By Mighty Mouth

    I swear to you, dear reader, that everything I say is true and without exaggeration. Some three or four months after my return in 1967 from Carnaval in Rio, I was awakened one morning by the ringing of my apartment doorbell on Grand Army Plaza in Brooklyn. Startled and wondering who it might be, I looked through the peephole. Standing on the other side was a gorgeous kid whom I had never seen, and he looked Brazilian. How he got into my building without the doorman announcing him was a mystery. I opened the door and saw that he had a suitcase with him.     He said his name was Aluízio. He had just arrived from Brazil and came directly from the airport. Marcus, the young Brazilian "prince" I knew, had given him my address. He asked if he could stay at my place. How could I resist such an offer? I figured that if he came with Marcus’ recommendation, there should be no problem. He exuded macho sex appeal from every pore.

I knew I had captive meat. By his second day there, I could stand it no longer. I decided to pounce. He was getting ready to sleep on the couch and had stripped down to his shorts. Besides keeping porno films, I was also still using my reliable stack of porno playing cards. I asked  him if he wanted to see them, and of course he said yes. When he started looking at them, I saw a flicker of cock movement, but nothing substantial. I couldn’t wait another second.

I asked him if him if he wanted a blow job. He seemed surprised and asked if I really did that kind of thing. I answered that I did once in a while, so he said OK. I’m sure it was his first blow job and it must have been so marvelous that he came before he was even fully erect.

Aluízio quickly got a job at the Brazilian restaurant Cabana Carioca, where Marcus had worked, and came home late at night. We made a deal that when he wanted to be serviced he could come into my bedroom and wake me, an almost nightly occurrence. He obviously enjoyed my mouth and deep-throat action so much that he would have a very stiff cock ready for me. And he quickly learned how to totally relax and enjoy slow and prolonged action, stopping me whenever he got close. He was truly one of my best sex partners.

In 1970, when I made my three-continent trip to Europe, Africa, and South America, one of my stops was Brasilia, Brazil’s capital. A young tourist guide met me at the airport who showed me around, and later met me the first night in my hotel bar with a friend. His friend’s name was Cincinnatus. He was a blond with blue eyes, and looked just like a Kansas farm boy. I bought them drinks, and my guide said that he had to go back to work but would return later.

I chatted with Cincinnatus for a while and my guide didn’t return. I started to get hungry and mentioned to my companion that I wanted to have dinner. He said, “Let  me take you to my town to eat. I know a good restaurant there." He lived in one of the “satellite" cities of Brasilia called Itaguatinga, several miles out of town. We took a bus there and had a good dinner.

Then he said "let me show you my house." I said OK, and we walked a few blocks there. In 1970, the streets were still all dirt. Today it is a sophisticated area with skyscrapers. His parents were away in Uberlândia, their home city, where I would spend a night many years later. It was a nice place, but the toilet was stopped up. We were met there by a younger kid who was apparently Cincinnatus’ sidekick. I was fascinated with Cincinnatus and we chatted for hours in his halting English, which he was trying to improve. When it got late, I said "I have to get back to Brasilia."

 He replied, "There are no more buses, you will have to spend the night here." Startled, but excited, I accepted.

When we went to bed, I was invited to sleep with Cincinnatus, and the kid slept on the floor. What a situation! Here I was lying in bed beside a gorgeous young stud who was practically nude. I soon turned the conversation to sex. I told him what I would like to do with him, and he immediately accepted, turning on his side. I went to town. Afterwards he went to sleep, or pretended to. The kid, who apparently had seen everything, said, "Psst." I knew what he wanted. I got out of bed and went over to him. I felt his hard young cock through his pants and promptly unzipped him. He came quickly.

The next morning, we took a flatbed truck back into Brasilia with a group of ten or so other passengers. This was their cheaper alternative to buses. I left my address and phone number the next day with my guide and within a month he was in New York. Soon Cincinnatus wanted to follow. I was dying of anticipation, because of course he would be staying in my house. But he stupidly told the American Consulate that his reason for wanting to visit the US was to get a job instead of just going as a tourist. Naturally his visa was denied and I never saw him again.

In 1972, I spent six weeks in Rio. Somehow I met a young straight-acting Brazilian guy who was a terrific cocksucker. I asked him where he learned his trade, and told me that an American had taught him. He offered to introduce me to his mentor, who lived with his lover, also American, in Copacabana. The couple had a big apartment, common in Brazil, that occupied the entire floor of their building.

    The lover was a big executive for an American company in Rio, and my contact’s friend was a macho, bald guy who earned his living as an English teacher. The elevator door for their floor, which opened directly into their apartment, was locked so no one could get into the apartment, also common in Brazil. But the servant’s entrance behind the building gave free access via the service elevator. Nowadays, it is impossible to enter any apartment house through this entrance without being announced by the doorman. They had a revolving door of guys who visited them. They were the two most insatiable queens I ever met. The executive, who complained of frequent “fart” attacks, would to say to the other, "I am desperate for a cock. Go out on the street and find me one." The baldy, subserviently, would do as told. They were such addicts that they spent their weekends having one trick after the other. Baldy told me that, never satisfied, he ended up Sunday night sitting on a Coke bottle and jerking off.

Someone introduced me to a bizarre guy who ran a male escort service. I don’t how he got his customers in those days before the Internet, but he seemed to do OK. I would visit him on occasion. He had many photo albums of available prospects, but I decided to not go this route. He was getting ridiculous hair transplants that stood up on his head like an untrimmed bush. I opened the paper one morning and discovered that his apartment had been raided, and he and all of his photos carted off. I thanked heaven that I wasn’t there when it happened.

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


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