodybuilders were strange. Even a lot of the girls I knew took steroids, had muscles and competed in bodybuilding contests. The steroids, as well as packing forty pounds of muscle on me, made me sex crazed. I was doing five clients a day. One every hour and still I was picking up guys everywhere. My life seemed to be revolving around turning tricks, working out and pining for Sean so when one day a friend of mine, Conn, told me he was going to New Orleans for a two-week holiday I jumped at the chance to go with him. I figured it would take my mind off of Sean and I had always wanted to visit New Orleans.
I had met Conn at the gym. He was a good-looking stocky blond bodybuilder in his thirties. Although he was Irish, he had gone to university in New Orleans for some reason. His ex-boyfriend owned a guesthouse in the French Quarter, so accommodation would be provided, all I had to do was get the airfare together. I missed America, and the thought of traveling to somewhere as exotic as New Orleans filled me with wild excitement. I got on really well with Conn so I knew we would have a good time. We had had bad sex with each other once or twice so I knew there wouldn’t be any weird sexual tension between us. We booked our tickets and caught a plane to the Big Easy.
CHAPTER SIX
I LOVED EVERYTHING ABOUT NEW ORLEANS from the moment we arrived. The French Quarter is a mile square with one main street, Bourbon Street, running down the middle of it. As the taxi drove us to our accommodations on Burgundy Street, I hung out of the window and let my senses be assailed by the sights and sounds of the city “that care forgot.” Conn’s ex-boyfriend was full of southern hospitality and welcomed us warmly. He lived in the heart of the Quarter with his new boyfriend and they made us feel right at home. In the centre of their guesthouse was a swimming pool that none of the other guests seemed to use, so Conn and I would tan for hours in the thick humid air drinking iced tea. Because Conn worked in a bank in London he wanted to spend the two weeks doing nothing but relaxing by the pool. I, on the other hand wanted to explore the French Quarter from one end to the other and sleep with as many Southern rednecks as possible.
The French Quarter is built on a grid system a little like Manhattan so it was impossible to get lost, plus the bars were open twenty-three hours a day so there was always some place to go. I would prowl the streets and sit on strangers’ stoops soaking up the decadent atmosphere. I soon learned two things: one was that the legal drinking age in New Orleans was eighteen, so there was an enormous number of young kids running around drunk; secondly there wasn’t even a sniff of a bodybuilder in the Quarter . . . there wasn’t a proper gym either.
I complained about this to Conn one evening. He shrugged his shoulders and said to me,
“Now you know why I didn’t stay here when I graduated school.”
Having resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t going to meet the bodybuilder of my dreams, I simply enjoyed the good old-fashioned Southern cuisine and going dancing every night at one of the local gay bars, the Bourbon Pub.
The two weeks flew by and I realized I wasn’t particularly looking forward to going back to London. My final night in the Big Easy arrived and I took one last walk down Bourbon Street enjoying the wild revelry of the other tourists and marveling how the city seemed to be caught in a time that no longer existed in any other part of the country . . . or world.
Heading back to the guesthouse down a small backstreet, I suddenly noticed a pickup truck following me. I have never been the type to assume that I’m going to get mugged so I guessed the driver was looking for some action. I settled down on the step outside my guesthouse and the truck pulled to a stop. The passenger window rolled down and I fell instantly in lust. There sat an incredibly hot man with cropped short hair, deep brown eyes, and wearing a World Gym muscle t-shirt.
“What’s the story?” I said very forwardly. I hadn’t had sex in two weeks because of the lack of muscle dick, and I was in no mood to beat around the bush. The guy in the truck looked a little taken aback.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Glenn,” I replied.
“I’m Dale . . . do you have anywhere we can go?”
Well he was definitely getting with the program.
“I’m staying with a friend and he’s in our room now packing . . . so no . . . ” I said sadly.
“Fuck . . . what about in your garden?”
“Don’t you have somewhere we can go?”
“I’m . . . married,” he said sheepishly.
I knew it, but what did I care? It was my last night in New Orleans and I would never see him again, so what the hell?
Perhaps it was the fact that I hadn’t had sex for two weeks or the fact that I was madly attracted to this sexy Southern stud, but I knew there and then I was going to take him by the pool and make mad, passionate filthy love to him.
“OK . . . ” I said. “Park your truck and come on in.”
When Dale climbed out of the truck my knees went weak. He was exactly my type—built like a bulldog and reeking of masculinity and Old Spice.
“You should know now, I’m only a top,” said Dale, “I’m just interested in your ass, not your dick.”
I didn’t care because I just wanted his dick. We kissed passionately and then I sank to my knees and pulled out his cock. He began talking dirty to me, really filthy stuff that was a total turn-on. He made me call him Daddy and he fucked the living daylights out of me in a dark corner of the pool area.
As impossible as this seems I fell in love with Dale that night. I had never met a man like him before. He made me feel wild and
wanton and when we had finished, he took out his wallet and handed me his business card. It read Dale Shaw.
“I know you said you were leaving tomorrow but perhaps you’ll call me one day if you ever come back to New Orleans.”
Fuck that, I thought. I’ll be calling you from London, mate.
I walked slowly upstairs to our room where Conn was busy packing. He looked at me strangely.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
I sat on the corner of the bed and looked Conn squarely in the eyes, “I just met a guy called Dale . . . and I’m madly in love with him.”
Conn rolled his eyes and carried on packing his fruit of the looms.
All I could think about on the long flight home was Dale Shaw. When I arrived back in London I raced back to my apartment and without even unpacking phoned Dale.
Over the next couple of weeks I had a crazy, tempestuous long-distance affair with Dale. We spoke dirty to each other every day for hours. I found out he had a boyfriend named Kenny, who he had been with for twenty years. They lived in the Ninth Ward, an area that would be obliterated by Hurricane Katrina years later. He told me he was a florist. I wasn’t expecting that as I had imagined he worked in construction but I pushed that thought to the back of my mind. Surely I had met many macho florists over the years . . . hmmmm . . . actually no, I hadn’t. In fact the only other florist I knew well was Godfrey’s old business partner back in NYC and he was as camp as Christmas. Anyway after one particularly filthy phone conversation with Dale over the phone I knew what I had to do. I called up Conn and told him I was moving to New Orleans to be with Dale.
“Have you lost your mind?” he spluttered. “That guy you met on the last night who shagged you by the pool?”
“I’m in love!” I simpered “You don’t understand, Dale is my soul mate.”
“Listen, its coming up to summer and its going to be hotter than hell in New Orleans, you have nowhere to live, you have no job, you’re doing really well here. . . . ”
