Love Walter:  Erotic City

Love Walter

Dear Walter,


Love your column by the way. I’m a longtime reader. I love the way you write your debaucherous tales with such humor and honesty. I guess my question is more of a request. I would like to hear about one of your wildest experiences, was there a pivotal moment that made you reflect?


—Curious Reader

Dear Curious Reader,


Let me enchant you with a tale from my crypt. Once upon a sinful time, I could have danced all night, and if I had $10 more I would have. It was a Tuesday night which felt more like a Friday night because the night was so lit. It started after Cinderella ended hers. She could have spent the night with me, cleaning the gritty streets of the city with our dancing feet. She couldn’t handle the concrete jungle in such fragile footwear. I knew fairy tales didn’t reflect reality. But, this fairy shook his tail all over Le Soux in the Greenwich Village. It was the kind of place where gay celebs like ultra plastic Amanda Laporte would frequent.

Bottomless bottle service tested my willpower and gag reflex. Which failed me every time. I just couldn’t resist. Two drinks and six hits of hookah later, I swiveled like a high-class hooker through a revolving door of a hotel searching for a senator to suck on.


I danced with a Canadian brother from another country, who lacked rhythm and flavor, he was more like a Canada Dry. I had no plans on pulling a move from the movie, Pretty Woman, dressed in high heels and short shorts. Or so I thought.


We drove over to Westway, which was so gay on Tuesday; it’s called Westgay. It was so hot and uncomfortable at first like new shoes I had to break in. The venue featured a live performance by Mykki Blanco, who wore a white skirt with a matching bra and a pair of white clunky heels. The look was quite clinical, except his weave swayed from side to side, sopping with sweat and grease — sort of like a mop tangled in an oil spill. I’ve never heard his songs before, but I danced to them anyway.

After I sweated out my dress and turban, the club closed. I walked from the West End to the West Village to get to the subway. As I crept towards the mouth of the station, Sebastian emerged. He towered over me at 6 feet tall in his late-30s. He was definitely my type:  he was older and taller. He pressed me against the brick wall and kissed me on the lips. I can still taste the whiskey. He was drunk and so was I, so I gave into the moment.


“I miss working with you,” he said while holding my hand. “I meant to call you but I’ve been so busy.”


I was such a fun boss. I used to cut those overnights short and go clubbing with the staff. His reluctance stemmed from him having a boyfriend, who was abroad in India.


“Well, your loss,” I said. “I only wanted to hang out, not have sex with you.”


He laughed and kissed me again. This time he grabbed the small of my back and held it. He pivoted his pelvis in the pit of my stomach, I felt his stiffness in his paints as my heart raced. It was one of those New York moments people always talk about. Just me making out with someone else’s man on Christopher street.


“I still remember that night we hung out at Splash,” he said. “I enjoyed spanking your bare ass.”


I was drunk that night too, post-breakup in a short black skirt. We could have gone as far as we wanted. I could have used a distraction. Instead, we settled for a lap-dance on the bar.


“I also remember you grabbing me and flipping me over the railing.”


He laughed out loud, grabbing me again for another kiss. He held out a white pill in his palm.


“What is that?”


“It’s a Vicodin. You take it with champagne and gets you where you need to be.”


“How Upper East Side of you?”


He placed the pill on the tip of his tongue and kissed me. He pressed himself against my thigh while the pill bounced around my mouth. He thrust my thigh again, causing me to swallow the pill. My necked burned as the chalky taste lingered in my mouth.


“My boyfriend will be back this weekend,” he said. “So, I’ll have to be good.”


I needed an A train towards Brooklyn, which was several blocks away. I meandered into two strangers in front of CVS, one was tall and sexy and the other was short and stout.


“Where are you going,” said the tall one.


“I’m walking to the station.”


“No, you’re going the wrong way.”


“Oh, perhaps you can show me.”


“You’re drunk. Where are you coming from?”


“Yes, I am. And I’m coming from Westway.”


Who said New Yorker’s weren’t friendly?  We walked a couple of blocks towards the 1 train. Although, I needed the A train; I figured I was one step closer to my destination.


He left his friend behind like any friend would, and walked me to the subway. It was dangerous to have a stranger with me this late at night. And yet there was nothing strange about it — an act I learned to repeat years later. I found his hood swag and dark skin tone intriguing. He seduced me in loose-fitting clothing and overt masculinity. Yes, he perpetuated a ghetto hood fantasy that most gays went for. But what was hidden underneath his hard shell was a boyish charm.


“You should come with me. I live close by.”


Two stops and a mild flirtation later, I was climbing the stairs of his ancient apartment building. The kind of building you would see behind neon caution tape. Dingy walls and dusty stairs met halls that reeked of urine. I should have known from the outside what the inside would be like.


Everything was in one room except the bathroom. This was an open concept before the open concept was in fashion. We sat at a black card table with four matching chairs with various states of wear and tear. The room reminded me of something a depressed person would like. It was bare, broken, and badly needed repairs.


He pulled out a brown wrapper and sprinkled weed inside. Then he rolled it with his fingertips, sealing it with saliva – without breaking conversation or eye contact. I could never do that.


I used to invite a hood boy over from the neighborhood, who used to do my hair and roll up my blunts before I went out to the club. It was a win-win since he liked to smoke but he couldn’t afford it and I could but didn’t know how to roll it.


I snapped out my internal monologue when he passed me the blunt. I felt calm and relaxed.

“Oh no, I think the Vicodin is kicking in.”

He grabbed the blunt from me and escorted me to his bed, which was next to the table. It was a squeaky fold up cart straight masquerading as a bed. Suddenly I was feeling like Cinderella, well after midnight.


He laid next to me. His dick caressed my ass before reaching  over to kiss me. I pinched my nipples. He jumped out of his bed to retrieve a NYC condom and lube packet from his shorts. Those were the free condoms from the clinic. I laid there in anticipation. Nervousness entered my spine as he penetrated me. My body tingled and shimmered. Each kiss felt like raindrops on my smooth skin. He consumed my essence, my scent, my body. I belonged to him. It’s a strange and powerful thing to submit yourself to someone however unworthy even for a moment.


I tend to look after all my trysts with a romantic after glow. But it was fast love, cheap and dirty. He collapsed on my back after he came, while still trapped inside. My body became his own warm embrace. The only thing protecting me from his swimmers was a thin layer of plastic. It was my lifeboat.


It was at that moment, I felt relief. I can get away clean, without getting contaminated, without forcing something more than a whim. The past can just be the past. And my future was not sealed with a tryst.




What do you think?


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