This is a true story. The names have NOT been changed to protect the innocent! Several years ago, during the summer, I was single and walking down Christopher Street in Greenwich Village. I was wearing very short cut-off jean shorts which are pretty slutty, but hey… It was getting rather late, so I figured I’d pop online and try to “order” some cock in when I got home.
However, as I meandered toward the subway station, I walked by a scruffy blond guy sitting on a stoop and I thought he noticed me, although I rationalized that he was just too hot and I just imagined it. As I turned away, he had followed me with his eyes all the way down the street. Having honed my gaydar a tad, even by then, I decided to walk back and chat him up. I preferred to meet men spontaneously rather than online or in the bars anyway. After all, we were near the gayest corner in New York City (Christopher and Bleecker) and one of the gayest corners in the country.
I forgot what he said, but he identified himself as having some typical Irish first name (but not Patrick) with the last name Mannering (his real last name, apparently). In fact, he said he was born in Ireland (had an Irish Pride/clover tattoo of some sort on his arm) and that he was 100% Irish stock. I suppose this was to try to impress me. I’m 1/4 Irish myself, but I just thought he was hot. He said grew up mostly on Long Island though.
He told me that he had just flown up from Florida where he was working on a construction job. He looked the part. He was a bit disheveled and his t-shirt, boots and pants were worn, with some paint splatter. It was a hot night to be wearing long pants. I asked if I could buy him a coffee at Tiffany’s (not the jewelry shop, but rather a café that then existed near 7th Avenue, across the street from Stonewall). He preferred that I get him a beer, so I did. While I drank my espresso (hoping to get a good long fucking in with him eventually), he told me about how straight he was (blah blah blah), how he was afraid to go home to his Dad’s house in Long Island because his step-mother keeps making passes at him. He may have even fucked her once, but who cares?
So I just asked him what kind of guys he likes. He explained he liked them big and butch, like me (quel surprise – the blue collar worker is smart enough to use the right answer). Then I asked him if he wanted to come back to my place in Brooklyn. He said he wouldn’t know how to get back to Manhattan afterwards, so I assured him that in the morning I would myself be returning to Manhattan to attend a picnic with the Metrobears in Central Park, so I could hold his “paw”.
We got into a cab, which I probably paid for, although I don’t remember if he contributed. When we were in the cab we groped each other a bit for a while and he asked me if I was endowed. I told him that I doubted he would be disappointed and that no one had ever complained (except to say “ouch”). Then he surprised me with, “Oh, okay, because I am.” I nodded, but let him know that this was not a prerequisite or anything. I hate size queens (it’s their boyfriends I love). I still found it odd to bring up at this point, since he would soon be in my pants anyway.
While he didn’t kiss (typical issue for purported straight boys) I fucked him twice and we sucked each other off. His ass had been fucked many a time before because I slid in like there was no tomorrow. His favorite position was sticking his ass in the air while I fucked him doggy style for all he was worth. We had sex like banshees for hours cumming multiple times. Lo and behold, he was not kidding. His cock was the thickest beercan-based 9.5″ (at least) I had ever had the pleasure of trying to deep throat. I do not think to that point I had ever had a bigger cock nor do I think anything I’ve ever even seen has been bigger . So much for what some people have told me about the “Irish Curse” and “Potato Dicks” (mushroom dicks with thicker heads than shafts). Anyway, he was moderately hairy and extremely passionate in bed, despite his kissing issue. He did have some blisters on his toes, so I guess that means he had done a lot of wandering around since he got back from “Florida”.
After some major sex, I fell asleep in his arms (something I do because I like to do it and also because having a strange man in my house, I want to be awakened if he should decide to sneak out or wander while I’m fast asleep). We held each other and it was quite comfortable. It wasn’t one of those sticky, humid nights, so we didn’t even need the air conditioning and were able to go to sleep despite the close proximity.
In the morning he headed toward the shower and I asked him what he wanted me to make him for breakfast. “Beer.”
While he was in the shower I fried up some eggs and bacon. Then I realized I forgot his damn name, so I thought I’d be clever and looked in his bag ever so cautiously. Without digging too deeply I saw a photo identification card with his picture and name which was something like Christopher (I honestly don’t remember and have no reason to protect his identity as I am using his real last name). So when he was emerging from the bathroom, I said, “Hey Christopher, you sure you don’t want some waffles?”
“Why did you call me that name?”
Shuddering, I said, “Isn’t that the name you gave me last night?”
He said, “You were going through my stuff, weren’t you?” I apologized profusely and explained that I had a terrible time remembering names (not true since we were drilled on this in law school) and that I just peeked into his bag for a moment to glean it from the card I saw. He continued, “Do you know what you were looking at?”
I defended, “No, I swear I was just interested in getting your name, not being nosy.”
He kind of chuckled at my obvious embarrassment and said, “That was my identification card from Rikers Island,” a high security island prison in New York City much like Alcatraz.
I said, “Oh?” thinking to myself that I just spent the night in the arms of the ex-con. No wonder his ass was so well-used for a “straight” boy. He went on to tell me that he was imprisoned for driving without a license (like I believe that). He said the reason why the card was actually not his name is because when they booked him, they presumed he was the same Mannering that was arrested for gun possession years ago. That Mannering was his father! So he let them screw it up so he would not have his charge on the record.
He continued drinking his beer breakfast (I happened to have beer in the house) and asked about real estate, implying that we would be spending more time together and that he would cook for me. He asked if he could borrow some money, so a little red flag went up. He saw my wallet on the coffee table and noticed some green stuff in it. I told him that I didn’t like to lend friends money (although sometimes it makes more sense to just give it away and not expect it back). Mannering claimed that he probably made more than I did per hour in construction and that he was just waiting for his check. He asked if he could borrow some cooler clothes so I pulled out this old pair of shorts that cost me like $3.00 second hand, a tank top and some cheap sandals. This is what he wanted to wear into the city. He left his construction boots, which I figured were worth more than all the ensemble that I lent him, not to mention his T-shirt and jeans, ragged as they were. I knew the sandals would be better for his blisters and I liked seeing him more scantily clad anyway. We talked on the subway ride in to his supposed appointment to see an apartment (although I had noticed that he hadn’t called anyone to confirm). He gave me his pager number (this was before everyone had cell phones) and we made plans for him to try to meet the bears and me in Central Park, or at least meet back at the apartment for dinner. Obviously my daughter was with her mother this weekend, or I wouldn’t be having an ex-con come and go.
At the last minute on the subway he convinced me to lend him forty bucks, which I figured would not cause any harm. Of course I never heard from him again and the pager number did not work. I did some searches for Mannering online a few times, but nothing came up. I’m not sure what I would want from him at this point, except maybe some more good sex, but what a revelation to have found myself cuddling with a criminal (I was in law school at the time). While I am not buy-sexual, I realized at the time that I might be coming as close to hiring a man for sex as I ever would. Ironically that man says he’s straight, so gay for pay isn’t such a misnomer in this instance. At least I got my money’s worth.
I’ve purchased many pairs of shoes since that day, but the pair I will be seen in most of the time will be the construction worker ex-con’s!
