Calling All Cars

I was arrested by the police for shredding my lover's clothing with a pair of scissors.

'Fuck around on me? I'll show you,' I shouted while doing the deed on some expensive duds.

'Get out of my apartment,' my partner of five years shouted as he dialed 911.

The police came.

'But I pay all the rent, I ain't going. I bought all the clothing that I shredded,' I said to the police.

'Just leave for the evening,' they pleaded.

'Fuck that, I ain't leaving. Do you even know the situation here? We are lovers, we have sex together and we've done so for almost six years now. You can't make me leave like that.

Make him leave, he's the one having the affair,' I explained.

My lover Frank and the police stood there with their mouths wide open. They reminded me of a trio of blow up sex dolls.

The police cuffed me and whisked my ass away to the precinct. A night in the pound changed me but revenge was sweet. The central booking station in downtown Manhattan is frightening. Drug dealers share space with crazy homeless individuals, businessmen who beat their wives and those who graffiti subway platforms with stickers promoting new music CDs.

I was frightened and couldn't believe how my ass ended up there and now I was waiting to see a judge with the rest of bi-polar society.

Two cute Latino guys flashed a plastic bag with what appeared to be small white and yellow pills inside to capture my attention so I made my way over to the two thugs.

'Want one of these?' asked a ruggedly handsome man with a heavy Spanish accent.

'How much?'

'Sixty.'

I thought the pill would relax my nerves like a Vicadin. I rested somewhat peacefully in the cell between the arms of two new lovers. The three of us did not speak to one another. I simply allowed the men to rub their hands all over me. It felt downright blissful.

The cell was crowded with at least sixty prisoners and space was a minimum. The three of us huddled under a cement bench towards the back of the cell.

One of the thugs was obviously not into the sexual thrills of the drug, but the dude with a scar on his face and I certainly were.

The three of us had erections all night and made numerous trips to a water fountain next to a toilet without a stall within the corridors of central booking. We rubbed one another in bliss as the night passed so slowly for lonely spectators in the cell.

I didn't even think of Frank, back home trying to piece together a pile of torn clothing.

The relationship between Frank and I came to an abrupt end. Our separation was made possible through the orders of a court judge. I was thankful that the judge ruled down hard on my ass by issuing a restraining order.

I couldn't return to the apartment to claim my belongings or face a cheating lover. I could care less. I was left alone with only the things in my wallet and the clothing on my back.

But I was free inside a prison cell.

I resentfully went to my gym Crunch Fitness on Christopher Street and worked out, took a shower and wondered were I would spend my first night after being released from prison and a played out ex-lover.

I stopped to eat dinner at a cafe on Christopher Street, a small little espresso bar called 'The Original Espresso Bar'. At the time it was a place where one could still sit, sip coffee and puff away on a pack of Newports. I drank three bottles of Poland Spring water and two cups of coffee and didn't like the sandwhich a Mexican behind the counter made for me.

I headed off to 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue where a porn shop played host to one of the most fabulous features of modern Gay America the Buddy Booth. With the concept of the now extinct telephone booth, Buddy Booths are used for convenient conversations of sorts with those we lust. Plexiglass separates 'private booths' where with a dollar placed in a hungry slot, one has the power to lift the screens to the left and right. The most important feature of the booth does not work unless one's buddy shoves a dollar bill into the hungry vending machine as well. Not only does the dollar grant one viewing rights, but ninety-nine stations of porn are available. It's like having the Weather Channel on a Jet Blue flight.

Minute lovers each press a green button, the curtain rises and one has a few brief moments, a dollar's worth, to advertise deviant sexual acts .

Seduction is not as easy as it may sound. A buddy may not really know who is next door.

Porn watchers sometimes take a chance by pressing a green button and it's anyone's guess of what will show up when the curtain rises.

If a buddy does not do enough to seduce his neighbor, the curtain may come slamming down with the simple press of a red button. Middle Eastern men who run the joint allow for a three inch slot at the base of the plexiglass where one can breathe if necessary.

I stood outside the booths being cruised up and down like a wedding gown waiting for purchase by a blushing bride.

'Which one of you has a nice apartment in Chelsea?' I asked as if standing in a candy store.

I needed a place to bed for the night. My lover had me arrested with restraining order and I had no home. I went into a booth and heard sissies fighting in the hallway as they rushed to grab the booths next to mine.

In went a dollar bill and I pushed both green buttons waiting for either neighbor to take the bait. Both shades rose immediately and simultaneously. I dropped my pants and had two offers for free bedding that evening.

In hushed tones, both buddy neighbors asked, 'Hey dude, wanna come to myplace?'

Exhausted from a night of popping Ecstacy in prison, I reached down and grabbed the lure of a Black man with dread locks.

'Take me home, Daddy,' I whispered as the time ran out and the curtain came winding down in a Time Square porn shop.

He followed me outside as I left the porn shop.

I have always hated having to act street just to fulfill the image of my masculine body with a phat round bootie. But in

New York City, where bottoms outnumber tops twenty to one, one cannot let loose and become a flaming faggot when trying to find a roof over one's head and a nice stiff rod to cuddle up to.

All gay men like butch boys, very few are attracted to sissies like the ones found on Queer Eye For The Straight Guy.

'So, sup?' I asked in a deep masculine tone.

The Black man laughed hysterically.

'Sup wit you? I live in Harlem. Wanna come to my place and let me nail dat ass?'

I thought for a second and replied, 'Aight!'

Then out of the blue, without intention, I claimed, 'I'm hustlin' man. I need a place to stay and $200.'

'But of course,' said the handsome Black man with a bright smile and twinkle in his eye.

The two of us didn't speak on the subway ride to

Harlem. We both fantasized as both passion and potential danger lurked in the air. I never believed the Black man would give me $200 for sex while riding the train on the way to

Harlem to finish off what was started in a buddy booth.

'I'll be lucky if he and a group of his friends don't gang rape me,' I thought.

But we walked into his cozy apartment in Harlem without incident. Photography equipment was all over the place. Cameras and backdrops cluttered the apartment and empty bottles of Old English beer were in abundance.

The Black man handed me $200 from a wad of twenties lying carelessly on a coffee table. Shawn, the photographer drew me a bath.

I soaked my cares away. 'God really does take care of fools,' I thought while scooping up a handful of bubbles while listening to Sade album on the stereo.

We drank coffee, smoked some bud and looked over a pile of black and white photographs. I forgot about the $200 and asked Shawn if he would mind shooting a few artistic nude shots.

'You have to pay for the film,' replied Shawn. 'It's $100 a roll.'

'I'll buy two rolls worth,' I said as I bent over to spread my pretty white ass cheeks.

'Capture this image. It will live forever.'

Shawn the photographer put down his camera and reached out for the bundle of joy.

'Hands off! Let's be professionals,' I insisted as the crack on my ass smiled gleefully for the camera as the shutter clicked almost nonstop until the sun came up in Harlem.

The sun came up and I felt horrible. I needed more coffee immediately. Then I remembered where I was at the home of a buddy I bumped into in Times Square booth.

It all started to come back now the nude photo shoot under the lense of a mysterious photographer Shawn, a stranger I met in a porn shop in Times Square.

During the sexual escapade at Shawn's place in Harlem, the photographer took his clothes off too and handed the expensive camera to me to 'top' for a while.

I started to snap out of my manic behavior while the shutter on the lens fluttered away. 'You have no home bitch, what are you doing here?' I asked myself while taking close-ups of Shawn's torso.

Shawn was absolutely gorgeous, especially while standing in front of a large sheet of heavy white paper professional high quality back-drop paper, a cardboard like medium that rolls down like a buddy booth shade on 42nd Street.

Shawn had many high-tech photographry gadgets in addition to a professional back-drop. He used electronic devices similar to the ones stars from 'Star Trek' to communicate with me while posing on the big screen, in order to test for perfect light intensities. Strobe flashes added pizzaz to the love making and I felt just like a porn star while being photographed.

'What do you do for a living?' I asked while laying on my back and pulling my legs up over his head to expose what so many men had come to worship.

'I'm a photographer. I make my living through pornography, but I have dreams of becoming a real artist,' explained Shawn.

'Can you make me a star?' I asked.

'You are so much more than a porn star, sexy! But if that's what you want. Go sit on the white sofa by the fireplace and show me what you got,' ordered the potential publisher.

It was the best sex I ever had I realized that the next morning while looking down at the man sleeping in the bed next to me. Fuck Frank. He got a big dick, but it was nothing like Shawns! I can't wait to see the proofs on those two rolls of film, I thought.

The photo shoot ended with a make-believe snap shot of me pretending I was Marilyn Monroe with the wind blowing my trench coat up. After hours of freeze framing, the two of us collapsed on the white paper and fell asleep exhausted. We woke up a few hours later and crawled over piles of clothing to a bedroom and rested for what seemed to be an eternity on a water bed.

Shawn was still sleeping, but awoke from the lust of my stare. His body was like that of an African warrior slender, well toned and hung to the knees. He had a beautiful set of teeth, which I envied.

His long braided hair reached his shoulders. He looked a lot like a painting of an Afro-Centric Jesus.

The sex for sale game initiated on 42nd Street had blossomed into a full scale audition for Blue Boy magazine by the time the evening's festivities ended. The night of playing make-believe sex games was intense.

I have always been an exhibitionist, but the sexual photo shoot, man- whore escapade with a total stranger took me to imaginary heights I never before fantasized about.

Eventually we ran out of film but we kept shooting the camera for the sheer joy of posing in a sexually alluring positions. I knew we didn't use a condom but I wanted the photographer to see the image clearly and cum inside of me.

In the morning, when reality returns, it's a hard reaction that one faces as the repercussions of deviant sexual acts are coupled with fantasy role playing. 'Oh well, I probably had AIDS already from that prick Frank,' I thought while ignoring the possibility that I could easily have contracted HIV from a one night stand.

Shawn had come inside me on numerous occasions and bodily fluids were shared like weed that night.

'You know, I let you fuck me without a condom,' I said really pissed and still in need of coffee when Shawn opened his eyes.

'I'll make us some Starbucks Yukon Blend,' he promised while looking into my green eyes .

I jumped into the shower and prayed that I had washed all the potential germs away. 'Oh well, at least it's a roof over my head for now,' I sang in the shower while gliding a bar of Dove delicately up and down the crack of my hairy ass.

'Did I only imagine that wad of twenties on the coffee table last night?' I asked myself. 'This guy is loaded. He must have a lot of connections in the industry. I'm keeping him,' I thought,

I walked back into the bedroom and asked Shawn to put it inside one more time, while I was still dripping wet, from a morning shower in Harlem. There is something about sex while wet, that is just like photography when greasing the body up with baby oil. It felt so damn good. I was over Frank so fast.

'What's your story,' asked Shawn, somewhat genuine in his compassionate question, while I mounted the rock hard artist for the seventh time.

'Relationship issues, I've been put out,' I explained while reaching for my jeans, most certain that the stranger Shawn would ask me to leave based on my unfortunate, but all too common predicament.

'You can stay here if you want,' he offered.

'What do you do for a living?' the stranger asked as if shopping for a new lover.

'I'm a writer of sorts odds and ends jobs, but a lot of writing. I hate writing. It's a curse. It has always paid the bills, but it's really a curse,' I explained while studying all the high tech photography equipment while pickup up pieces of my clothing scattered all over the apartment.

'My writing cost me my last relationship,' I said. 'I'd rather be a porn star.'

'What do you mean?'

'Shut up and relax. It's none of your business,' I demanded as I squeezed my ivorycheeks and used my secret muscles within to trap yet another husband.

'Damn boy, you are fine!' shouted Shawn still stunned by the sheer strength of my inner-self.

I didn't believe him, so I started to put on my clothing and I let the $200 I had earned honestly lay on the coffee table. Shawn grabbed his appointment book and made a note while watching me round the corer of St. Nicholas Avenue and 145th Street in Harlem, out of his view.

'Met a cute white boy with personality and nice ass. Freckles on his back may expose well. Use glossy paper when developing negatives. Claims his name is Charles George Orwell.'