Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Married Guy from Jersey

by Diego

There are certain virtues a man can have that automatically score high points on my book. No questions asked, they can go ahead and put their dick in me. Being married is one of them. I mean, if you are man enough to stick it in a pussy, you are therefore granted the right to stick it in me too. Simply because by having a fresh-out-of-a-pussy cock inside my mouth, makes it so easy for me to think that I have a pussy too. Which, when it boils down to the core of things, you just know is every gay guy's unconscious fantasy.

So I met this married guy from Jersey from Craigslist, who didn't even have a picture to send. That's when you know they really are married and probably so blue collar they don't own a digital camera. He was a slow one too. I told him to take the R or the W to my place, he took the N, which is express, and ended up in Chinatown. Way to go, airhead. So then I have to wait forever, and I'm already late to meet my friend at Urge (I told him I had this last minute editing job, but it was totally just waiting around to suck some married trick's dirty dick). I get really pissed off at this married man's Jersey stupidity and tell him to turn around and go back home.

So 3 weeks later he calls me and expects me to remember who he is! As if he'd been my only trick the entire month that had gone by. When I ask him for a face photo he flips out, saying I had already received one. I'm at the gym and wouldn't mind having a dick up in the butt, little does it matter whose dick, so I decide to meet him regardless. When I ask him if he's good looking, he says he is "no beast", which can't be good. Well, fuck it, at least he's married. And works construction.

He is a serial-texter, too, which annoys the fuck out of me. 48 text messages in 20 minutes, are you kidding me? This better be some good dick. When this bitch finally gets to my place he is, like he promised, "no beast", but he's definitely "no prince" either. He could afford to lose, say, 30 pounds. But the extra fat goes together with the blue collar-ness, I suppose. We come to my room quick before my roommate sees us. I don't care if he sees a trick coming in, it's just that he's gonna think I'd fuck anything if he sees the flawed quality of this trick (and he'd be right).

So married guy kneels down and tries to suck MY dick? WTF? A bottom in disguise? Anyway, I let him because a) I haven't been sucked since 1995, so what the hell, and b) He's so butch that it doesn't make me wanna vomit when he's giving me head.

It is pretty hot in the room, but I do have the AC on full blast. Yet his dick will not stay hard, it doesn't matter how much I suck on it. "It's so hot in here, I can't get hard", he says. Sure, excuses, excuses. So I ask him if I can eat his ass out, at least it gives us something to do. He giggles and says no, as if saying "I'm a bottom at heart, but not that much of a bottom".

So I put my clothes back on and ask him and his limp dick (due to climate conditions, of course) to leave. And he obliges, half humiliated, half satisfied. At least he got to suck some uncut cock, I suppose.

For more Diego, click right here.

Saturday, May 26, 2007

Escuelita: The Politics of Dancing

by Diego

My hag always tells me: clubs are for dancing, the Internet is for hook ups. I agree, but it’s hard not to be on cock-hunting mode when you are in a closed space with hundreds of other horny males in it. And it is true that with hook up sites such as Adam4Adam (which was totally shut down for a few days last week, wtf?), Manhunt and Craigslist, there is no point in trying to find a trick in the real world. Although it is more rewarding and promising, it is too hard to find compatibility from a club trick. There is no previous screening for top/bottom/vers, dick size, etc. It’s a bit like hiring an employee without checking out his resume first.

So I hadn’t gone out dancing for the sole purpose of dancing since, like, 1999. But last night I went to Escuelita (301 W. 39th St.) with my on-going Peruvian trick and it was a blast – a kind of re-connection with the cathartic power of the dancefloor.

At Escuelita clubgoers aren’t stuck on their self-important, look-at-me bubbles. Clubbing here is more of a communal, borderline orgiastic experience. A plethora of brown-colored bodies bumping and grinding very close together, screaming with excitement every time a reggaeton hit starts up. It puts the ubiquitous electronika tunes they spin at white people’s clubs to shame.

It is very symptomatic of one’s culture, though. The fact that at white clubs we dance to robotic, sterile techno beats. And at a Latin club we find ourselves unafraid to simulate fellatio on strangers, slide on the human sweat accumulated on the dancefloor and concentrate on the dancing and not on the posing. This is what club dancing is really about: a collective celebration of the erotic kind – much beyond the self-indulgent pragmatism of Caucasian, mainstream teachno clubs (get in, find a trick, cab home).

It was an added plus that Escuelita is more filled with lesbians than fags on Fridays. That way we didn’t have to worry about looking perfect and acting butcher to attract the male gaze. We danced and danced and danced. Even drinking seemed superfluous to the infectious sounds of Don Omar, Daddy Yankee and Pitbull.

On Saturdays it’s mostly guys night, and cover goes from the $10 (on Fridays) to $20. But you can go to www.escuelita.com and set up a text-message discount for both nights.

For more Diego, click right here.


Monday, May 21, 2007

StraightBoysFucking.com: Gay Tops, Jot It Down!

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Saturday, May 19, 2007

Rapper Marries Tranny


South Korean rapper Micky Chung, 27, married singer Harisu, 32, a transsexual, last Friday, May 18, in Seoul. The ceremony featured Harisu in a bridal gown while Chung donned a tux -- it was also apparently filled with South Korea's biggest celebrities. For those of you who thought all Asian men were bottoms, here's your answer.

Friday, May 18, 2007

Star Kid and the 8-Inch Kid



Zack was an old friend of mine from High School back Upstate. We both went to the same school and had gym class together when we were around 17.

He didn't know it, but I had a huge crush on him. I mean, he was kind of nerdy looking, kind of a band/drama club geek. But he was funny, and I liked that about him! He also had the most gorgeous looking brown eyes.

Sadly we had never gotten past the occasional "hello" in the hallway because I wasn't out yet and to my knowledge he was most definitely straight (a no go from where I'm from). In fact he was dating this real hot number with the fakest blond hair that you'd ever see. So I never made a move, except for the occasional glimpse in the locker room showers after class. And damn was Zack packing. I mean, I can see how he scored Mizz Popular with his perfect 8-inch dick.



Graduation came and went and I moved to the city. It wasn't until a 1 am stop at Splash that I spotted him. Alone. There was no mistaking those brown eyes. I approached him trying to appear confidant. He recognized me and I casually poised the question: "What the fuck are you doing here?" He informed me that he had come out of the closet 3 years previous and Mizz Popular, fake tits and all, was out of the picture. He also let it slip that his dreams to become an actor/model went down the toilet with rejection after rejection after rejection. I made the quick move to my wallet and began feeding him booze, noting his vulnerability.

A few shots later we found ourselves grabbing each other. My cock was hard in my jeans and I was filled with immense, unfulfilled lust that I'd had since senior year. It became so overwhelming that I ended up ripping the shoulders of his expensive designer shirt. Deciding to act, I paid both our tabs and we rushed back to my apartment.

After some passionate kissing and tongue wrestling he excused himself to the bathroom to think things over. He was obviously becoming overwhelmed. After a couple moments of waiting my impatience got the best of me and my eyes fell on my best friend: my camera. Grabbing it I walked right into the bathroom to find him sitting fully clothed on the toilet.

"What's wrong babe?" I asked, smiling cockily in an attempt to ease.

"Sorry man it's just... This would be my first... 'experience' with a man since I came out." He admitted, his glorious brown eyes looking to the ground sheepishly.

"Really?" I couldn't help but laugh, but not in an attempt to make him feel stupid. He blushed. "We can take it slow." He remained quiet and I approached. "Come on luv. You can't say you don't want it because I know you do." I winked as my hand reached out and squeezed his hard cock in his expensive jeans.



Finally a light flickered and he smiled. I lifted up my camera, tapping into something I knew he couldn't resist. My face disappeared behind the lens.

"You're gonna be a star kid."

Thursday, May 17, 2007

My First German Trick

by Diego

Sexually speaking, one could say I've been around the world. Quite a few times. In fact, that's one of the biggest perks about living in New York City: an extensive buffet of cock from all nationalities to choose from.

There are certain countries that have more cock representation than others. Like, Puerto Rican dick is a dime a dozen. But Middle Eastern, not so much: one has to go to Paris for that. Even Brazilian cock isn't that ubiquitous in Manhattan -- I hear Newark is hogging it all. And we don't take the PATH. So the most we can do is explore the other, butcher boroughs. Even if we don't travel, only host.

So I have been around the block a few times but had never tasted German sperm. That was about to change when I encountered a certain Reinhardt from Berlin on Manhunt last week. He was doing the whole "sex tourism" thing (New York, Palm Springs, Miami). Apparently you gotta come to America to go barebacking (people in other countries are smart enough to wrap it up, I suppose).

He was 36 but his screen name was something like "ButchMuscleTop". And if you are butch, muscular and a top you can take the luxury of being 36, or even 46, in some cases. He wore a baseball cap in all of his photos, which has "I am balding" written all over it. Specially when they leave "hair color:" blank. I don't mind, he's German, he'll probably fuck the hell out of me and gas me later. Hot!

Anyway, he came over quick because Europeans, unlike Puerto Ricans, actually cab to their tricks' places. He had a thick German accent, which made it all worthy already. I sucked his foreskin while he stared at my submissive faggoty head with the stern gaze of a Stasi commander. Or so I fantasized.

I regret to confess I kind of wanted him to call me "dirty Jew", but I had to repress myself. Not only I am not a Jew, my fag hag is and that would be reducing their struggle to a shallow sexual fantasy. And we like to be ethical like that when it comes to our hag.

But I do ask him to fuck me in German. He does it reluctantly saying some word that was clearly the German verb for "fuck". I'm thinking his fantasy was to fuck someone in English, which was definitely not mine. So quickly he pulled his dick out to find the condom dirty on the tip. Latinos wouldn't have cared, but this Aryan top had to go to the bathroom and clean himself up -- even though the turd and his dick head were separated by latex.

When he came back it was clear the hook up was a debacle. Not worth wasting a nut over. He couldn't wait to go to the Cock bar, on 2nd and 2nd, and I couldn't wait to post on Craigslist as a girl. German or not, it's no use trying to suck gay dick, I am only satisfied if they're straight. Fresh out of a pussy -- and, with luck, fresh off the boat too.

For more Diego blogs, click here.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

We Are Taking Your Requests!



Click Here for the video!



From: Chxxx.O'xxxxxx@jxx.com
To: sean.bga@gmail.com

Hi Sean,

I've been reading your blogs lately, and you seem really hot. I'd love to watch you shoot your big thick load somewhere. Maybe all over my face.

That is if you don't mind going fast.

You don't seem like you mind going fast.

Could we meet after work sometime? I'll buy.

Chxxx

From: sean.bga@gmail.com
To: Chxxx.O'xxxxxxx@jxx.com

Chxxx,

My first email solicitation! I feel a little Internet famous!

You'll buy? Well, okay. I could really use a night out on the town. I don't know if I'm comfortable with ANYTHING on the first date, though. I'm just barely 21, and I'm still new at this.

Sean

So, I met a guy who emailed me from this site. I know it's not very safe to meet someone that you just met on the Internet, but he emailed me from work and left in his signature file. Let's just say that he is a high powered lawyer at one of Manhattan's top firms. I told him we'd meet up in the Stxxrbuxxs near the Port Authority, and boy was I ever nervous! But I was kind of excited, as well, and I sat daydreaming about what he'd look like. Maybe he was tall, and thin like me, and we'd fit together like a puzzle. Maybe he would be dark and sultry.



The big blue eyes I looked up at were more piercing than I could have imagined. They were eyes that I knew were going to make me do things. Terrible things. He had natural curly red hair, that went really well with my horrible sink dye-job. He was thin, and not too muscley. Just the way my mother likes 'em.

I stood up, introduced myself, and gave him a hug. He went straight for my ass, which is fine, it's just a little sensitive. I laughed because it tickled.

We talked for about an hour, back and forth about nothing in particular. That's when he TOLD me to go downstairs and jerk off in the bathroom. He didn't ask. He told me to.

I said, "I'm only doing it, if you'll hold the camera."

We went downstairs to the Port Authority bathrooms, and he locked the door with a broom handle. He snapped a lot of great photos, and you can see more of 'em if you click on one of the ones here.

I couldn't cum!



Until he stuck his finger in my ass. We got that all on video, for your enjoyment.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Darnell, Darian or Whatever

by Diego

Nothing like being pleasantly surprised with your Adam4Adam trick. This guy was supposed to fuck me like 4 weeks ago, but he kept postponing it. Which might just mean he has a whole line of bottoms he needs to go through before he gets to me. It's ok, I'm willing to wait. If the dick is good, and black, I don't mind sloppy seconds. He didn't check "anything goes" anyway.

He told me he could finally meet me "after Mother's Day", which I thought was an odd way of setting up a hook up. Maybe his momma was visiting from out of town and he couldn't sneak out from Harlem for just a minute to rape a Soho bottom or two. Anyway, he said in his profile he was looking for fat asses that "bounce back while I beat it up!". Plus he was 6 foot 4, very monosyllabic in his correspondence(a good sign of true top-ness) and said he didn't suck dick (a must).

So Mother's Day come along and the day after he called me (real tops prefer phone calls over wordy emails), and arranged for 11 p.m. It turns out his mother is visiting and he will take her to the station around that time. Then, he will swing by and pound a bitch. Which seems pretty Freudian to me: drop your mother off at the station and, then, go get a replacement (disguised as a submissive faggot) before you even miss her. I'm all for being that femmy mother figure, so we're surely on the same page.

When he comes in I immediately know for a fact I am dropping all of my other prospective boyfriends. This man is tall, lanky, perfect teeth (an uncannily masculine kind of dental structure) and wears a hoodie. Where do I sign?

We talked for about 30 minutes on my bed. When he takes off his shoes I know this isn't gonna be a quickie. When I'm done showing off my bookish self and over-educated , spoiled and faggie persona he is whipped. He asks me to get closer, takes off his shirt, takes off my shirt and begins sucking on my nipples. Which will pretty much drive my legs quite apart and get me moaning like a bitch in heat -- as if my straight roommates weren't even home.

He fucks me for uninterrupted two hours, immobilizing me the whole time. I plea and beg for him to stop -- half because I'm sore and half because I want him to force me to take it. He won't let go. His dick is 8 inches, which is perfect (not small, but not huge enough where I can only take it for a few minutes). The whole thing is mostly painless. It is amazing how self-lubricated you get when it feels right.

The way he makes out feels like he is taking my mouth for a pussy and eating it. So by that point I am thinking adoption and envisioning me wearing an apron at our Harlem condo waiting for him to be done smoking a blunt with his homies. He would get home, eyes red, barely open, grab me by the hair and force me down his dick while reaching for a beer or something.

When he finally cums on my back (without even touching his dick), I ask what his name is. He had already told me, but I forgot it. He was black and a top, so it's not like he even needed to have a name. "Isn't it Darnell?", I ask. He laughs: "No, it's Darian...But you could call me Darnell, makes me feel like I'm your big black man..."

And I want that moment to freeze, his sentence to keep on playing in my head on a loop and him to never leave my bedroom -- except for work and to bang a few chicks. It's 2 a.m. and he says he is going back home. I was hoping he'd stay, but I don't beg -- it's only our first date. And because I don't beg he text-messages me from the subway station: "I had fun -- thanx". Economic in his words like a real top lover -- yet tender enough to be my husband. I shall keep y'all posted.

For more Diego, click here.

Sunday, May 13, 2007

Half-Peruvian, Half-Brazilian

by Diego

If you are half Peruvian and half Brazilian you can automatically marry me. So I just had to say yes when one of my Craigslist tricks asked for a second date. "So we can finish up what we started off", he said. The truth is the condom broke and we were too freaked out to keep the fucking going afterwards. He put his do-rag back on and went back to Jersey, leaving me with blue balls -- too jaded to even post another ad.

So we met up at Splash a week later, for happy hour, which is surprisingly crowded at 7:30 p.m. on a Friday. He was late, which was fine, it's a cultural thing -- I understand it. After I had run out of people to text-message "I am likely to get fucked by a half-Peruvian half-Brazilian guy from Jersey" to, I just ordered a drink and practiced my aloof hot facial expression. You don't want to look bored, but you don't want to look overtly excited for his arrival either.

When he finally arrives we, non-surprisingly, have nothing to talk about. He is only 5 foot 6, but since he is Latin, I am giving him the benefit of the doubt. He says we should go downstairs, so off we go. He is also drinking wine, which is cute, because that's what I'd ordered for myself. In no time we are discussing our up-bringing, God, European Cinema, the Horoscope, touching each other all over and I'm already planning the civil union in my head.

When I stand up to go to the bathroom he tells me he has a hard-on from having caught a glimpse of my "prominent derriere". By then I know I am at least sucking this Latin God off tonight. After many drinks we eat up at Nooch or one of those faggoty-ass Chelsea restaurants where the food is mediocre but the atmosphere is fab. Then we go to a karaoke bar and make a fool of ourselves. He sings Bon Jovi and I sing Madonna, which seems appropriate in terms of which roles we should be taking in bed: him the stud, me the whore. I'm glad he seems to know it.

He has that kind of Latin duality to his appearance: a deep sense of tenderness hidden by a rough swagger. The kind of guy who makes his hard times a little obvious by the fact that he never smiles. I am considering kids at this point, and envisioning a religious ceremony in Lima with all 68 of his cousins.

When we finally make it to my place he takes charge like a Latino does: without hesitation. He forces my head down to his dick (uncut and copiously pre-cumming) and flips me around like I'd given him carte blanche to rape me. When I begin feeling a bad smell I know the condom is totally dirty -- possibly a small turd hanging off my ass. So he pulls out, puts another condom on and keeps on fucking me. Latin men aren't queasy like white fags. They could give a shit, excuse the pun, if the condom is dirty. He also spanks me lightly, as if it was a warning: "if I make you my regular bitch I'll do it much harder, faggot".

We go through 5 or 6 condoms and he falls asleep on my bed, refusing to let me spoon him. He turns me around abruptly and grabs me from behind, making sure I always have my back facing him. When he wakes up the next day and leaves without much fanfare I get worried. Is the wedding called off? But, then, he text-messages me right after to thank me for an amazing time. And I think to myself: ain't no white man's Wall Street job more alluring than a poor Latin boy's loving. It's okay, we will keep the guests to a minimum.

For more Diego, click here.

Friday, May 11, 2007

Can I Fuck Your Chest?


by Sean

I brushed the hairspray and fake nails that is Queens off me, and told the cabby to take me to my boyfriend's house. When the driver lisped, "Where to, honey?" I knew I was in for one wild ride.

"You're not gay by any chance, are you?," I says.

"No, no," he lies. "But I live with lots of gay folks. Why? What do you need?"

A blowjob. Any warm hole will do, actually. "I need to interview a top."

"Good luck finding one!" He says, absolutely proving that he's queer.

I laugh. "You just met one" I reply enthusiastically.

He seems interested, but I am a little turned off that he keeps saying that he's really not gay. One minute he's asking how big my dick is, and the next minute he's being like that preacher who just got caught with crystal meth.

Like if he denys it enough, it'll somehow come true.

We sit in silence for a while until I ask, "Hey, you want a Vicodin?"

"Oh my god, thank you. What do I have to do for it!?" I could hear his smile.

A free ride, I think. "Nothing," I say," He ended up giving me a free ride anyways.

To my boyfriend's house.

But the pill REALLY got him talking. He asked why I get them, and so I told him, and then he started telling ME about all HIS health problems. Let's talk about him! He was born with Pectus Excavatum, a disorder that left him with a skeletal bump on one side of his chest, and a divit on the other. "Like, would I be able to fuck your chest," I say?

"When I was a kid you could have!"

"..."

I felt it, and it's only barely there. Not enough to make him a freak.

He says, "When I was a kid, I used to put cereal in there, and then I'd drink out the milk."

I ask, "Can you suck your own dick, too?"

"No, no," he says, "But not for lack of trying."

"I can," I say.

"Lucky!" he shreiks, "Let me see, and I'll give you a free ride,"

So, I did. Right there in the backseat on the Cross Bronx Expressway.

Thursday, May 10, 2007

Don't Pressure Me Into Being your BF Just Because UR White

by Diego

The problem with giving white guys the pleasure of taking you out on a second (and third, and forth...) date is that they quickly make themselves believe you will be together forever. And from there things spiral out of control. Next thing you know he is asking you what you are doing this summer, when your lease is up and whether you prefer cats or dogs. And why don't you move in while you're at it?

One would think this was a feature specific to bottoms (our neediness is no surprise). But tops, provided they be white and from Ohio, can be needy too. And the littlest hope you give them in terms of longevity, they will hold on to it and daydream about civil union ceremonies, townhouses in Jersey and spending Christmas with your folks.

Not that I don't want that myself: a cock to call one's own for the long run. But if you are white and Midwestern and a self-confessed versatile, it is gonna take a while for me to commit. Because white people still believe in love. Not Parisian, cinematic love affairs. But pragmatic American love: conveniently separate bank accounts but splitting the bills in half and, also, not having to spend five hours a day looking for cock on Manhunt.

And they seem to be under the impression that monogamy in New York City is a possibility. Well, if I ever got a Dominican thug from 217th Street to be with me and only me, I might consider. But if you fuck like a white guy, talk, walk and text-message like a white guy -- I need some time to consider the pros ($) and cons (yaws).

Last night he (let's call him, say Ryan, or Michael or whatever), started calling me "baby" and tried to make summer plans. I'm sorry, I must have missed the memo saying we would last till then. "If you hooked up with another guy, you would tell me, no?", he asked. Uh, are you that masochistic? I suppose he was expecting me to tell him "I would never do such thing", but I'm not white, so I tend to speak the truth. Or, at the very least, keep quiet.

"Let's just talk about this later", I said, which is basically code for "Bitch, I sucked two Puerto Ricans just a couple hours ago, get with the program...".

Each race has the delusions it deserves, I suppose. And we all end up taking turns in terms of havng the upper hand of the relationship and being the total loser besotted in awaiting phone calls and faggoty-ass naivete. It's just that there is nothing more pathetic than a white fag in love. It's like lizards trying to do a somersault, or a scarecrow trying to be Gisele. Don't go together. Go back to Wall Street, Ryan, where you belong. Even the stock market is more reliable than going out with a Latin American fag.

For more Diego, click here.

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

Waiting for Mr. Black at Beige

by Diego

When your best gay friend text-messages you about an ex-Army black top he wants to set you up with, you do not ignore the text. And, even if you are a sneezing, clogged-up nose, sore throat mess, you still show up at Beige at 1 a.m. to meet Mr. V-shaped Back Orpheus.

So off I went to B Bar (Bleeker and 5th). The line was pretty big, but moved swiftly. A mix of a Hiro and Mr. Black crowd. On Tuesday nights it is apparently New York's number one S&M club (as in Stand-and-Model, that is). You know, washed out white bottoms with their D&G tanks, A/X jeans, pretending to be versatiles. The type of place where you can't swing a crocodile Hermes birkinbag without hitting at least a dozen "photographer" bottom losers.

"So where is this guy?", I ask my friend. "He's coming, he's coming", he says. The black dude is supposedly coming from Brooklyn, which is hot. But he actually lives in the East Village, which is not. He used to be in the military, which is hot. But was discharged when they found out he was a fag, which is not. I am totally against top guys who are out of the closet. If you want to be a real top, you need to stay in the closet. Otherwise they end up finding out the perks of being a bottom (laying there while the other does all the work), they'll decide to experiment ("with a boyfriend only") and never be back to top-ness.

"Is this guy really a top?", I ask. "Yes, he never ever gets fucked", my friend answers. "But does he suck dick?", I ask. "That I don't know..."

How you gonna make the case for someone to be a real top and you don't know if he sucks cock???

If you suck, touch or look at cock, you ARE NOT a top. You are a bottom-waiting-to-happen, bitch. Admit it.

By now it's 2 a.m. and I am ready to take my Zanax and crash. I'd already been tag-teamed earlier in the day. It's not like I needed the cock, you know. So Mr. Black text-messages my friend and says he is stuck in Brooklyn (hot) and will have to call me "manana" (not).

So I leave, completely stood up at a blind date that wasn't. I am too tired to post on Craigslist, so I just check my Adam4Adam email. Not much there. I think about the Puerto Rican thug I wish was my husband (no education, neck tattoos, an undying willingness to take the garbage out), I jack off, one hand on the dick, one finger up the coochie, and I fall asleep. This is New York, my friend, you don't get no second chances. I don't do "discharged from the Army for being gay" fags anyway. Next!

For more Diego, click here.

Monday, May 07, 2007

Cinco De Mayo at No Parking


by Sean

It was Saturday night in Harlem. I asked a queen-for-sale where I could find a gay bar in the area. He was with a customer, and he asked me if I would rather just have a threesome! Looking back on it, I bet he thought I was working. I sure was dressed like it!

"No," I replied, "I recently moved to the area, and I just got a job blogging for BigGayApple.com!" He asked me if I liked Latin boys. "Do I ever!" I said. He told me to try No Parking on 177th street and Broadway.

Getting there was a breeze. I followed the prosties' directions, and got off the 1 train at 181st street/George Washington Bridge. It's that stop that only has elevators. People asked me THREE times if there were any stairs. THERE AREN'T ANY STAIRS.

I walked two blocks west, and four blocks south, through a nicer neighborhood than Harlem but not as nice as where YOU live. Still, it was perfectly safe, and I didn't get any snickers about my appearance. I was just another freak in the freak kingdom.

There was a line out front that was not too long. It appeared that they were letting EVERYBODY in. Walking into the place was a total transformation from the mean streets of Washington Heights. There were many Latin boys and thugs, but just as many vanilla boys as well. I didn't feel out of place at all, and I'm the whitest boy in Harlem. It was a very clean, hip place, and I'm glad I took that fuck boy's advice.

ESPECIALLY BECAUSE IT WAS CINCO DE MAYO!






What better place to spend Cinco De Mayo in than an authentic Latin gay club? They had decked out the bar with pinatas, streamers, and flowers. The bartenders were wearing mexican wrestler masks, and little else. They offered a Mexican cake, and if my Dominican roommate is a good cook, then, whoever baked this must have been his great-grandmother.

The club really started to heat up at about Midnight. They had a stripping contest on the bar, with a lot of HOT latinos. They broke open the pinatas, and I bet you can guess what they were filled with. Go ahead. Guess.

Okay, okay. I'll tell you. The pinata's were filled with condoms, lube, and cock rings.

I partied until about 2 a.m., but from what I hear (from all the numbers I got) the party raged on until the wee hours.



It's definately a great place, so you shouldn't wait till next year to check it out.

VIVA el CINCO DE MAYO!!

Saturday, May 05, 2007

International Correspondence

by Diego


I have this stalker on Adam4Adam who doesn't even live in New York City. And I have a rule: if you are not currently within a 5-mile radius from me, do NOT message me. I don't care if you are looking to get a job in the city, if you are visiting for 3 days in June of 2009, if you live in Connecticut but "make it to the city a lot" or if you are willing to get me a ticket to come visit you in Birmingham. It is not gonna happen. Message me when you overcome all these geographical obstacles and are presently in Manhattan. Otherwise, you get fucking blocked.

But this one stalker managed to win me over somehow. He lives in Puerto Rico, wherever that is. I kind of used to think Puerto Rico wasn't really a country, just a gay fetish. Like Daddy or Bear. But it turns out it is an actual place people live (they even have Costco and Sam's Club down there. And, like, the Internet, obviously).

So Puerto Rican dude starts out by calling me a "fucking white bitch", which will totally get my attention. He then goes on to say he wants to marry my boypussy and protect me and have babies with me. Which is right up my fucked-up alley of hetero-morphic perversions. What better way to convince yourself your top is basically a straight guy than mocking straight people's formulaic living?

His name is Jose, of course, and he called me the other night at two in the morning. We immediately clicked and were on the phone for over two hours. He kept on saying he wanted me to always wear panties and cook for him, take care of his clothes and never have a job. He wanted to be the provider, "even if I have to take 3 jobs, baby, I'll take care of my wife". Okay...I never even met you, dude, but sounds good to me.

I know for a fact he was jerking off as he spoke to me on the phone, which is fine because I was too. He alternated calling me "Sweet baby" and "Slutty faggot", which is ideal. He said he wanted to make a promise to God to be with me forever, and then he would rape my faggoty ass, but afterwards he would cuddle and feel bad for having manhandled his baby so roughly.

And it seems rather intriguing that we would be in completely different places, from completely different backgrounds, yet his fantasy fit mine so flawlessly. That kind of restored my faith in finding a guy who is actually a real top -- not a bottom desperately trying to convince himself he really doesn't hate his phallus.

Jose said he would call me the next day, at noon to see if "my baby is alright", and at 8 p.m. to say good-night. He never called, but by then he had already done his job, having rendered this hopeless New York City fag a little less jaded.

For more Diego, click here.

Friday, May 04, 2007

The Postman Always Rings Twice


by Diego

It may seem hard to believe, but this actually happened. And if you live in New York, you know you could actually have happened -- even if very unlikely.

I am on my Mac doing some nonsense (probably checking Brazilian porn and looking for a job at Monster at the same time), when the buzzer rings in my apartment. I immediately buzz the person in, assuming it's one of my neighbors who routinely forgets their keys.

But, then, someone starts knocking on my door. I think UPS guy, for sure. But when I fling the door open what I see is a thugged-out Puerto Rican dude (Yankees cap, fat golden chain and all) standing there.

"May I help you?", I say, already flirtatiously, just in case.

"Oh, my bad, I think I got the wrong apartment numba."

"Oh, okay...who were you trying to reach?", I ask.

"Uh, this...girl. Uh..."

"Yeah, there are no girls living in here, I mean...", I say.

"Oh, my bad...", he says, yet, without seeming to want to leave. So I decide to take advantage of the random, undeniably sexual situation:

"Well, where did you come from?", I ask.

"I'm coming from the Bronx, yo", he says, which makes my nipples glass-cutting hard.

"Wow...I've never been to the Bronx...But now that you've come all the way here, do you think you maybe want a...blow job?", I ask, the way only a fag could.

"A blow job?", he asks, and stops for a second, as if reflecting upon the pros and cons of getting head from a hospitable faggot stranger. "Mmm..okay".

"But it has to be real quick, because I have meetings all day", I lie, as if to seem like I am the one doing him a favor.

He comes in, takes down his pants, and I go to work. He is entranced by the whole thing, and immediately hard. I give him a rim job too, 'cause I'm feeling generous. He even touches my dick, which is a big no no. I don't mind though, his butchness is so overwhelming that even if he took it up the ass he'd probably not lose any of it.

After he comes I interrogate him like only an intellectually-driven fag can. It is my chance to do anthropological work post-coitus, hellooo. And sort of validate the experience. It turns out he was in the Army and fought in Iraq for three years. He also used to be a drug dealer and did some time in jail, which made the whole scene much hotter in retrospect. When he said he had a girlfriend and fucked a tranny here and there, I about came again, through my fucking ears.

Awww, gotta love New York, the city where you can get anything delivered -- even what you didn't realize you'd ordered.

For more Diego, click here.

Thursday, May 03, 2007

The Park

The Park

118 10th Ave / 17th Street


(212) 352-3313

* approximate times
theparknyc.com

Aspen

Aspen

30 W 22nd Street # 1 / 5th Avenue


(212) 645-5040

* approximate times
aspen-nyc.com