Friday, November 4, 2011

The Pink Triangle

Copyright 2011


"There are eight million stories in the Naked City, and this [is] one of them."
There may not have been that many stories coming from K.O.X.maybe just a few hundred thousand. One of my fondest memories is sitting at a booth wearing nothing but my vest and fedora, a three-day-old beard, and my jeans around my ankles. That and the look of shear horror on the face of my Bostonian house guest as he went by and noticed, never to speak of it afterward. I was getting a wicked handjob from this nasty Portuguese guy who was always egging me on to "whip it out" as a perched on my usual spot on the railing outside the rear WC, in front of the back bar, my testicles busting out of the holes in my jeans that men made larger from groping me. Ah, how I loved being a piece of meat!



“LOOK, A LUMBERJACK!” I said to Michael.
“What?!?”
“Over there— On the dance floor. See ’im?”
“You mean that stocky guy with the skinny kid? He’s trashed. Lumberjack!” he hissed. “What are you talking about?”
“That’s one of my favourite kinds of guy,” I gushed. “Look at him. Beefy without being fat or overly muscular, not too tall, short black hair. Oh, man. Look at those luscious, full lips. And, with that ex-treme-ly masculine two-day-old growth of very black beard, don’t you think he looks like a lumberjack? Check out the smile. Doesn’t it make you wanna jump him?”
“Well, you can jump him, but he’ll probably fall over. I told you—he’s bombed. Why don’t you go jerk off in the washroom or something?”
The object of my lust must have seen me ogling him, because just then he spun across the dance floor, slammed into me, grabbed my shirt and hauled me on to dance. It quickly became all too apparent that Michael was right: the guy could barely focus on me, and to keep himself from falling into the other dancers he grabbed hold of me again. I wriggled free and slipped back over to Michael.
“You’re right,” I said. “He’s gorgeous. But useless. Pity.”
It was a balmy Sunday evening in late March, one of the first days of spring when hormones run like maple sap and boys go wild after a long, cold winter. Michael and I were at the very busy Queue Dorée, and there was lots to do—people to talk to, men to cruise, and adventures to have. We split up to explore. I wandered around on the lookout for friends and hot guys. After a while I came to rest on the railing outside the washroom and watched the parade. Friends and acquaintances passed by in both directions—some stopped to chat, others just said hi. In between, guys cruised me and I cruised them—some I’d never seen before, and others whom I cruise regularly but don’t dare risk the sexual tension by connecting with (translation: I don’t dare risking rejection!). I had a long chat with an old college buddy—like me, he had one eye out for eyes out for him, the other eye regarding me intensely to assure me that he was listening—which I knew he was. So was I to him.
After an hour or two I wandered past the booths where I saw Michael sitting next to a small, balding guy in his late twenties. Though they weren’t talking, they looked as though they were together. I passed Michael and caught his eye. He looked away quickly as though signalling he was busy, so I continued on to the dance floor to check things out.
The lumberjack was still there, grinding away, but gracefully, as though he’d sobered up some. This made me want him again—that plus the beer that I’d drunk. From the sidelines I watched the crowd dance, with an eye on my costaud[1] friend. He was dancing with agility, rhythm and, to me, eroticism. His big, beefy torso gyrated and his tight groin pulsed. Mr Sex. Eventually he stopped to rest by the speaker just a few feet away from me. He gazed at the dancers, occasionally glancing at me. After a few minutes he turned and smiled—in sharp focus this time—I smiled back and moved in. Next we were touching and kissing right where we stood. He flirted by smiling with his black, Indian-like eyes and fleshy, sensuous lips. I asked him his name; he answered with a kiss. In our jeans and T-shirts, he wearing a corduroy jacket and I a black leather one, we danced crotch to crotch on the edge of the floor, both hard, sometimes kissing, sometimes murmuring Ah, c’est bon and other protestations. We rubbed our beard stubbles together and licked each other’s ears, making slurping noises inside our heads. We ran our hands over each other’s backs and chests. I squeezed the flesh of his fesses[2]; he pulled the small of my back toward him to rub my bone against his. Somehow this went on for two hours.
When he went to the washroom and didn’t return after several minutes, I panicked and went off to look for him. I ran into Michael. “When you saw me at the booths back then,” he said breathlessly, tacitly acknowledging his snub back then, “I was getting the wickedest handjob ever. That little creep had me in multiple orgasms for ages!” Then, noticing my anxiety, added wryly, “Where’s your lumberjack?”
“You saw us?”
“Who didn’t! What’s the matter, he disappear?”
“No … he just went to the washroom. …  I don’t know… ”
“Getting lust-hormone withdrawal, eh?”
“Cut it out!”
“Don’t worry. I’m just teasing. —Jeez. That fucker got me off! Follow me. I know where your bruiser is.”
I brightened. Michael led me to the entry way, where costaud was arguing with the doorman in front of the neon cum-dripping penis sculpture.
“Some guy tried to pick up your man,” explained Michael. “When the guy wouldn’t let up, your shiny knight warned him that if he didn’t go away he’d beat him up, and he smashed his fist against his hand to show him. Then the guy ran up to the doorman to complain, and the doorman tried to kick him out. Some other guy came—the manager, I think—and made the doorman let him stay.”
Just then my lover saw me and came running over, repeating what Michael had just told me.
‘Non, non, non, non,’ je lui ai dit,” he said (No, I told him), acting out the dramatic pleading look he’d given the doorman, while holding my hands to his chest. ‘J’ai rencontré un ami et je dois aller le retrouver (I met a friend and I gotta get back to him).Please. Non. Please.’ J’ai crié comme ça: (I said it like that.) ‘Please, non, non.’” He grinned into my face.
We hugged, kissed and left (Michael had slipped away), glowering at the doorman on the way out. The doorman glowered back.
Once up on St. Catherine Street, my friend ducked into the doorway of another bar, beckoning me to come in with him. We went up the stairs to a huge dance club filled with the young and trendy. He swooped up a nearly full beer that someone had rested on a speaker and a few feet farther on presented it to me.
Merci !” I grinned. How valiant, I thought, and how practical, since neither of us had any more money. As we continued along the edge of the dance floor, he quickly spotted another full one on top of the next speaker and grabbed it for himself. A few feet and a dozen writhing bodies later, we came to rest in a corner and laughed. Soon we started up again with our erotic dancing, holding each other and rubbing our chests and crotches together, slurping on each other’s tongues and mouths. I thought this was pretty daring for a pretty-boy bar, even though several twenty-somethings were shirtless—and some had formed a daisy chain, bumping and grinding into the ass in front of them, but in such a clean way, no passion, lustless; as though acting out what desire looks like but not having it themselves. I wonder if any of them were even hard.
Costaud was looking only at me, and I felt like a cad for gawking at the others. So I turned my back on them all and looked only at him until we left for my place.
But romance can be exhausting when it’s drawn out over too long a time and fuelled by too much beer: once at my place, my spent buddy collapsed on my bed and passed right out. I had just enough energy to pull his clothes off—it wasn’t easy to haul his tight jeans over those muscular legs—strip myself, and crawl in alongside him where I passed out too.
In the morning under the bedclothes we spooned and caressed and came and spooned some more. The time grew late and we both had things to do, but I didn’t want to leave this gorgeous, smiley man. I pulled down the covers and in the filtered morning light explored his chunky body. He smelled so good all over—sweet from the previous night’s dance sweat—and he still looked like a lumberjack—especially naked, and even the next morning. His thick chest, forearms and legs were spattered with short black hair, and he was naturally muscled, with just the right amount of fat under the skin to prove he didn’t get that way through weight training. After we came one more time he rolled on his chest and I rested by head on his smooth, creamy ass, and my arm across his big, broad back. We snoozed.
Merci,” I said at the door. “Merci,” he said in return. We smiled. “Thanks for the romance,” I added, in English. He winked. “Thank you,” he replied. We kissed each other gently on the lips. He left.
I still don’t know his name. He never learned mine. And the only number I got from him was the one I found earlier when I was exploring his body. On his inner left thigh, just below his balls, a number was tattooed in black: 1964. His birth date, I guess. And below was a pink triangle.

Not me, but you get the idea.
I just love seeing men making out in a bar!


Follow-up
This story happened in 1990, and costaud won my personal Trick of the Year Award. (Really) Ten years later, in 2000, I was making all-night love with this really hot, naturally muscular guy, when, after about four hours, I finally noticed it: a pink triangle with the year 1964 stamped underneath. Neither had recognized the other until that point; in fact, he didn’t remember me. Needless to say, he was the best sex of 2000 (I have long since stopped with the awards). I can’t wait for 2010.

From "East of the Big Q," a collection of short stories about queer Montreal, by Raymond John Woolfrey. Copyright 2001-2011