By Mighty Mouth

    I swear to you, dear reader, that everything I say is true and without exaggeration. At my first New York job, I often spent part of my lunch hour in Madison Square Park, just across the street from my office building. I noticed that a white Puerto Rican guy about twenty was there every day, too. Besides being good-looking, he had the biggest hands I had ever seen on a person his size, although he wasn’t tall, only about 5' 8". I remembered the old wives’ tale, that big hands and feet signify that another part of the anatomy is also large. Ever aggressive, I quickly made friends with him. We were soon lunching together almost every day, and I shortly invited him to visit my apartment. That’s when I learned that the "big hands" deal was a myth. We remained sex partners and friends for at least a year, then it faded.

    Soon after moving into an apartment on Cumberland Street in Brooklyn in 1957, I joined the YMCA on Hansen Place near my house. I was in heaven. I attended a rigid calisthenics group three times a week, and jogged on the Y’s indoor track. I signed up for the 100 mile run. The objective was to jog a total of 100 miles during the course of a few months. They kept careful records. I completed the run and got a certificate. I loved the row-boat apparatus which I would use after my jog. I was in better shape at twenty-eight than I had ever been in my life.

For me, the weight lifters were the highlight of the gym. I would often stare at them from outside the weight room and ogle them while they were undressing in the locker room. Many would turn their back to me and some would indicate they didn’t want the attention. One particularly big and powerful weightlifter didn’t seem to mind. He would turn to face me while dressing or undressing and show his gigantic tool. After watching him do this a few times, I struck up a conversation. I asked if he wanted to go home with me and he said yes. It became a regular thing, with the two of us leaving the Y together and going to my apartment. He had the strange name of Trocky. Many years later I saw him on the street. Like so many of his type, he had stopped his exercises and was extremely fat, probably weighing 300 pounds.

I loved the dry sauna, but not the steam room. I enjoyed sitting in it with so many naked guys, although nothing happened there. They were doing it on the steps between floors at the Y. I thought it fun to watch all those rivulets of sweat running down their bodies, onto the floor, and down the drain in the middle of the sauna.

In 1966 when I went to Halifax, I traveled through New Brunswick and Nova Scotia by bus. There were not many passengers, but I sat in the back. Unlike blacks, who were forced to sit in the back, gays gravitated there with pleasure, for pleasure. In that era before bus restrooms, the back row at night could be a great make-out spot. On one trip from New York to Louisville by bus, I got a great blow job one night.

At some small town in New Brunswick a teenage boy got on alone and sat in the next-to- the-last row, just in front of me. Our area of the bus was empty. He was totally my type; macho and cocky. After a few miles I decided to talk to him, and leaned over his seat. He was receptive to conversation. I invited him to come sit with me, and he accepted. I made sure he sat by the window, the farthest seat from the front. He explained that he was a "juvenile delinquent" and was being sent to a youth shape-up camp in Nova Scotia. I decided that delinquent had a different meaning in rural Canada. The fact that he was going alone told me that his offenses could not be great and in New York he would probably be considered a Sunday School poster boy.

    I shortly told him what I liked to do and that piqued his curiosity. He said he would like to get a blow job, since he’d never had one. I put my hand on his crotch and felt an already-hard tool. I groped him for mile after mile, but was reluctant to take out his prick and try to suck him off. It was daylight, and bus drivers constantly keep vigil on what is happening on their bus. I knew a rest stop was coming up and told him that I would try to do it in the men’s room when we got there.

It was not to be. We loitered in the bathroom during our break, but it was always busy. I realized that if we lingered any longer we would miss our bus. We were both disappointed. Back on the bus he grew more talkative, and asked lots of questions about me and New York. He said he would like to visit me some day and I gave him my phone number. When he got to his destination, I watched him get off with sadness. There was something touching about him.

Not too long after I returned to New York, he phoned me collect. He said that he was ready to visit me if I would send him the money. I told him I didn’t think it a good idea because he might get stopped by immigration at the border. I was really worried that he might just be conning me. He phoned a week or so later, and I again refused him. That was the end of our contact.

    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]

Mighty Mouth


Mighty Mouth


Rate Story Choose rating between 1 (worst) and 10 (best).

Bookmark and Share

blog comments powered by Disqus