Chapter 48 – Aggressive Gayness
The day after my visit to Shilin Night Market, I didn’t do jack shit. I slept until about four in the afternoon and laid in bed until about six surfing the web, looking for a place from where I could get my hands on some greasy-ass Mexican food. The closest thing to the south-of-the-border hangover curing deliciousness I could find had been a Chili’s located somewhere back near the Taipei 101 building in an area I’d already visited the day before. Feeling too burnt-out and homesick to try the local cuisine and with nothing else on the agenda, I decided to head that way.
Once having gotten my fill of nachos and chimichangas, I again started up with the drinking and the smoking. Following about three hours of sitting at this Chili’s restaurant in the capital of Taiwan getting shithouse hammered by myself, I paid my bill and decided to wander around. Just outside the mall-type building in which the Chili’s had been located, a pretty large crowd of young, well-dressed ladies and gentlemen had been gathering. After doing a little detective work, I found out they’d all been waiting for a club called Lava to open its doors. Since I was already drunk, I decided to do the same.
Once inside the club, I continued pretending there was a fire in my belly that could only be put out by applying copious amounts of alcoholic beverages. Despite the fact that I hardly said a word to anyone my entire time there, I ended up sticking around until the club closed and left the place nothing short of trashed.
As I stumbled around outside smoking cigarettes, I figured it a good idea to start approaching random groups of girls and not-so-romantically asking if any of them wished to accompany me back to the guesthouse for a lovin’ spoonful. Most everyone I encountered didn’t speak English which I retrospectively consider a good thing that may have saved me from several rounds of slaps to the face.
Sometime during my string of indecent proposals, some tall gangly Malaysian Indian came up to me and introduced himself. When I’m drunk I’ll have a conversation with pretty much anyone so I didn’t think anything of it when, with this dude, I decided to engage in a friendly chat. As I recall, this particular friendly chat had quickly escalated to something else when, about a minute after our meeting, the guy began to caress my arm and decided to inform me of his sexual orientation.
“I am gay,” he stated while pulling me close with one arm, rubbing his chest on my shoulder and caressing my pectorals with his other hand.
Before I go any further with the story, I’d like to say that I’m not a homophobic person. Gay stuff doesn’t bother me. In fact, I’d had one of the gayest childhoods I could’ve imagined that made me pretty much immune to all things homosexual from there on out. Whether any of my friends from that period of time had been closet fanny-bandits or just a bunch of dudes that liked to do really gay stuff but are actually straight shooters is something that remains undetermined.
It was towards the end of fifth and near the beginning of sixth grade when I remember my and all the lives of my friends had begun to revolve around sex. I think it all started around the time one of our buddies had stumbled upon a duffel bag full of porno magazines in the bushes at Brooks Park. Deciding on a neutral place where everyone would have access to the goods, the porn stash was hidden in the backyard treehouse of two twin brothers that we’ll call Los Hermanos Pokos.
At the time, because of AOL parental controls, pornography wasn’t something that was easy for my friends and me to get our hands on. The only way to get porn online back in those days had been to go into lesbian chatrooms and ask random creeps to send naked pictures of themselves to our emails with the promise that we’d return the favor upon our reception. Judging by how many times we’d ended up receiving the same “personal” photo from different people, I’m guessing most everyone in these chats weren’t even real lesbians and had actually been just a bunch of similarly web-restricted kids our age looking to get off. Either way, once we’d gotten what we wanted in our mailboxes, we’d often give in return to our business partners some dumbass drawings we made on Kid Pix of gay stick figures fucking each other up the ass which they wouldn’t like and would complain about through IM until we blocked and possibly even reported them to the interweb authorities.
Going into lesbo chats in search of whacking material could be a long boring process so the discovery of the duffel bag porno stash and its ensuing installment to the treehouse of Los Hermanos Pokos for public use had been a real game-changer. That said, even though what we had seemed like plenty, there quickly developed a shared sentiment among my peers that you can never have enough porno. As such, when we could, we’d go on “missions” constantly seeking to add to the stash.
The objective of one of the missions I recall had detailed that one of our undercover agents go to a neighborhood automotive shop near the railroad tracks off Northwest Highway and steal the stack of Playboys that was rumored to have been kept in their restroom. This was to be done by means of the mission man first pretending he had to take a piss and asking the dudes who worked there if he could pop in and freak a quick leak. After gaining access to the facilities, Agent Double-O Sixty-Nine would pick up said porno mags, jam as many of them as he could into his waistband, flush the toilet to make it sound like he’d actually been using the bathroom and then leave covertly in possession of the top secret documents. As it turns out, the operation proved successful and the spank bank grew.
In theory, having community access to that porno stash was great but in reality it came with its fair share of problems. One of the pitfalls about this stash was how it had the power to turn us all against each other especially during times when some of my more aggressive classmates would steal the porn from the treehouse and hide if from everybody else for their own selfish consumption. Fingers would be pointed, everyone would yell at each other and we’d fight over the missing magazines.
What was even less cool about the treehouse porno stash than prompting random fights had been how pictures of naked chicks had somehow managed to bring out the gayest side of everyone I knew. Thanks to this stockpile of the filthiest porns I’d ever seen that’d probably been hidden in the bushes by another group of kids trying to keep it from their parents, it suddenly became okay for ten guys to sit up in the treehouse together with their pants down, simultaneously masturbating to porno magazines while comparing the sizes of their dongs and the thickness of their pubes. This was something that I just wasn’t cool with. When I was with my friends, I wanted to play sports and throw shit at cars. No part of me wanted to sit around with them and spend the afternoon masturbating together. Although I never removed my pants and partook in the total gayness around me, to appear affable and stay active on the social grid, I often hung around while everyone around me was “having a go at it.”
Eventually, a few months after the initial duffel discovery, everyone had jacked off to the same porno magazines in that treehouse so many times that they became bored with the vulgar repository. Although it in itself had become a non-factor, I’d have to say that the addiction spawned by the duffel depot had lasting effects on the psyches of my grade school peers. According to my theory, those magazines had served as a gateway drug into the world of smut. And from that point in time, it wouldn’t be long before harder porn was sought after and harder porn was found.
Somewhere in the depths of the casa belonging to Los Hermanos Pokos, a porno tape from the 1980s called Black Chicks in Heat had been unearthed in their father’s study and almost immediately afterwards, a jackoff party was held in their basement. In what serves as one of the most bizarre memories from my developmental years, as some big-dicked black dude plowed away at some fat-assed black woman on the subterranean television, a bunch of white kids from a notoriously bigoted corner on the far northwest side of Chicago gathered around, collectively spanking their monkey-meat to flickering images of lustful chocolate fornication.
Although the scene in itself was inherently grotesque, the weirdest part about the strokefest was that when it came time to cum, nobody bothered to employ a jizz-rag and spunk was shot wherever the skeeter saw fit. Some kids jizzed on the carpet, some kids jizzed in their own pubes and pulled their pants up over the mess like nothing happened and one guy – a guy that we’ll call Dusty Cundiff – blew his wad all over the green felt top of Mr. Poko’s brand new pool table, leaving behind a stain which I’m guessing said homeowner wasn’t too happy about. And if he only knew the crusty white spot on his billiard was left there by some randy-ass twelve-year-old who’d been jackin’ it to his Black Chicks in Heat video, the guy probably would’ve lost his fucking mind.
When the novelty of the black-on-black action had inevitably worn off, everybody was once again searching for the next thing to which they could toss off. Since the mother of Los Hermanos Pokos had been a “cool mom” and major enabler of this masturbatory groupthink, at the request of her two sons La Madre had gone to the store and picked up several new pornos for everybody’s stroking pleasure.
“Dude,” I said next time I saw them, “your mom actually went out of her way to buy this porno for you? That’s so ridiculous.”
“No Lally you idiot, weren’t you listening? She didn’t buy the porno for us,” one of them had told me. “We paid for it with our allowance. Our mom only picked it up from the store for us because we’re not old enough to get it on our own.”
“Dude, that’s the definition of buying it for you. Your mom bought you this porn.”
My buddy again stated his case and I seemingly had no choice but to agree with him and here’s why…
I’d once seen this dude having an argument with his twin brother when “your mom” jokes had been at the height of their popularity. Back in those days, all things said by either party in a disagreement prior to the dropping of a “your mom” joke were immediately rendered irrelevant as “your mom” jokes were the be-all end-all of any sixth grade squabble. There was no way to regain your dignity once one of your peers had claimed that they’d boned your mom – that was it for you, you were done. As such, when this dude had been trying to put the icing on the cake and end the dispute he’d been having with his twin bro, he resorted to using the line, “So what Danny, I don’t even care, I fucked your mom.” Of course Danny had replied to the kid with whom he’d shared a womb by calling him an idiot and reminding him that they’d in fact had the same mom. But still, even then, he didn’t seem to fully grasp the implications of his insult.
Since smut had such a hold on us all and was so readily available at the apex of this jag-off mania, doing anything short of cutting ties with all my friends, it was impossible to get away from all the group porno-watching and subsequent gay shit – even on out-of-state trips.
I remember in seventh grade, my buddy Dusty and I had gone to Cincinnati with the family of my other buddy T-Bag to watch his older sister compete in a high school rowing tournament. T-Bag’s parents had their own room and had gotten one for the three of us right next door. In suit with the rest of the chapter, as you might’ve guessed, this outing somehow turned into a gay jack-off fest during which my buddy T-Bag laid naked on the bed, took a jelly donut from the box of Krispy Kremes his parents had bought us, stuck his dick through the center of it and just laid there beating off with a handful of sticky-ass, smashed-up donut bullshit until eventually blowing a load of “crème filling” up onto his stomach.
Just when I felt I could no longer take any more of this wanking-in-front-of-other-dudes-all-the-time stuff, I’d been graced with a blessing in disguise and was banned from jackoff headquarters. My buddy Dusty had been at the house of Los Hermanos Pokos when my banishment had been imposed.
“We were sitting around watching some porno we ordered on Pay-Per-View called Baking Cookies when Mrs. Poko came in the room with the phone bill,” Dusty told me. “‘Hey,’ she said, ‘which one of you guys has been making all these calls to 1-800-WET-GIRL? It says here that I owe Wet Girl fifty bucks – who’s been doing this?’ I started laughing my ass off. I don’t remember who it was, I think it was Miller who’d been calling it at the jack-off sleepover the weekend previous but one of the Pokos said, ‘It was Lally. Lally was making all the calls to Wet Girl.’ And she goes in her strong Italian accent, ‘Oh Rally, huh? Well, I don’t want any more Rally’s running through my house, you hear me?’ ‘Oh yeah, okay, yeah mom,’ they say as we’re sitting there watching a fifteen dollar porno flick that’s gonna show up on the next cable bill, ‘No problem, we won’t hang out with him anymore.’”
So, that was pretty much it for my socially obligated, “I’m-worried-that-if-I-wasn’t-here-I’d-be-losing-all-my-friends” presence at these tug festivals. I think they ultimately ended altogether a few months later when everyone dared my buddy Mac to put a condom on that he didn’t know one of Los Hermanos Pokos had filled with Raid roach spray when he wasn’t looking. I think those chemical burns he’d taken to the penishole were the last hurrah of all our gay-as-hell grade school fun.
Like grade school had been, high school was a pretty strange time. Unlike grade school however, most jacking off was done individually in the privacy of each wanker’s own home. In spite of the fact that most dudes had spanked in solitude, some rotten apples still felt the need to share their masturbatory habits while conversing with others. Whereas one guy would say that he liked to fuck his pillow, another would tell the group that he preferred to jizz on slides and put ‘em under the microscope to watch his sperm swim around. One of my buddies had even told me that he liked to fill Ziploc sandwich bags with Vaseline, put ‘em in the microwave until they’re nice and warm then wedge ‘em between his mattress and box spring before whippin’ it out ‘n’ goin’ to town. That’d been one of the weirdest things I’d heard until I got to college and a buddy from St. Louis told me that he used to cut dick-shaped holes into cantaloupes before microwaving and fucking them. Although all these habits might be as peculiar as the appearance of a woman who has breasts for butt cheeks, none of them are, by nature, homosexual. Since that is what this chapter is all about, let’s get back on track with all the gay stuff.
Undeniably, the gayest part about high school had been how masturbating and jizzing on the faces of male contemporaries had gone from being something that homosexuals do for pleasure to something that straight guys do to show one another disrespect. The first time I’d heard anything about this strange practice had been when someone told me about a dude appropriately named Cummings who’d jerked off and caught his load in his hand during a long-distance bus trip to a high school wrestling tournament and then smeared his seed on the face of a guy he didn’t like who’d been passed out in one of the nearby seats. When this news had reached me, I immediately concluded that it’d been one of the gayest things I’d ever heard, but I guess I was wrong. I was told that this was by no means an act of homosexuality, but rather a move to show the unsuspecting guy what a bitch he was by drenching him in cum.
The second time I’d heard of such a thing had been when my brother and I were chillin’ at my parents’ house and watching some TV with our neighbor “Midge.” At some point, Midge told us the following story.
“We were all getting drunk and watching porn at one of our friend’s houses and this pussy kid who can’t drink passed out after having only like three beers. So, after we finished drinking all our own, me and another guy drank all that bitch’s beer too. And uh, so then after that, when that fag was just laying there passed out on the couch, me and the other guy started jerking off and skeeted all over his face. He didn’t even wake up. That pussy had no idea what was going on.”
My brother and I looked at each other.
“Uh, Midge,” my brother said, “lemme get this straight. You and another guy jerked off together and jizzed on a third guy’s face while he was passed out?”
“Okay, well, that’s gotta be the gayest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Well, no,” he argued, “it wasn’t gay because there was porn on the TV.”
“Who gives a shit? You masturbated next to another guy who also was masturbating and you both jizzed on another guy’s face. That’s the definition of gay. Tell me,” my bro asked, “how is that not gay?”
“But, no, it’s not gay because by jizzing on that dude’s face, we were showing the dude how big of a fag he was for passing out after drinking only three beers. It was a sign of disrespect and,” he felt the need to reiterate, “as I said, there was porn on the TV. So, it definitely wasn’t gay.”
Well, there it is. I’ve said my piece. I’m not afraid of being around gay stuff or gay people because I have been my entire life – even if they’re “not really gay.” What I didn’t like about my situation in Taipei however, had been how aggressive the Malaysian Indian dude had been with his gayness and the fact that it’d been directed entirely at me. So, here’s where we’ll pick the story up from where we left off, right after the guy had told me that he was gay and had started sensually rubbing himself all over me outside Lava.
“Oh yeah?” I asked while removing his hand from my chest and shoving him away. “You’re gay?”
“Yes,” he reiterated, “I am gay.”
“That’s sweet dude,” I added while stepping away to go find the next group of girls by whom I could get denied after asking for sex. “I’m not gay though, so tonight you’re gonna hafta find someone else to be gay with.”
My words went in one of his ears and out the other. He scampered after me, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back. I ripped it from his grasp.
“What the fuck dude!? I told you I’m not gay!”
“C’mon, let’s share a cab.”
“Dude, I’m not gay. I don’t wanna share a cab with you.”
I walked away and he followed closely behind, not saying anything at all. I was creeped out and decided to give up on trying to bang Taiwanese chicks and got in line to take a taxi back to the guesthouse. He stuck by my side all the while.
“C’mon. Me and you, let’s share a cab.”
“Hey, what did I just say? I’m not sharing a cab with you. Look,” I pointed around, “there’re plenty of other dudes that you can try and fuck in the ass, why don’t you go see if they’ll be gay with you?”
“C’mon,” he again grabbed onto me, “just let me suck your dick.”
“Let you suck my dick?” I panted. “I’m not letting you suck my dick. Get the fuck away from me.”
“C’mon, me and you in that cab to your hotel and I’m going to suck your dick.”
“No dude!” I grabbed him by the shirt. “Don’t ask me again if you can suck my dick or I will fucking kill you. Do you understand me? I will fucking kill you.”
After I laid down the law, the guy dropped the subject but never went away and kept standing in queue right behind me. About ten minutes later we made it to the front of the line and I climbed in the back of a cab. I handed a business card to the driver that had the address of my guesthouse written in Chinese. He nodded, indicating he knew where the place was. I took one last look out the window and made eye contact with my wannabe fellator as we drove away.
No more than a block or two down the road, I spotted the golden arches of a twenty-four hour McDonalds.
“Hey, hey, nihao,” I said to the driver while pointing towards Mickey D’s, “Big Mac, Big Mac, drive-thru.”
Despite the language barrier, he’d gotten the message and turned into the parking lot of the fast food restaurant. From the back window, I ordered their equivalent of a Quarter Pounder with cheese, paid and was handed my fourthmeal minutes later. After copping my greasy sack, the driver turned back onto the street on which we’d been driving before I interrupted him and we got caught at the first red light. Not waiting to get all the way back to the guesthouse to crush my snack, I began ripping into that shit, was thrown into a drunken late-night fast-food trance and became oblivious to all around me.
As I chomped away, I was stolen from my bliss when a handful of coins plinked off the cab’s exterior. I looked to my side and right next to us at the light had been another taxi. Hanging out the back window was the crazy Malaysian who’d been shouting his head off and indicating that I roll down the window. I outright refused. As soon as the light turned green, my driver – picking up the non-verbal cues that the guy in the cab opposite had been a total nut-job – floored it and took a detour down a random street to get us away from the gay, potentially butt-raping psychotic.
In da club…