I Loved You More Read Online Free PDF Page B

beautiful sentences and the way he uttered them; instead of a dream cometrue, the prospect of sitting face to face with Hank Christian in my tiny apartment with the bed right there – I couldn’t imagine. As soon as I hung up the phone after I invited him over, I couldn’t fucking imagine. That’s when the nightmare started. My body morphed into a skinny, zitty, gawky, tongue-tied Idaho teenager. A complete fucking flaccid fraud.
    MY BROKEN DICK . Such a long sad story. It started when I was born and just never got better. I thought after leaving my wife things would change. And they did there for a while with Bette. When I started walking on the other side of the street, though, I thought that would solve the problem. I had high hopes for my hard-on. But the Brotherhood of Homosexual Men I’d been yearning to find turned out to be me standing solo in bars with loud disco music. Bars with friendly names like Hell Fire, Rawhide, or The Anvil. They were all the same. Dark with dramatic lighting and shadows. Every man wearing the same outfit. Like we were all straight guys on a construction crew who were having beers after work. Or we were miners. Or we were cowboys. Nobody talked because the music was too loud to talk and if we talked we’d no longer be the hardwired sex machines we were posing as.
    Then there was the Monster. A piano bar. The men there didn’t all look like G.I. Joe. Sitting at the crowded bar, you could actually talk to men. But it didn’t take me long to figure out it was the cocaine. Really, I had some of the most bizarre conversations you could imagine in that place. Men making absolutely no fucking sense at all. For example, there was this one guy one night. He was a black guy, good looking. I introduced myself and that quick he’s talking about the night and the stars and somehow then he’s talking about the trademark porcelain stamp on the men’s toilet in the bathroom, Porcelana , then he’s talking about Burt Reynolds’s party tricks, then how the more fruit you eat the more sour your cum tastes – all of it, all at once, spoken in one long breathless sentence. Fuck.
    The secret code. I think what being gay really means is thatyou understand the secret code. I never got the secret code. For example, I walk up to a guy in a bar who’s carefully prepared himself to look like he’s been digging fence posts all day. I say, Hi, hello how are you and tell him my name is Ben. More often than not this guy won’t speak, he’ll just look at me up and down, checking me out, what’s important, what’s wrong, and then he’ll walk off.
    Now if you know the secret code, you know to follow or not to follow. Sometimes when you follow, the guy’s in the bathroom with his dick hanging out. And there’s just no way in hell I’m going to kneel down in all that piss and take some dick I’ve never met into my mouth.
    Then sometimes when you follow the guy, you aren’t supposed to follow the guy, because in secret code he’d just told you to fuck off. Yet sometimes when you follow the guy who’d just somehow magically communicated to you to fuck off, that’s the right thing to do. And I guess that’s because that means you want to be told to fuck off, and if that guy is in fact a guy who gets off on telling guys to fuck off, then that’s the right move to make. Otherwise it’s a staredown from hell.
    And that’s just if you gets the balls to walk up to someone and start talking. Mostly I just stand and wait for someone to talk to me. Yah. Good luck.
    Then the whole top and bottom thing. How men just know that stuff. So many times, in the bathroom, there isn’t a dick hanging out waiting for you, it’s a guy bent over stretching out his ass crack with his hands. I mean really, I love men’s asses. I’ve followed men’s asses all the way across Manhattan. But to just have that