something to keep you awake... instead of a nightmare  


 Love Sucks

(Gay Men's Press, 1997)

At a cocktail party recently I had a long conversation with a New York businessman of the usual type, the anonymous man in suit and tie. It has been said that in New York people will tell you the most intimate details of their life within five minutes of meeting you and then five minutes later walk by like they don’t know you. This man told me things you wouldn’t tell your own wife and I think we never even exchanged names, never mind vows. I enjoyed our conversation, though he did most of the talking, bragging about this and that. His business, his money, his house, and his penis. I’m a good listener. I let people make fools of themselves. And who of us isn’t a fool underneath all the lame attempts at passing ourselves off as smart, sophisticated, all-knowing but not conceited beings. As my grandmother used to say: “If you don’t open your mouth, nobody will know how stupid you are.” She was a woman of few words.

During the course of my conversation with this man with the big head I drank enough cocktails to find the man and his head mildly amusing. The main thrust of his monologue was himself and at a certain point focused in on one small part of his rather large body, his giant cock. It soon dominated the conversation. Somewhere between the first few glasses he informed me with modest pride that it’s a good foot long. No inflation necessary.

“When guys say they got nine inches it’s usually an exaggeration,” he says with precision. “Go around with a ruler and you’ll see that the male anatomy is largely overrated.”

One way to find out. Probably better with a tape measure.

“In fact any mortician will tell you that as a general rule six inches is big, depending on where you’re measuring from. My twelve inches is for real. I don’t want to sound smug or anything... but it’s not easy having a piece like that.”

Don’t hate me because I’m hung? I look at the man. He is quite tall and big all around. Not fat, but not tight either. I look at his hands, his feet. His shoes are enormous. His thumbs remind me of something in a Picasso. Cubist blocks. I decide his thing must be a giant cubist block. Long as his ruler. Wide as his foot.

“It’s thick too,” he says, reading my mind.

Is that a problem?

“In a way it is. I mean I don’t want to sound smug or anything... but my dick is a source of fascination to a lot of people.”

Men? Women? Dwarfs? Since when is it a problem to have an awesome penis?

“It is a problem. Just because they’re in awe of it doesn’t mean they can satisfy it. As a general rule, women don’t appreciate my dick. It’s a fallacy of men’s imaginations that women want a big one. You try to fuck them with it and they scream that you’re hurting them. You try to stick it in their mouth but they really don’t know how to suck. You push it down their throats and they gag.”

I swallow the last of my cocktail. Perfect timing. The waiter goes by with a tray and I grab two more. For myself.

“The truth is, men suck cock like they really know what they’re doing. They love to suck. And it shows. You shove it down their throats and they can’t get enough. You pull it out and they stick their tongue out begging for more. Just like dogs.”

Ruff ruff.

“I guess the problem is I like to fuck,” he says.

Is that a problem?

“I mean really fuck. Only the pros can take what I got. A few full-blooded women. But nobody can take it, and I mean take it up the ass, like a faggot who’s really into it. Hard to find. Believe it or not a lot of gay guys, even screaming queens, do not get fucked. Maybe they dream about it, I don’t know. But when it comes down to it they can’t take it. Especially when it’s a foot long.”

Maybe you need to go easy on them at first. Sort of work it in slowly.

“I’m not a dildo.”

Just a dick.

“In any case there’s still the problem of sight unseen. It’s one thing if their butt is smooth and fleshy, but when it’s hard and hairy I can’t look.”

Don’t look.

“You have to look to get it in the hole. And then the image sticks. I can’t get it out of my head.”

Hm. I grab a jumbo shrimp off a passing tray. It looks rather strange dipped in the mayonnaise. I swallow it whole, to soak up some of the alcohol before I go back to work. I play cocktail piano for a living. Which means I drink enough cocktails on my break that I can stomach playing My Way without barfing on the piano. After this conversation the silent lyrics will have new meaning. I did it my way. In the thick of a room full of conversations, we must look like we’re talking about incentives for large investments. We are.

“I’m not saying I don’t succeed,” the man continues. “Just not as deep as I want to go. It’s not easy to find the right hole.”

Mr Right Hole. A suitable property for large investments.

“First, a hole that I find presentable. Then a hole that can take what I got. And not to mention, a hole that doesn’t insist I use a rubber.”

You don’t use a condom?

“I know that sounds like some kind of sin these days. But from my perspective I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not risking my own health because everyone knows, in spite of what they say, that you can’t get it from giving it. And furthermore the ones who take it are safe with me because I’ve been tested and I know for a fact that nothing is wrong with my cock.”

Except a benign growth.

“Just doesn’t feel good to put one of those little bags on my big cock. They never fit.”

Try a garbage bag.

“Forget it. The rubber ruins it for me. I refuse. If they want it, they have to take it like it is.”

That says it all. Take it or leave it. I grab a misshapen hors d’oeuvre off a passing tray. And look at it. The bite-size sausage stuck in a bready hole. A rather perverse pig in blanket. I munch away on the sleeping sausage with new insight into the mind of a pig. No point in thinking too much about the things we stick in our mouths, to say nothing of the other hole. As long it tastes good. As long as it goes in. And isn’t that the point? I look at the man. Big man, big ego. Big dick, small brain. Just my type. He’s still talking about his dong with occasional references to the void of his dreams. I have to ask. Where does he find these holes?

“To tell you the truth, I’ve discovered that the best way to get what I want is to go to the public men’s room. That’s right. You probably had no idea that sex goes on in those places.”


“That’s right. You’d be amazed how much sex goes on in men’s rooms all over the country. I do a lot of traveling on business. You know, some of these toilets are even—how can I put it—equipped. They have a hole in the partition. You can stick your dick in the hole. And believe it or not, the guy in the next stall sucks your dick. Even sticks it up his ass. And for me it’s great because I don’t have to see the man. Or his ass. I can let my imagination run wild. And nine times out of ten when I stick it in the hole there’s some anxious hole on the other side raring to go, ready to please, and more than able to satisfy.”

You mean you’ve just now discovered the glory hole?

“Is that what they call them? I wouldn’t know. I’m not gay.”