Confessions of a Gay Curmudgeon
Andy V. Ambrose © 2019
All Rights Reserved
My erections aren’t what they used to be.
Well, Dr. S told me to write about the first thing that comes into my mind, so it’s what I’m doing. “Don’t think. Just write,” he said. “Stop censoring yourself, Viktor. This will help you in your therapy too, Viktor.”
Okay, okay. If that’s what the shrink ordered, let’s see if this works. We’re supposed to listen to our shrinks, right? That’s their job, right? They know how to get us out of whatever fucking funk we’re in, right?
So here we go. I’m writing about the first thing that comes to my mind and it’s my erections. Here it is, a lovely Saturday afternoon, sun shining, snow melting, spring a’coming, a perfect time to enjoy life. And what am I doing? Sulking in my apartment obsessing about my cock.
Hell of a problem to have on a day like today, isn’t it? Shit, be honest, Viktor. You’re supposed to be honest with this writing thing, aren’t you? That was Dr. S’s other directive, wasn’t it? Honesty. He was full of directives last session, wasn’t he? Oh well, maybe I need some directives.
So where was I? Oh yes. Gorgeous day, shitty mood, focusing on my cock when I should be enjoying life.
Oh, come on. It’s not just about my cock. I know that. After all, I did my share of screwing around when I was younger. Not that I was the biggest stud around in my heyday, but during those few glorious weeks my sex life got going, I learned how to have a good time. Yes, I did! But then I met Gio and fell in love. And he fell in love with me. And we had twelve years of bliss—more or less—until he left me last year.
And I’ve been floundering ever since. Floundering? Ha! Flopping around is more like it. So I’ve been seeing Dr. S—ahem, Dr. Singsirinavin—I’ve been seeing him to help me out of this predicament. Seems like a nice enough guy, serious, quiet, with a scrawny body and a bit of an accent, though I’ll be damned if I know from where exactly. These shrinks never tell you anything about themselves, do they? I’ve been seeing Dr. S for a year already, and you would think by now I’d have an idea, but I don’t. To tell the truth, I don’t have much of an idea about anything, including whether he’s helping me.
But I’m trying. Goddamn it, I’m trying, you’ve got to give me that. Didn’t put all my eggs in one basket, either. Went to my primary-care guy too, to complain about my cock. Dr. Agnostulopolini. Different accent, different mystery country. Had to change doctors when my cheapo company switched insurances and I had to find someone new. He doesn’t know anything about me and doesn’t seem to care, either. Every time I ask a question, the side of his face twitches like he’s having a stroke. “Doctor,” I said last time, “my libido seems to have disappeared.”
“You know, it does fall off with age,” he says. Translation: you’re getting old.
“But not this suddenly, Doctor. Could it be the new blood pressure medicine you prescribed?” Translation: Fuck you. Don’t give me that you’re-getting-old shit. I’m fifty. That’s not old.
“This medicine shouldn’t cause a drop-off in libido.” Translation: I’m the doctor. I know what I’m talking about.
“But then what could be causing it?” Translation: Fuck you. I’m the patient. It’s my libido.
And on and on. Dr. A suggested other medications, maybe talking to Dr. S about an anti-depressant. Sure, pump me full of chemicals. Is that all the medicos care about? They want me docile and uncomplaining. As long as my numbers on their medical charts look good, they think they’re a success. No matter what I think.
Well, fuck them. It’s my life, and I’ll screw it up the way I want to. Not according to the way they think I should do it.
Oh, I have to stop complaining and get myself out of this funk. No one else is going to do it for me, least of all the good doctors. I know that. It’s my life, and I better get it going again before it’s too late! But how? How, fucking how?
Sunday Morning—I Should Be So Lucky
He was gorgeous. Jet-black hair, dark smoldering eyes, and pecs popping out of his shirt. When he returned my smile, I wanted to faint. Priapus Almighty, I thought. This hunk likes me? He really likes me?
Yes, I decided to finally do it last night. I roused myself off the fucking sofa, put on a clean shirt, and went to the Shithouse.
Ah, the Shithouse. That wonderful bar where I met Gio. On the Upper East Side. Filled with more snooty queens than all the palaces of Europe. About the same age, and as much makeup too, with the occasional mix of younger lonely-hearts who think maturity guarantees love. Or money.
I couldn’t bring myself to walk back in there until last night. But within twenty minutes, there’s this hunk smiling at me. Out of all those men, standing there looking for love, or at least a little nooky-nooky, he chooses me.
“No, no, don’t vant I money,” he said, in an accent even sweeter than Gio’s.
Well, how can one let one’s better judgment get in the way of something like that? The next thing I know, he’s standing in my apartment, kissing me, unbuttoning my shirt. I did the same to him, wanting a peek at those pecs that looked so tantalizing hidden under all that fabric.
They looked even better unwrapped. Round, firm, smooth, with a golden olive hue to the skin, just begging to be caressed. With pecs so perfect, I could only imagine what unimaginable delights the rest of his body held.
Forgetting all my inhibitions, I reached out to touch those pecs—and then I woke up. Yeah. It was a dream.
Shit! Shit! Shit! I can’t even have sex in my dreams anymore! Why did I wake up then? Couldn’t I have least buried my face in the massive crevice of his chest or given those sweet nipples a little lick before opening my eyes? I didn’t even get a good feel before I so rudely woke myself up. Why?
Why? Why? Why?
Something else to talk to Dr. S about. Man, the list of things I need to talk to Dr. S about is getting long. Maybe Dr. A is right. I should just take some chemicals and be done with it.
But no. It’s not just about chemicals, is it? It’s about my soul. Oh, oh. My Catholic stuff is coming out. Not again. Didn’t I already do that when I was first coming out? My first crack at therapy was back then. Didn’t work, though. He was a real ignoramus of a shrink. Didn’t know Catholics from Buddhists, queers from faggots, tops from bottoms. Had to give him up fast. Trying not to give up on Dr. S, though, no matter how much he irritates me sometimes.
But in the end, I know it’s me who has to change my life. Me, right? So?
So, get away from this keyboard, Viktor! Doll yourself up, check yourself in the mirror, and go out to the Shithouse for real this time. Face reality and grab it by the balls!
Reality sucks. It really does.
Grab it by the balls, my ass! Reality grabs me by the balls again and again, and twists my nuts so hard I cry “Uncle!” with the first squeeze.
I went back to the Shithouse this evening. What was I expecting? New decor? Perhaps lovely new couches? Better drinks? Or maybe different men? After all, this is Manhattan, New York, where the cream of the world’s crop is always supposed to be ending up, right? Yes, maybe this time I’ll find intelligent, sensitive hunks with muscles of steel, ready to discuss literature or spirituality with me? Puh—leeze!
It was the same old tired gay bar with the same old tired queens standing around, dishing nonsense. It wasn’t too crowded, since it was Sunday night, so at least I could breathe. But those stairs down to the coatroom seemed steeper than I remember, killing my knees. When did that happen?
Fuck. Since I paid the cab fare to come, I told myself to stay and spend more money on one or two of their overpriced drinks. And maybe. Just maybe…
I got my drink and stood next to a gentleman in a suit. Forties, reasonably handsome, looked healthy if perhaps a bit overworked. A lawyer maybe, working on weekends?
I gave him a smile. He gave me a scowl and walked away. Turd.
I stood my ground, pasting a nonchalant look on my face. Dum-de-da. Dum-de-da. Isn’t this fun, standing here, nursing my drink? What a nice way to end another weekend.
A blue-collar type strolled in and settled himself at the bar across from me. Tall, hunky, the kind who pretends he’s All-American but probably does the most unpatriotic things behind closed doors.
Did he really give me a look? What’s he doing here anyway? Got lost on his way to some butch wannabe bar downtown?
I gave him a look back. Two can play this game, Butch.
He looked back at me. Oh, shit! A second look. Really? That old, faint hope stirred down there somewhere.
And then a younger version of Butch walked in, with an ass just begging for it.
Sure enough, older Butch just lost it, making a beeline over to younger Butch as soon as younger Butch got his drink and found a place where he could stand and model his ass.
Well, fuck both of you! What are you two going to do when the orgasms are over? Listen to Beethoven?
I couldn’t stand watching them slobbering over each other, chit-chatting about the usual pre-coital nonsense, so I went into the other room. The piano room. Where we pretend to have a good time by gathering around the piano and belting out Broadway show tunes.
Oh, Lord. A tanned, wrinkled type with rings on all his fingers and multiple gold chains on his neck was singing as loudly as he could to a familiar song, trying to get everyone to join in.
“I’m a rich, old queen who has it all
I like to sing and have a ball.
I belt and squeal and scream all day
Oh what fun it is to be g-a-a-a-y!”
I turned around and negotiated those painful steps to the room downstairs again. One more drink. Just one more.
This is supposed to be the cozy room with some small round tables in dark corners, a couch or two, and a pleasant little bar. I like it here because it feels like the place where the intellectuals gather away from the hubbub upstairs. Of course, they’re all usually watching the huge TV they’ve now put up above the bar, which shows an endless parade of drag contests and soft porn. Hey, intellectuals have their fantasies too, no? Can’t say I haven’t been mesmerized by that huge screen either.
“Do you work in finance?”
“I was wondering if you worked in finance?”
“No. I work in publishing.”
“Oh, sorry. You look like a banker.”
Tall, young, a little goofy, and bad with his opening lines. But sincere looking. Was he hustling me? Didn’t think so, not with those clothes. He looked like he just got off the train from Alabama.
Awkward silence. I told myself not to be a jerk. What was I waiting for? Super jock?
Warm smile. “Where you from?”
Warmer smile. “You don’t sound like you’re from Alabama.”
“Oh, I’m from around here originally. I’m just studying there. At the university.”
“What are you studying?”
“Relativistic quantum mechanics. Grad work.”
Really warm smile. “Tell me about it.”
It’s amazing how you can force yourself to feign interest in even the most boring things if there’s a possibility of a sexual payoff at the end.
“My name’s Viktor, by the way,” I said, sticking out my hand.
“Hi. I’m Irving.”
He stuck out his hand too. Oh-oh. It was cold and limp, not very promising.
“So, what are you doing here in New York, Irving?”
“Just here for a few days, seeing old friends and getting my dose of culture. Saw a great show on Tit-i-an at the Met today.”
“Tit-ee-an?” He made the first syllable sound like a woman’s breast.
“Yeah, you know, the Renaissance painter. Such graceful melancholy.”
“Oh, Tish-an!” I almost blurted out, but held my tongue. Steady, Viktor, steady. No one’s perfect.
We chatted some more about ol’ Tit-ee-an and then came the kicker.
“So, would you like to buy some services?” Irving asked me.
Irving suddenly looked embarrassed. “Services. You know, from me. School is really expensive, and, well…”
He stopped because he must have seen my face. Is everybody hustling these days?
“I’m sorry. We book people are also short of cash these days.” Translation: And I’m cheap too! If you think I’m going to spend my hard-earned cash on your cold, clammy flesh…
Awkward silence again.
“Okay, then. ’Bye.”
Another cab ride home alone, like in the days before I met Gio. More self-recrimination. More despair.
What’s wrong with me? It’s not like I’m poverty-stricken. I can afford to throw away a hundred or two here or there. What’s wrong with treating myself once in a while?
Oh, but such sex is so shallow, so…so meaningless.
You want meaning, read a book, Viktor. You’ve got to get over yourself.
But, then there are all those diseases. And those young guys are so careless.
Viktor, you’re just looking for excuses. You fucked up again.
I fucked up again. Story of my life. I’m going to bed. Can’t fuck anything up while I’m asleep, at least not so far.