TRUE CONFESSIONS - 5
By Mighty Mouth
I swear to you, dear reader, that everything I say is true and without exaggeration. I moved from our farm to a windowless room at Second and Jefferson in Louisville in 1955. The room cost a whopping $4.50 per week. I was attending classes at U. Of L. during the day, and working at Philip Morris cigarette factory throwing tobacco into a machine that produced cigarettes at the other end at night. I was surrounded by sex opportunities. The Trailways bus station was a half-block away from my room. There were always young guys with a couple of hours to kill waiting for the next bus to their destination. It was easy to strike up a conversation with them and whisk them off for the short walk to my room. A teenage female prostitute also hung around the station. We struck up a conversation and somehow she convinced me to take her back to my room for sex. I think I took pity on her. We did it, and I paid her, but I got nothing out of it. That was the second and last time I ever had sex with a female.
I met a short but tough gay there who fascinated me. He had the most voracious sexual appetite of anyone I ever met, and was a great cocksucker. His home base was Kokomo, Indiana, but he said he was always on the road. He never said whether he worked or not. He told me he would go into a hick town and start a conversation with teenage boys hanging around. He would offer his services and say, "Round up as many others as you want, I’ll take care of you all." Whether it was pure fantasy or not, I can’t say.
Across the street from the bus station was a burlesque movie house, the Savoy Theater. The straight films it showed were tame compared to today’s pornography. But that didn’t stop horny guys from frequenting the place. And they in turn attracted predatory gays. It was a madhouse. One frequent visitor was a guy in a wheelchair. Another guy, perhaps his lover, would wheel him into the theater, then down the steps to the men’s room to spend the afternoon. He would move up beside the urinal and wait there. His wheelchair was low-seated, putting him at about cock level. When a guy came to piss, there was a mouth inches from his cock. They got the message quickly and either accepted the obvious offer or left. Mr. Wheelchair didn’t mind who watched him in action. No one ever got angry with him and struck him, I suppose because he was in a wheelchair. Maybe that device was just a ploy.
Either at the bus station or the movie house I met a guy my age who was riding his motorcycle from Boston to New Orleans, stopping for a while in cities along the way. For me he was Marlon Brando personified. He invited me to join him. I was enthralled with the idea, and willing to throw everything away for someone I had known only two days. Fortunately, I told Fred W. about it. He said, "Are you crazy? Don’t do it." Thank heaven I listened to reason.
To be continued. If anyone wants to read a free copy of my book, “Memoirs of a Gay Rights Maverick,” I’ll send it to you as an email attachment. Advise me via email: [email protected]