New York

Black. White. Latino.

Blatino. Biracial, black and white. White and Latino. Puerto Rican (Boricua). Dominicano. Mexicano. Part Puerto Rican and half Dominican. Black Mex. Black and Puerto Rican. Black and Dominican.

Half Mexican and part Dominican.

Puerto Rican and Mexican.

Cuban. Jamaican. Haitian. Panamanian. Colombian. Venezuelan. Brazilian.

Chinese. Japanese. Look at these—look at these. Filipino. Mongolian. Italian. Greek.

Lives in x-borough, but chooses to fuck in all boroughs.

Passport, visiting from overseas.

Plan on staying for just a little while. For business. For pleasure.

Corporate. Thug. Corporate Thug. Average. Slim. Stocky. Thick. Muscled-up. Pay to play. Masc. Fem. In-between. Hell, if I know. Don’t have a fucking clue!

Top. Bottom. Versatile, everything.

Oral top. Oral bottom. Just want to suck and get sucked.

It sounds like a freakin’ buffet! But no, not at all.

It is New York—the land of the five freakin’ boroughs.

It is the land of overstuffed pythons and violently spitting anacondas, tight tolling tunnels and bottomless pits all at my convenient disposal. 24 hours a day. 7 days a week. 52 weeks and 365 days a year—366 days every leap year.

Every time I leave the house, I find that the New York air washes over me with a horniness that causes my pipe to leak and my ass to get slippery at the thought I can get my dick wet and my man-cunt pounded out at any second just by standing out the front door.

I try to play it cool. Have my clothes blending in with theirs. The usual street soldier uniform of an urban man of color: baggy, saggy jeans, a pair of tan Timbs, and something that allows me to show off my defined muscled-out torso at the drop of a dime to the highest quarter bidder.

I even took to smoking trees in the don’t-you-fucking-dare-smoke-anywhere-city. Actually, shit, I just hold a burning blunt out the corner of my mouth and try not to inhale just to show I can be down for whatever, only to end up making a fool out of myself behind closed doors.

Inhaling and coughing. Inhaling and coughing. Damn near nauseous.

They laugh. They all laughed from the handsomest of inglorious bastards to the gnarled, shit-faced of angry gangsters. They like I’m that different and that my cornbread brown skin is remarkably fresh and clean and sun-kissed bright. They love that I’m from the foreign land of South Carolina. That I talk with a deep southern twang, calling me Country Boy at every bend.

They don’t hold back. They want to fuck some of this good country ass. The way it teases them. The way it sticks out like a sturdy bar for a drink, teasing their hard-ons like some sort of unusually cruel joke. They want to suck some big country dick feeling good that the myth lives up to its hype (in my case it does). That a country boy with big country hands and big country feet, size seventeen to be exact, has a big country prick that can stretch out any available hole from here to kingdom come!

Digging deep and swimming long at nearly every turn in this concrete jungle paved of gold is sweet. Though, what gets me off is being a big dick bottom for some swinging dick top that know how to sooth the beast, calm an insatiable hole like mine the fuck down. I think everybody gets off on the hard heavy thwacks of a hefty dick hitting a six pack, or a flailing magnum bobbing up and down like a carriage ride down by the riverside.

I spend some time introducing my sex to New York by having a different man every night in a different borough and outskirt. Manhattan. Queens. Brooklyn. Staten Island. The Bronx. Yonkers. Jersey City. Mt. Vernon. New Rochelle. Paterson. Newark. Elizabeth. Long Island. But my ship comes in at a very popular sex party out near The Hub. It is too wild for me. Either that it’s too fast for my bumpkin ass or I am a snail in this jackrabbit world. One guy bends over to suck off another guy, and a line twenty deep seems to grow out of his asshole. I go to the roof to get some fresh air from the pollution of rowdy sex below to find other men doing the same thing. Most seem to know the other and vice versa, leaving me to feel solo on this run. There is no non-sexual Meet & Greet sex party etiquette—just Meat & Grit with your supposedly hidden parts. I still try though. Most choose to ignore me. A handful of others try to play me, trying to run some lame-ass game stealing line from the late Big Poppa, like ‘what’s my name, what’s my sign’ directly chuckling from my behind.

I coyly flip them off, look and make out the river and the city and the lights and dark in between.

“Not as dumb as those other assholes, I see.” He says rolling up beside me.

He is no walking Adonis, a descendant from the great heavens above. He is no Greek God or Zulu Warrior. He is an ugly motherfucker with a sexy confidence about him wrapped up in a sexy thug life package.

He has this low-cut almost shaved bald head with these small-ass ears and these big-ass lips; a beard that makes him look like a subway prophet, and these fiery eyes that could be fueled by a 150-proof elixir.

He sounds like New Yorker. He tells me he is a chocolate Nuyorican by way of Brick City. I smile and inquire about what that all means. He grins devilishly and says “in due time, ba-be.” He says his name is Ralo. I tell him mine is David. He says from now on he was going to call me Reno ‘cause I look like the black cop from the show.

To go back in and seduce him to do the wild thing with me seems sort of awkward, unkind to our pleasant conversation. I leave quite satisfied like I had emptied a thousand loads after one hundred years of celibacy. My regret comes immediately after I am spit out onto the abandoned streets with nothing more than the impression of his scent and swag.

Our paths were destined to cross again weeks later the local subway train home. He dons his finest chain, his flyest gear and his most expensive leather do-rag. He is on his way to the studio to lay down some tracks. He tells me he is a rapper and invites me to join him. I tell him to spit some rhymes, giving me some kind of reason to go off with him. He breaks into laughter in mid-verse, telling me that he is only a producer but that the rest of his story is true. Against other judgments, I play follow the leader to this spot down in the Lower East Side. I watch Ralo do what he do and pay close attention to everything he shows me.

I fall asleep on the couch. I wake up next to him, appreciating his nice sturdy build keeping me warm throughout the cold night. He kisses me on the forehead good morning, and then takes me out to breakfast at Mickie D’s. Once we put the last crumbs in our mouths, he slips me a card with all his contact info. Call him anytime, he says. I am hesitant to use it over the next couple of days. I don’t want to come off too eager, too hopeful, too clingy. And how we met does not lay the greatest foundation for something more, something real, which often dances through my head when I think of him and my face rubbing up against that straggly beard of his.

We eventually hang out. We chill. He kisses me but nothing more apart from a peck here and there. Sometimes I think his mind is on building a good friendship and nothing more.

He surprises me one night over the phone after one of our casual movie nights. He starts talking real low and sexy-like, asking me what I had on. Not catching on, I told him the truth. The same thing he just saw me in. When I reversed the question, he laughs, “only a pair of socks and a smile.” Ralo tells me how he likes roaming around his bedroom in the projects butt-ass naked jacking off to the beat of the busy city below. He thinks about me, tugging at his crotch. He tells me he thinks he is in love with me every time he is near me and falls into lust every time he is without me. “Oiling up that phat booty of yours and going to town on it like a Hungry Man dinner.” He says if this was a perfect world we could have a picnic lunch in Marcus Garvey Park, stroll under the streetlamps of the Brooklyn Bridge, and share overnighters at some fancy B&B further up the Hudson. His gestures of romance turns into adrenaline-rushing sex with freaky ideas of oral-to-genital fixation in the dirty alleyways near his building or having me grunt in crescendo as he takes my phat booty on the rooftop of some unguarded tenement. He playfully asks me to come over. There is an abandoned spot in his building where we can ‘make love.’ I don’t mind being with him in that way, but I am somewhat paranoid about the underworld that is his projects where I figure the seediest of activities transpire. He senses my hesitance through the phone. He confesses he wouldn’t do me like that. Not me. Not the first time, at least. He needs time and space, a spot for our groove to be long and nasty and really, really slow.

He wants to kiss me there…and there…and there…and there and enjoy everything everywhere. I need for him to be my man.

He says all the right things. And I help him screech his way to a milky end laced with vulgar breathing and heavy tones. I let him recover. He thanks me. I hang up, busting my own nutt with my legs spread to some porno later.

Over the next few weeks, he no longer talks about studio stuff. At least, not with the passion that once sung in his heart about it. Instead, his business is about running errands. Errands this, errands that. He doesn’t have time for me anymore because he is always running some fucking errand. I simply figure it is somebody else somewhere else out there in the world. I am considering giving him the sex I crave just to keep him around, if for nothing more than booty calls. In going through my back and forth on what to do, I catch Ralo browbeat on the train. He doesn’t see me. I don’t make myself known. I’m going to catch him with the bitch. I stay to the side, follow my instincts and follow him on the ride out. His errand runs are consumed with small brown packages, handing them off to unscrupulous men and hoodrats on the sly. Sometimes he’s even collecting these packages showing off his gun tucked into his waistband and taking them to the other end of the alphabet and numeric lines.

I say absolutely nothing. I go about my business.

See no evil. Hear no evil.

I try to go through detox. Detox him from my life. He is my drug of choice and I continue to follow him to make sure he stays safe. My life is now a contradiction. My trailing of this man is an obsession, yet my contact with him is passé, almost none now.

I find solace on the quiet end of a platform, away from the chatter of the mobile world. I try finding my peace in a chaotic book I am on my way to the library to return. Ralo is no longer on my mind, finally, and then there he appears standing in front of me.

“What’re you doing?” Ralo asks abruptly.

Ralo looks different. More refined, more confident, yet that glow that initially made him attractive soon fades away.

“Reading a…”

“You know what I mean, David.” Ralo cuts me off. I now know he is serious because he put David where Reno usually goes. “Following me around the city like some kind of stray mutt.”

“Fuck you too, bitch.” I spit back. My stomach drops and I am back to the first time I said ‘I love you, too’ and I can’t do anything but feel the butterflies. “I’ve been worried about you. I’ve got good reason to be, don’t I?”

“Look—”

“No, you look!” I jump up in his face, casting my book to the bench below. “For some dag-on reason, I caught feelings for you. I don’t want to see my hopes and dreams for us somewhere out there in the middle of the damn East River!”

He looks at me. His eyes try to shy away from me. He can’t help but to see that I am sincere. It isn’t his intention to hurt me, but he sees for the first time he is.

“This is something I got to do.” Ralo says mournfully.

“This is something you want to do. You’re good at what you do in the studio. Do that.” I plea.

“But it ain’t paying the bills.”

“Fuck the bills! At least fuck this!” I gesture at the precise time a train roars by.

“Babe, I can’t bring you home because I’m still with my moms and them. I can’t take you away because I don’t have much ends because I try and hustle legit. Can’t you see I’m doing this for us?”

“Don’t use me as an excuse for this.” I say. “If you do this, you’re doing it for you, not me.”

“Babe…David…Reno…”

“Do you know what the sexiest thing you’ve ever done for me in life has been?”

“That little freak session we had over the phone?” He chuckles.

“For me,” I correct him. “Letting me use your chest as a pillow that night on the Lower East Side and kissing me on the forehead with your funky morning breath. That bought you more with me than you could with the bread you make from doing this.”

He looks at me and kisses me and holding me like he should have, tight and firm like he isn’t ever letting go. It is like we are in that perfect world on that flawless day in the park we always talked about under free and clear skies. It feels so real I can feel the sunshine kissing our noses under the crisp snap of autumn. I quickly snap back into reality remembering we are just two men kissing in the cloaking darkness of an MTA subway station. I remember the hypothetical tragedies that happened to these kinds of boys back in Spartanburg and I cringe at the fate that awaits us here in the Big Apple.

The danger must excite him because his need to grab at my ass is urgent. His dick is on brick through his jeans. But the rise in my own causes me to pull away, fall back on the bench. I look up at him. Yes? No? Maybe? Before I make up my mind my head, my hands decide for me, pulling Ralo to me by his drooping waistband.

“What are you doing, man?” Ralo asks surprised.

He always takes the lead in kissing. Though, this isn’t kissing.

“Oh, you’ll see!”

Removing layer upon layer of zipped and buckled jeans and the standard boxer briefs, I peel out a decadently smooth, uncut, thick chocolate-caramel lead pipe that hangs there like some ridiculously big, oversized handlebar. I sniff the designer cologne and his musk rolling from his crotch before wrapping my lips around his fat king-sized dick. It feels warm and full in my mouth. Even I am startled that I want more of it. Damn it! With it just being in my mouth like this all I want to do is taste him. My enthusiasm outranks my logic. I must restore the balance, pushing him back enough out my throat just to work the tip. Ralo moans as I work my tongue around the head under that small tight hood of foreskin and over into the cavernous piss slit.

“Ah, damn, Dave, ba-be!” He whimpers like a little brat.

His dick tastes even better leaking with its sweet pineapple juice flavor.

He is lost on what to do with his hand, so he rests them on the top of my head like a buzzer on a game show.

“Suck my dick! Man, ohh!” Ralo breaths softly.

I give him his shaft a good once over. I pull off choosing to work over his meaty one-eighth Italian meatballs, trying to get to that spot between them.

Ohh and Ahh.

I go back to taking care of the rest of his dick with my mouth, lost in the safety that Ralo is my man, and he needs me to take care of him in this way. I am shaken back to where I am with the rickety rack of another passing train.

“There you go. That’s my ba-be!”

I try going for the gold, getting his pubes to tickle my nose. He is too big and too long for such a daunting task. He grunts and groans, nevertheless, and begs me to pull off. He has held back too long. He doesn’t want the first load we share together to come out like this.

I oblige.

“You’re right.” I say after pulling back.

“Yo, don’t get me wrong, man. That head was fucking tight! Real fucking tight! Hoover ain’t got shit on you! I was afraid if you kept it up I was going to lose it in your mouth. I’ve been saving this for your ass.”

“You got a rubber?”

“Yeah,” he says, and then, “here?” after he finally catches on pointing his finger down to the platform.

“Makes for a great first-time story,” I say feeling more than confident that it won’t be the last time.

I gently remind him of our circumstances. He lives in the projects with four generations of women, and I live on the down low in a hand over fist situation with my five roommates in a small two-bedroom apartment. Even though the space is quite public, it is also quite private like that rooftop he has always dreamt for us.

“Yo, you fo’ real?” Ralo asks, attempting not to grin too wide.

“Fa sho’. You?” I say with a twinge of second doubt. Am I really that kind of dick hog? Anytime? Anyplace?

He grabs my hand encouraging me to stand again. He kisses me again and tastes himself on my tongue. He enjoys his favor as much as I do—so I believe. This, though sweet, is an elaborate rouse to check his pockets for a condom.

“There are cameras around here you know?” He says guiding my hand to his firm and exposed sex.

“How many do you think are actually working? Are actually being watched by rent-a-cops?”

“You got me there.” He smiles going in for one more kiss and pulling away briefly to show me a small black square with the word MAGNUM written in gold.

I ain’t mad ‘cause it is true.

Being a prepared boy from the Deep South, I can give as good as I get, which is why I carry four packs of lube pillows just to be on the safe side.

We begin this dance that sort of plays like a romantic comedy twirling around as a Hollywood montage plays in the foreground as we get our bearing, making sure we are out of eyeshot of anyone that might give a damn.

I plop my ass on a small rise above the bench where he stands and leans back a little as we both try to undo my pants. He wants to shuck them off. I insist that I keep one leg on, around my ankle, around my Timbs.

“I never fucked a dude in his Timbs before.”

“First time for everything, ain’t it?” I huff in fear of my lust.

He uses one packet of lube on his dick and then put on the tailor-made rubber and slathers on another lube pillow. He slathers a third one in and around my hole and split the fourth packet between the second and third options.

“Ah, GOT DAMMIT!”

I wince at the head thudding against my entire back hole and then some on both ends. It damn sure isn’t going to fit, I think. I brace myself. I try to relax. I try not to scream again and hope to God that I don’t damage my pleather jacket too bad as it is tested to protect my butt-nakedness.

Ralo pushes in.

I breathe out, listening to the crackling of condom and lube. I squirm. This invader is the best of the worst. Most guys like to just ram it in, get it over with, thinking it’s the best way to open some tight ass—it ain’t. But this motherfucker here wants to take the scenic route. He wants to go nice and slow. I love it because it means he cares. I hate it because it’s forever too big and hurts like hell, splitting me apart like a rusted can opener.

I feel his balls crush against my phat sweaty buns. I would make a crude joke about a meatball sub, but with him inside me like this it is a serious matter. I feel full, complete, laboring through the searing pain spreading from my hole. He pulls back and I begin to help wiggle him out of my trembling hole. He drives in again, only this time it is sort of sluggish. The best way to describe it is like the beginning of a roller coaster ride. It drags with something more to come. It takes a moment to settle into his rhythm, and I understand patiently and pleasurably. None of us has ever done this like this before, and we were driven by the excitement of where we were and the fear of getting caught. It probably doesn’t help much that I cannot react like I should, or normally would. And it doesn’t help that what separates my bare ass from raw concrete is some thin, awkward and squeaky fabric.

The pain slowly floods into pleasure with the ache of ecstasy bumping against my prostate. I let out a few murmurs of delight with each passing train car. I reach for my own hard big dick thumping it against his hard-clothed stomach shaking down the boiling magma ready to erupt into scorching white-hot lava.

Ralo catches my eye. We exchange simpers. This here is unplanned, but still our first time. He sinks it in deeper, more control. He peaks at another level, and I give in completely. He owns my guts, and he knows it, putting me to the screws.

“Fuck. Oh, fuck! Dammit!” Ralo gasps.

He grabs the top of my thigh right at the bend. He slams it back in each stroke, harder than the last. I feel that my body is a sturdy tree and his enormous dick is like a chainsaw cutting into me with each brutal thrust.

He comes back from the place in his mind. That place behind his closed eyelids. He looks down at me. He lets my legs go, go as they may around his standing body.

“Damn, ba-be, you got a fucking nice piece, too!” He says matching my shaft stroke for stroke.

I scream, not recognizing my own voice, shooting all over everything; my shirt and my jacket, his shirt and his jacket, even spraying a good bit on his pants, too.

For the first time, I feel the tears that fill in my eyes…those that were already there for some time. There is so much I cannot do, so much I want to do. I feel my hole close tightly around him, engulfing him, enveloping him, suffocating it, as he tries to keep his strong momentum going. He grinds to an end. His face tightens and that row of sweat on his forehead begins to show.

“I’m on my way, ba-be!” Ralo announces. “I’m on my fucking way!”

We hear a train pull up to the platform. He works hard than ever before. He bucks. He shouts. He bucks again roughly just seconds before the train rolls by and after he comes—hard.

I am feeling a mix of emotion as he pants his way down from Cloud 99. Happy. Glad. Elated. Mad. Had. Fucked. Sore. The thing I felt most in that moment though is empty and disappointed as his hard-soft shrinks and pulls out of me.

He unrolls the magnum from his dick.

I feel like a mother giving up my child for adoption as I never get to see the nutt I help milk with this tight willing hole. I am left to grieve the seeds he tossed into the train track to be a feast for the rats and them.

The two of us take deep breaths as if we beat our criminal rap. We each pull up our pants. He helps me stand up. He lingers around looking at me before making the next move to kiss me once more. We stay frozen in the moment and begin running towards the new train as it approaches the platform.

I believe he will stay with me on the ride to the library. He has other plans, though. He has an errand to run.

When I return to the brownstone later that evening, Ralo sits outside of my building with a bag of candy and a money clip wallet-thick with fifties and twenties. He wants me to join him on another train ride elsewhere. I am reluctant to go because I will not go down as the subway freak. We ride out to this spot in Manhattan to this little bitty-ass apartment not far from his studio. He grins showing me around every nook and cranny. I don’t know what to say or take of the situation. He hems up against the tacky wallpaper affectionately and says he wants to make this place our new home.