A number of years ago, I flew out to New York for my first visit. I was to meet friends at the American Folk Art Museum to see an exhibit of Henry Darger on the night I arrived. Darger is a favorite of mine; all the pictures of naked little girls with penises reminds me of the illustrations of the nude, pudgy angels in my family's bible that my sisters and I used to tickle the feet of and giggle at. It was rather sweet and innocent, but we knew it was kind of nasty.
But before the museum, I was to have dinner with my friend Rico. He took me out on the town as soon as I arrived. The whole city was brand new to me so I drank up and just went along with him. After visiting a few bars in Chelsea and Hell’s Kitchen, I wondered if I was drinking too much too soon. I knocked back some fish pills with my beer to make sure I stayed healthy for the trip. “What was that?” Rico asked me.
“Oh, some fish oil tablets.”
“You’re taking vitamins in a bar?”
It didn’t seem strange to me then, but now it does sound a little ridiculous. I just want to be healthy.
We forged ahead to a monthly underground club named “John’s.” As soon as we got inside I realized why it was illegal…all of the bartenders and go-go dancers were nude. Most sported erections and encouraged the patrons to fondle them. Rico and I made our way to the bar, checking out everyone.
My stomach started bothering me and I was feeling gassy and discreetly burped into my hand when the smell of fish filled the air. “What the hell is THAT?” Rico laughed. “Did you just burp up fish?” It did smell awful.
We walked around with me burping up fish oil. I noticed a young Latino guy following me. He was quite cute but I was afraid to talk to him due to my awful breath. He looked like one of those emo kids that are getting beat up in Mexico City — black spiky hair, rail-thin in his Levis and an old, rocker-T with Blondie screened on the front. He was definitely young and was coming straight for me. “Hi. How’s it goin’?” He was sheepish and I could barely hear him. “Oh pretty good.” I said, trying not to breathe on him. He told me his name was Ivan and that he lived a few blocks away, which meant he was cutting to the chase and wanted me to come home with him. I looked over to Rico. He saw us and waved me away. Ivan grabbed my hand and we were off.
He did live right around the corner, and we were up the stairs to his flat before I knew it. Once inside, it was obvious he lived with his parents — dark brown rugs, wallpaper, family pictures everywhere, and the smell of cooked meats. I could hear the evening news on a television in the background. That’s when I realized that it was 11 p.m. and I had completely forgotten my friends at the museum. He put his finger to his lips, signaling me to keep quiet, and pushed me into his room.
Inside his room there were clothes strewn everywhere, posters of ’80s New Wave bands, smelly gym socks in a pile near a closet door. This was a teenager’s room. It was MY room in 1983. “How old are you?” I asked him. “Eighteen” “Oh Christ.” I muttered. “Really? How the hell did you get into that club?” He was looking down at the floor like a little boy who’d been caught shoplifting. “You like me?” He asked. “You like me Big Brother?” Then I got it, he’s into older guys and wanted to be the “boy.” I felt like an old pervert but it was sexy. While I debated with myself as to what to do next, he was on the bed, pants down and pulling his shirt off. “Oh Big Brother,” he said “won’t you let me taste you?” I stood there, watching him do this — his underwear dangling from one of his toes while he writhed on the bed, begging me to stick my balls in his mouth — when I thought about the kids in Darger’s paintings — naked and holding guns. I looked at this boy looking at me with his big, beautiful dark eyes. He looked like a child. But, God, I didn’t care. He was just lying there waiting for me to do whatever I wanted.
I shook off my clothes and he asked me again to sit on his face. So I did. I looked down at his young, smooth body while I soaked in his mouth. It was wonderful. Until his bedroom door swung open. It was his mother. She saw me squatting over her 18-year-old son’s face with my 35-year-old scrotum in his mouth. She covered her face and screamed. I panicked, and, with my balls still in his mouth, I jumped up. “POP!” went my sack from his lips and down to the floor I fell in pain that is indescribable. The father ran in and all three were yelling at each other in Spanish. “Get out! Get out!” his father screamed at me. Painfully, I pulled on my pants, grabbed the rest of my things and ran for the door. As I reached the front door, I vomited. Beer and fish oil landed everywhere. I slipped in it as the father pushed me into the hallway outside. He slammed the door behind me. I could hear them all fighting while I slowly put on the rest of my clothes and limped back to the bar. I had to find Rico. I needed to lie down.
Stumbling into the club, I found Rico where I left him. I grabbed onto him and hung on for balance. “What the hell happened to you?” He asked. “You’re white as a sheet!” “Oh my God,” I whispered, “You have to get me out of here. I need to lay down.”
“Where’s that kid you left with?”
“He’s gone. I’m in a lot of pain”
“Are you okay? Did you get jumped?”
“No. You’re not going to believe what just happened. Please, I need to lay down.”
“Oh God. Is this going to be another one of your stories?"
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