The door opened into darkness and I stepped in. It took me five weeks to find the club, located in Manhattan and accessed from an alley door, lit by a single naked bulb. I wanted my version of a gay sex addict's Shangri-la. I wanted sticky floors and locked stalls. I wanted to walk in and smell sperm and see couples pumping in the dark corners. Most of the clubs catered to gays, bis and straights, in an effort to grab those dollars. After a week, I decided to head out and conquer the scene. I worked my ass off every night and always came home with a pocket full of cash. Within two days, I had found an apartment, an expensive basement floor hole in the wall and got a job waiting tables in Manhattan. I wanted it all.Īs soon as I graduated from college, I said goodbye to my Midwestern birthplace and hitchhiked to New York. I wanted the spit on my palm as I stroked myself. I wanted the cock shoved into my dry asshole. I wanted the sweaty, faceless, nameless sex. I fell in love with the dark side, the nasty side of being a homosexual. I watched every frame of that movie salivating and stroking my meat, watching Al Pacino in leather or with a bandanna hanging out of the back pocket of his jeans. Inspired by Sue Grafton's alphabetical series.
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