Senin, 28 November 2011

THE LAST GO-GO BOY by Peter Nolan Smith

Wall Street judged the nations’s prosperity according to the Dow Jones. This economic barometer responded to the year-end prediction of 2% growth in GNP with a series of swaying ups and mostly downs. At this time of the year most financial investors and bankers were more concerned with their bonuses than the lot of the common worker. For that large segment of the US population the rise in GNP meant less employees once more producing more profit for their companies without compensation for their increased effort and no one protested the extra work for fear of losing their job.

The economy is still in the shitter and I ask myself what jobs are available for a 59 year-old man.

Very few is the answer and I have been lucky that Manny always has a place for me on West 47th Street. Our past amity transcended our enmity, although my boss was glad to have a rest from me this holiday season. Sometimes enough is more than enough.

Last season I sold some rings for a gay writer. I took them to a black gold dealer in another exchange to get the gay writer the best price possible. Going through Manny would have cut into the final number and the writer needed the money to pay his health care bill.

My friend showed his gratitude with a dinner at a Asian fusion restaurant in the East Village. Every seat was crammed with young people enjoying the fast life in the city. They were my competition in the morning for a subway seat. I was lucky that these ruthless youth didn't throw me under the train.

“I never see anyone my age on the subway.”

“Men our age are retired.” Bruce was a world-known novelist. He had won awards in Europe. Critics called him a genius.

“Or out of work. If I didn’t have this job selling diamonds, I don’t know what I would be doing.”

“You could always lose ten pounds and work as a go-go boy at the queer retirement home.” Bruce had a biting wit.

“More like twenty pounds.”

“Honey, those old wrinklies aren’t so particular about the weight. They like the young flesh.” He had written a book on the rough trade in Times Square. His tricks had called him Papi. None of them were under 20.

“Scary thought.” I felt my age and my young wife kept reminding me that I wasn’t 17 anymore. Mam was 25 and my son was two years-old. I couldn’t quit working until I was 78.

“Do you have a retirement plan?” He ordered with a darting finger from the menu.

“No.” My mind was on eating. “Other than robbing a bank in Norway. They have good prison there.”

“By the time you do that they probably will have instituted euthanasia for the elderly, so that’s not really an option. Sounds like you should start taking steel pole lessons from strippers.”

“Those old fags want someone young.”

“You are young.” Bruce had retired from the rent-boy game after Mayor Giuliani closed the strip bars of Times Square. He knew this genre better than most men in America. “Young for the old queens in the nursing homes. None of them have seen anyone young as you in decades. You could charge the homes $100 a visit. Has to be better for the old geezers than any other medicine.”

“Thanks for the idea.” My father lived in a retirement village for Alzheimer patients. The mostly female residents smiled at me, as if I might be someone they knew. My father was the same. He thought that I was his son still, but he was not sure why. I would be lucky if a son's best friend made the New Year.

“It’s not a bad idea. Hell, you could franchise it in Florida. How many retirement homes you think are in the Sunshine State. Thousands. There has to be a market for it.”

“Probably.” I ordered scallop and seaweed noodles, plus a glass of wine. The waiter was thin and handsome. He had to be 30 years younger than me.

“And who knows? You might be able to sex them up.” Bruce caressed the waiter’s behind. He was a regular here. The waiter laughed walking away content to know he would be receiving a good tip. Bruce liked to pay for sex in any form. Love was out of both our best range.

“No way.” I barely wanted to have sex with myself let alone with someone else.

“Why, because you’re too good to have sex with someone older than you. Like me.” He frowned at this unintended insult. “What about the woman you had sex with in Palm beach? You said she was over 70.”

“That was different.” Helen had been the publisher of a Florida magazine. We had smoked reefer in her apartment overlooked Lake Worth. The address was in West Palm Beach.

“How? She said she hadn’t had cock in her mouth in ten years. She begged for it and you gave it to her like you were doing a remake of SUNSET BOULEVARD."

“It was a mercy mission.” The lights were off, the curtains filling with the gulf breeze, and Helen was wearing sheer lingerie and satin high heels. On her knees she performed like she was entering the Porno Hall of Fame. She never asked for Mr. deMille.

“Maybe the first time, but what about the second time?” Bruce sat back to let the waiter deliver our appetizers. Fried calamari for him. Raw bluepoints for me. “Gore Vidal said about orgies that once is experimentation, but twice is perversity.”

“The second time was because I was drunk.” Two bottles of wine and a joint. Helen had her way with me. I was her slave. “They was no third time.”

“Only because you saw her with another man and found out she uses that ‘haven’t tasted cock’ line with all the fresh meat in Palm Beach, so don’t tell me you can’t go-go boy anymore. You’re the master of re-inventing yourself.”

“I’d rather rob a bank in Norway.” I sucked down an oyster. It tasted of the Atlantic. The boyhood border of my home in Maine.

“And end up a stick boy in prison.” Bruce was enjoying himself. “You do what you have to do to survive. Believe me. I know.”

“I know you do.” Bruce was in his 60s. His novels were in every bookstore. His tales of hustlers and go-go boys were cult classic within the gay community. His name in in Wikpedia. All that meant almost nothing. Bruce was forever broke. Same as everyone in America, except for the very rich, and they have no use for an old go-go boy.

Wall Street judges the nations’s prosperity according to the Dow Jones. This economic barometer responded to the predicted 2% growth in GNP with a series of swaying ups and mostly downs. At this time of the year most financial investors and bankers are more concerned with their bonuses than the lot of the common worker. For that large segment of the US population the rise in GNP means less employees once more producing more profit for their companies without compensation for their increased effort and no one protested the extra work for fear of losing their job.

The economy is still in the shitter and I ask myself what jobs are available for a 59 year-old man.

Very few is the answer and I have been lucky that Manny always has a place for me on West 47th Street. Our past amity transcended our enmity, although my boss was glad to have a rest from me this holiday season. Sometimes enough is more than enough.

Last season I sold some rings for a gay writer. I took them to a black gold dealer in another exchange to get the gay writer the best price possible. Going through Manny would have cut into the final number and the writer needed the money to pay his health care bill.

My friend showed his gratitude with a dinner at a Asian fusion restaurant in the East Village. Every seat was crammed with young people enjoying the fast life in the city. They were my competition in the morning for a subway seat. I was lucky that these ruthless youth didn't throw me under the train.

“I never see anyone my age on the subway.”

“Men our age are retired.” Bruce was a world-known novelist. He had won awards in Europe. Critics called him a genius.

“Or out of work. If I didn’t have this job selling diamonds, I don’t know what I would be doing.”

“You could always lose ten pounds and work as a go-go boy at the queer retirement home.” Bruce had a biting wit.

“More like twenty pounds.”

“Honey, those old wrinklies aren’t so particular about the weight. They like the young flesh.” He had written a book on the rough trade in Times Square. His tricks had called him Papi. None of them were under 20.

“Scary thought.” I felt my age and my young wife kept reminding me that I wasn’t 17 anymore. Mam was 25 and my son was two years-old. I couldn’t quit working until I was 78.

“Do you have a retirement plan?” He ordered with a darting finger from the menu.

“No.” My mind was on eating. “Other than robbing a bank in Norway. They have good prison there.”

“By the time you do that they probably will have instituted euthanasia for the elderly, so that’s not really an option. Sounds like you should start taking steel pole lessons from strippers.”

“Those old fags want someone young.”

“You are young.” Bruce had retired from the rent-boy game after Mayor Giuliani closed the strip bars of Times Square. He knew this genre better than most men in America. “Young for the old queens in the nursing homes. None of them have seen anyone young as you in decades. You could charge the homes $100 a visit. Has to be better for the old geezers than any other medicine.”

“Thanks for the idea.” My father lived in a retirement village for Alzheimer patients. The mostly female residents smiled at me, as if I might be someone they knew. My father was the same. He thought that I was his son still, but he was not sure why. I would be lucky if a son's best friend made the New Year.

“It’s not a bad idea. Hell, you could franchise it in Florida. How many retirement homes you think are in the Sunshine State. Thousands. There has to be a market for it.”

“Probably.” I ordered scallop and seaweed noodles, plus a glass of wine. The waiter was thin and handsome. He had to be 30 years younger than me.

“And who knows? You might be able to sex them up.” Bruce caressed the waiter’s behind. He was a regular here. The waiter laughed walking away content to know he would be receiving a good tip. Bruce liked to pay for sex in any form. Love was out of both our best range.

“No way.” I barely wanted to have sex with myself let alone with someone else.

“Why, because you’re too good to have sex with someone older than you. Like me.” He frowned at this unintended insult. “What about the woman you had sex with in Palm beach? You said she was over 70.”

“That was different.” Helen had been the publisher of a Florida magazine. We had smoked reefer in her apartment overlooked Lake Worth. The address was in West Palm Beach.

“How? She said she hadn’t had cock in her mouth in ten years. She begged for it and you gave it to her like you were doing a remake of SUNSET BOULEVARD."

“It was a mercy mission.” The lights were off, the curtains filling with the gulf breeze, and Helen was wearing sheer lingerie and satin high heels. On her knees she performed like she was entering the Porno Hall of Fame. She never asked for Mr. deMille.

“Maybe the first time, but what about the second time?” Bruce sat back to let the waiter deliver our appetizers. Fried calamari for him. Raw bluepoints for me. “Gore Vidal said about orgies that once is experimentation, but twice is perversity.”

“The second time was because I was drunk.” Two bottles of wine and a joint. Helen had her way with me. I was her slave. “They was no third time.”

“Only because you saw her with another man and found out she uses that ‘haven’t tasted cock’ line with all the fresh meat in Palm Beach, so don’t tell me you can’t go-go boy anymore. You’re the master of re-inventing yourself.”

“I’d rather rob a bank in Norway.” I sucked down an oyster. It tasted of the Atlantic. The boyhood border of my home in Maine.

“And end up a stick boy in prison.” Bruce was enjoying himself. “You do what you have to do to survive. Believe me. I know.”

“I know you do.” Bruce was in his 60s. His novels were in every bookstore. His tales of hustlers and go-go boys were cult classic within the gay community. His name was in Wikpedia. All that meant almost nothing. Bruce was forever broke. Same as everyone in America, except for the very rich, and they have no use for an old go-go boy.

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