At first it was hard to make anything out in the dim shadows. There was a small corridor with several doors: a padlocked fire exit, one marked Men, the other marked Ladies. There was usually a small crowd milling about, some men leaning against the wall smoking, others keeping moving in and out of the toilets. The stalls inside would be the scene of frantic movements, low moans and occasional piercing screams of delirious pleasure. The action made the cinematic sex nearby redundant, distant, and clinical in comparison. The atmosphere was electric!
As I have always been quite aggressive, I’d be one of the ones milling and looking into faces. Sometimes I’d be grabbed by someone and groped. If I found him sexy I’d open my pants and let him stroke me a bit. If not, I’d pull away and shoot a withering glance. Because of my age and looks, I held a special power over most of my compatriots. I had my choice, and I reveled in it. I could be picky one minute and part of a gang fuck in the Ladies room the next. Crowds would gather, and I’d pick from the lot.
I have so many warm (and wet) memories of times spent in those darkened rooms.
I remember the short, sweet-faced Italian man with the beautiful ass pulled tight over his blue Dickies, his short sweet uncut dick bouncing off his belly as I fucked him silly.
I remember tag-teaming a man in a suit, his pants around his ankles on a filthy tile floor, with half a dozen different guys. He got my load in last, already fucked open and oozing the other’s semen.
I remember the glory hole between the stalls of the Ladies room, which in my innocence I used as a window to peer through, sitting on the throne with a cock in my mouth and one in my free hand.
I remember discovering the cell with the cot, a biohazard of a place, which quickly became my environ of choice for one-on-ones.
I remember vividly the cold water in the sink as I try to wash the “Parisian Manicure” out of my cuticles, with little success.
But my fondest memory will always be meeting my first boyfriend. He was a clever, sweet and very cute man in his mid twenties. I can’t remember his name, but I shall never forget his face. After our tryst in the cell with the cot, he suggested we go out for a drink. When I told him my age, he almost fell over and laughed gleefully. He knew of a place where I’d be quite welcome, and offered to take me there.
The establishment was opposite the Public Garden where the Four Seasons hotel now stands, and it was called, quite simply, The Bar. The Bar was a disco, with a dancefloor lit from underneath. The crowd was an odd mix of leather, drag queens and hustlers. I think that he was testing me, seeing to whom I’d gravitate, seeing if I would be recognized by any of the regulars. I wasn’t, as I wasn’t much of a barfly until I turned eighteen (the drinking age at the time) and hadn’t been out much. Due to my age and the atmosphere, it would have been easy to mistake me for a hustler, and I was indeed approached by some very unlikely characters that evening, whom I rebuffed. In my naiveté it never occurred to me that I could get bids on what I so gladly gave out for free.
I guess that I passed the test, because we left after a couple of drinks and went back to his Beacon Hill apartment for an encore. I left just in time to catch the last bus out of Quincy back to Weymouth. In the train, I remember noticing the smell of sex on my hands and curious if anyone near me could smell it too.
As I have always been quite aggressive, I’d be one of the ones milling and looking into faces. Sometimes I’d be grabbed by someone and groped. If I found him sexy I’d open my pants and let him stroke me a bit. If not, I’d pull away and shoot a withering glance. Because of my age and looks, I held a special power over most of my compatriots. I had my choice, and I reveled in it. I could be picky one minute and part of a gang fuck in the Ladies room the next. Crowds would gather, and I’d pick from the lot.
I have so many warm (and wet) memories of times spent in those darkened rooms.
I remember the short, sweet-faced Italian man with the beautiful ass pulled tight over his blue Dickies, his short sweet uncut dick bouncing off his belly as I fucked him silly.
I remember tag-teaming a man in a suit, his pants around his ankles on a filthy tile floor, with half a dozen different guys. He got my load in last, already fucked open and oozing the other’s semen.
I remember the glory hole between the stalls of the Ladies room, which in my innocence I used as a window to peer through, sitting on the throne with a cock in my mouth and one in my free hand.
I remember discovering the cell with the cot, a biohazard of a place, which quickly became my environ of choice for one-on-ones.
I remember vividly the cold water in the sink as I try to wash the “Parisian Manicure” out of my cuticles, with little success.
But my fondest memory will always be meeting my first boyfriend. He was a clever, sweet and very cute man in his mid twenties. I can’t remember his name, but I shall never forget his face. After our tryst in the cell with the cot, he suggested we go out for a drink. When I told him my age, he almost fell over and laughed gleefully. He knew of a place where I’d be quite welcome, and offered to take me there.
The establishment was opposite the Public Garden where the Four Seasons hotel now stands, and it was called, quite simply, The Bar. The Bar was a disco, with a dancefloor lit from underneath. The crowd was an odd mix of leather, drag queens and hustlers. I think that he was testing me, seeing to whom I’d gravitate, seeing if I would be recognized by any of the regulars. I wasn’t, as I wasn’t much of a barfly until I turned eighteen (the drinking age at the time) and hadn’t been out much. Due to my age and the atmosphere, it would have been easy to mistake me for a hustler, and I was indeed approached by some very unlikely characters that evening, whom I rebuffed. In my naiveté it never occurred to me that I could get bids on what I so gladly gave out for free.
I guess that I passed the test, because we left after a couple of drinks and went back to his Beacon Hill apartment for an encore. I left just in time to catch the last bus out of Quincy back to Weymouth. In the train, I remember noticing the smell of sex on my hands and curious if anyone near me could smell it too.