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If you are underage, or in any way forbidden by your government or religious laws from viewing X-rated subject matter, please do not read this salty tale. If, however, you are not restricted by any laws in your geographical location, by all means read on.

(A True Tale From The Castro. Eat your heart out, Armistead!)

[ Philandering Reader: this true and bawdy gay tale is my homage to John Rechy, author of "The Sexual Outlaw," first published in 1977. ]

23 February 2014

This darling encounter happened two nights ago. But let me start earlier with revelations that preceded the event, on the same day:

I've lately been striking gold with meeting handsome and decent young men, every day if I so choose. And I'm fukkin 63 already, so how can this really be happening unless the Dragons of Avalon have chosen to bless me in great measure? This cycle began approx'ly two weeks ago, much to my delight.

Though still, they've all been problematic in one way or another. Not so bad as to be dangerous, or even more than a slight nuisance. But it does seem to me there's got to be renegades out there on the streets capable of good friendship w/o being a burden whatsoever. The kind who are totally responsible with their own food, hygiene and emotional needs. Who are intelligent as they are stunning in the looks department, with a great sense of humor both in and out of bed.

I suspect that Larkin brings these yummy dudes to me, as reward for my honest expression of affection towards him. Especially since my recent marriage proposal described in an earlier missive:

"Marry me Larkin, I'm tired of sucking strange kok. Wait-a-minute, that's a lie, I love sucking strange kok, can't get enough of it!"

Since that night (and even later on same eve), I've been hooking up with these gorgeous vagrants who certainly exceed my expectations in the wanger department. But so far (with one latest exception I will describe shortly), while sweet natured and sexy, they are not much into BJ reciprocation, or even back rubs, bear hugs and sleeping in each other's arms. Though I must make one thing perfectly queer:

They are so sweet and such good company, I have no problem with one-way servicing. Their thick, rosy joy sticks are that succulent, my mouth and eyes can never get enough! You know that saying: "Bad people suck, good people swallow?"

[ Well, Vainglorious Reader, I assure you I'm one of those good fact, very good! Never waste a drop of that milky sperm, so essential to filling my gullet with pure male virility. ]

One of my newfound street amigos named "Moose" (with a sort of dreadlock Mohawk scattered with beads) gets totally sexed up when I lick those perfect nipples, bite his neck like a passionate lynx, and rub those sturdy shoulders. Further arousal ensues when I stroke hard along his spine between my knuckles, all the way down to the coccyx where I linger with extra pressure, 'cause I know how that triggers a boner like nobody's business (and how excellent that feels in the perineal region). Moose is only 26 (lucky me) and has that sexy lingo of a surfer-dude valley boy (dumb, cute and an easy lay).

But I certainly think at this point in my life--what with all my sacrifices on behalf of Larkin and other righteous dudes--that I well deserve substantial reciprocation of both brotherly affection and physical release. One dude (Scully) who claims he's straight, gave me the most incredible body work with such strong hands that by next day bruise marks showed up on my shoulders, thighs and chest. He even pulled my boxer briefs down to my balls and spit on my kok many times while I attempted to jack off...which I did not, thanks to Vodka and residual PTSD.

Also my shyness got in the way, though I'm sure had he been kind enough to blow me or at least do me with a hand job, I would've ejaculated so hard my cum would've hit the ceiling. (At the ripe age of 63 I'm surprised anything comes out of it any more, let alone still gushes like the Hyatt Plaza fountain!) He even said I could blow him so long as he's asleep. And his golden rod does get hard in the wee much so it actually responds to my lips in matching resilience. He's a yummy, thick 4 inches when soft.

In fact, he did awaken for a moment with his kok fully in my mouth; swiftly pulled it out, rolled over, remarked: "Oh you nasty boy!" before falling back to sleep-and-snores. Of course I resumed my oral satisfaction after managing to rock his thighs back into tongue-lapping mode. Be that as it may:

Scully was too much of a drunk to not be a headache sneaking him in and out of my building...for he's almost fallen down the stairs each of the two and only times I've had him over. Not that he ain't rockin' gorgeous and inclined towards brotherly sweetness. If I had my own real apartment with considerably more privacy than an SRO w/bathroom down the hallway, I'd have no problem dealing with his inebriated shortcomings. But I can't, so forced to sacrifice what friendship we did establish. I love his masculine, rough hands, they are such a turn-on. (Guess I like it rougher than I thought. Jesus, Mary & Joseph!)

I certainly would like to have Moose back over again, but he seems to have disappeared. Only problem with that hot dude, is he's burdened with a large backpack busting at the seams at almost 70 pounds, and cups and utensils dangling from loops that clank as he marches upstairs to my hovel. He is too obviously a seasoned veteran of the streets to not upset the elitist wealthy queers who reside at 2306.

But one of the many aspects about Moose that makes him so erotic is he's a bona fide rail hopper. "I've been riding the rails since I was 13," he declared while seated on the small swivel chair I provide for visitors (especially convenient for opening their fly and diving right in when they least anticipate an Almond Joy).

He already was stripped to the waist with crusty denims pulled down to the knees so I could blow that plump johnson to my heart's content. (Actually, I was licking his left armpit and sliding my lubed fist like a piston on his 9-inch hard-on, when he spoke those words that made him a hundred times hotter in my eyes. He moaned with fervor, arching his torso and neck in appreciation of my slick tongue and agile hands. I did not disappoint, FYI. Caressing my eager mouth across that Adam's apple while his larynx vibrated in ecstasy was spectacular indeed!)

So, those are but two of five recent trysts that left me jonesing for more, because they also frustrated me for reasons described above. Until I met Ray two nights ago, a buffalicious ex-Marine with no home to rest his soul.

Earlier that day, just before Apollo's beams descend below the horizon, I showed up in front of Twin Peaks Tavern. Glanced through the picture windows to see if Larkin were present; he was not. So I stood on the corner of Castro & Market, looking about to decide where I march to next. Suddenly, there was Larkin leaning against the cement buttress directly across from TPT. I jerked my shoulders in surprise as he blew smoke just inhaled from a burning Marlboro (or whatever brand it was). He kinda smiled and kinda made me think he wasn't there a moment ago, just appeared like a friendly apparition.

I then looked directly at him and expelled my breath with burst lips as if to say: "Oh, it's you, loser! I couldn't care less."

Thinking of course about our recent encounter at The Cafe, where he did not call me his stalker and kick me out...but ridiculed me nonetheless. And while I understand the process as necessary, I can't help but feel disgraced after all these years of devotion I've shown him without a single flinch or act of vengeance.

Though I shunned him, it was with love and humor. So I looked around for an excuse to depart his beloved presence. Sure enough, on that same buttress though five feet away (where it formed a right angle), stood a most fetching young lad holding a sign that read, "Iraqi war veteran. Please help."

I approached him immediately (leaving Larkin in the dust) and struck up conversation. Larkin glanced my way, to see I was cruising a hot dude right under his nose. ("As far as I'm concerned, Larkin," I thought, "if you won't even grace me with a hug, I can't be bothered. I will never beg you again for some affection.")

This sweet stud is named Josh, and I met him once before, several months ago. He has a thick shock of black, semi-curly hair, gorgeous curved eyebrows and the warmest brown eyes in this sorry little orb of a planet. He's just 5-foot-5, but so well built I wanted to lick him all over right then and there. We stood so close to Larkin, I knew he could hear every word we spoke.

"Hey, we've met before. I remember you, but I'm sure you don't remember me. No problem, how ya doin'?"

Josh remarked he's hangin' in there, said: "It's humiliating to stand out here and beg."

I really wanted to hug him right then and there, but sensed to hold back. Asked his name again, told him I'm Zeke.

"I understand, Josh," touched him on the shoulder and added: "I don't even smile 'cause my teeth are so bad. I've been through a lot of humiliation myself. "

Larkin then glanced my way, knowing I was referring to his recent BS he's put me through for just over a year by now.

Just for the sheer comedy, I then pointed Larkin out to Josh, said: "That's my lover Larkin, right there. You can look, he's not facing us!"

So he did and I explained: "He's been acting like an asshole to me for more than a year now. We need to pretend we hate each other. He's a detective, a private eye, and sometimes appearing as friends gets me in a lot of hot water. To put it mildly."

Josh sort of smiled, then looked up at me with those lucid Bambi-brown eyes; and I wanted to melt into pure molten gold right there in his butch arms. Instead, my voice ruled all:

"We love each other dearly. He'd never put me through any misery unless he knew it's vital to my own spiritual growth! I just have to find ways to lighten the difficulties and reach out to others who seem to possess a sweet spirit. I think perhaps he's even set it up for us to meet!"

Josh's brow flickered quizzical. What a glory of a face! So I resumed, almost in trance of his beauty:

"Neither of us is the jealous type. Several times Larkin's brought me such handsome men to play with! Likewise I for him. We just love each other so much, such a great friendship we could never get jealous over the other's pleasure. For the heart of our relationship is that we're always there for each other, no matter what, no matter how difficult the situation. He has spared me many mishaps with men who turned me on, and almost invited home."

I next told Josh that I just published a book in which one of the two main heroes is a Vietnam veteran. "I'd like to give you a copy of my novel, but I have to go back home to get it. Will you still be here in 20 minutes?"

He said "yes," after which I handed him two buckazoids and hurriedly returned hovel, put the book in my red satchel, and returned to Jane Warner Plaza where (thank Goddess) Josh was still present. Along with Larkin who observed my presenting Josh with the book, through TPT's plate glass front. He saw me open the book to show Josh some of the incredible illustrations, and describe a bit of the adventures therein.

Sadly, Josh was not available to invite back to my gay spider trap. He had an appointment with some sort of veterans or homeless service (I don't recall which). So I handed him a copy of "Free Me From This Bond" and watched him catch the streetcar for somewhere downtown. I then moved to the news rack outside TPT and lit a Fortuna, in case Larkin wanted to step back out and visit. He did not, so I finally snuffed my tobacco stick and returned to my lonely cell.

I must state at this moment, earlier that day I had addressed Larkin in my mind: "Look, I know you're bringing these beautiful men to me, and I greatly appreciate it. But they are too problematic to bond with as more than one-night stands."

Continued my gripe: "Seeing as you can easily provide me living quarters in your star ship, I know you could also introduce me to bodacious dudes who could bring me more delight than the ones you've brought so far! Why not do precisely that, especially since you continue to deny me your wondrous hugs?"

Obviously, Josh was one such darling vagabond. And I'm sure in the near future he will drop over...seeing as I included my business card w/phone number and email, in a zip-lock baggie bearing my novel. But that is something for another time, just not in the cards for today, tomorrow or longer. (Though I strongly sense that much affection and hugs by yours truly would do Josh a world of good. It was just not yet the right time, I realized in sorrow.)

"So what's your problem, Larkin?" I mused back at home after Josh's disappointing departure. "You're not the jealous type as far as I know, so why block me from those beautiful men I know are out there, which will do me so much good for lack of your affection?"

Couple hours later when night arrived, I decided to step out once more, see what kind of boy-meat is available. I first strolled by TPT; of course Larkin's no longer there. Then I wandered down Castro to 18th, checking out the variety of beef that might put my boner on alert. Nothing.

Then as I crossed over to Harvey Milquetoast Plaza, it dawned on me: "Castro Street, a street that I have avoided for almost 18 years (though I live in the 'hood), now draws me back into its very core, searching for Moose. Or Ray. Or some other promising kok I've yet to lay tongue on."

I mused further as I approached Walgreens: "Hmm, the Castro is becoming once more the hot and handsome pickup world I so enjoyed back in the 70's, before Nixon and then Reagan transformed queerness into the biggest threat to national security. And along with that arrived, of course, the Gay Plague."

[ A disease which I'm convinced, Diacritical Reader, was intentionally injected into gay males via shadow-gov't mandate, through the hepatitis-B experiment. As a form of biowarfare rehearsal on a scorned (thus disposable) population. Poor black folk and the homeless were also targeted. Though of course homophobia is so extant, these other two minorities accuse gays of stealing their AIDS-tainted thunder. ]

Turning up 18th Street I crossed Collingwood then noticed a rather stunning man around 34, with dense, honey-burnt brown hair cut trim above the ears, and a sweetly sculpted face with sharp lines in all the right places. He was toting a semi-rolled blanket and walked further west towards Diamond street. His comely mug really excited my hormones and I was compelled to stalk. Though at the moment I couldn't figure out how to approach him.

"He might be hostile," I considered, "'Cause that's about all I've experienced in my entire life when approaching a sweet dude."

I was prepared to forget the whole adventure and turn back hovel, when something told me to pursue. So I followed him beyond Diamond, where he turned the next corner down Eureka Street; picked up some fresh cardboard...obviously in preparation for sleep. Again, I noticed what a handsome profile he presents. He wore a green-&-white striped T-shirt that hints of a buff, skinny torso and conjugal delight. And a slightly baggy pair of dark blue work pants that clung here and there about those solid humps, dense thighs and rolling calves. And this thought echoed in my cranium like a church bell:

"I just gotta break the ice!"

Already, I wanted to leap into his butch arms and kiss that rugged face many times over. But I did not; I showed restraint...but not for long. Next thing I knew I came up to him, offered a cig, then told him in the same breath to drop those cardboard sheets, he's comin' home with me. As we hoofed it hovel, he dumped his blanket on a corner ("Guess I don't need it now"), and we talked about many things while I gazed up at his dragonly countenance more times than I can remember. His smile almost made my heart explode. I put my left arm around his shoulders several times before entering 2306.

Suddenly we were together, alone, in my single room.

"Can I take off this shirt, it's warm in here?" he begged like a Labrador pup. So I said yes, of course, and seated him on the smaller chair for guests (which I have described earlier in this true tale).

So I helped him peel off that classy JC Penny's shirt, whereby in a flash I found my tongue on his left nipple, on the left pec, the left deltoid and finally on the left armpit. Of course, I was also feeling up his equipment at the same time, through those cotton twill slacks. "Seven inches baby!" I exclaimed to only myself (with the exception of my Reptilian Guardians who for obvious reasons must watch over me 24/7, and are telepathic).

Don't know what happened next, but there was a lot of gorgeous kok in my mouth, and massaging, hugging and kissing him everywhere 'cept on the lips (which to my disappointment was not his thing, though he does shotgun pot per my suggestion, which is also very sexy in my mind's boner). Sleeping with him was just frosting on the kok, so much so I wound up blowing him three times before we departed next morn. (Though perhaps it was four, I was drunk and stoned.)

But while we were bedded down in the early part of the night, my arms and legs wrapped around Ray's buff frame, a realization struck me: "I know this dude!"

It all clicked together in startling epiphany, the day I first laid eyes on him almost three years ago. He was skinnier then, and even hotter. The City had not yet removed those purple benches at HM Plaza. And that is where I met Ray: seated on the outermost bench and accompanied by a rich, obese queen. Who may as well have been the Great Wall of China, an impenetrable barrier between my mouth and Ray's community jewels.

So I stood a respectable distance from My Seated Objet D'Passion (about two feet), which placed my crotch in direct line of those boyfull pouting lips. Though I gazed ahead in my own subtle manner, feigned to observe a seagull tearing up a stale Danish from atop the corner newsstand 10 yards distant. And casually extracted a Fortuna 100 from an inner pocket, hoping my exotic fish would take the bait. He did:

"Say, you couldn't spare a cigarette by any chance?" He looked up at me with a face so innocent yet so testosterone-eager, I'd swear he was a Gift From Eros Himself.

"Uh, sure!" I replied, watching sidekick Fatty Arbuckle watch me like a hawk, as I slid the pack from my coat and offered up a Freudian (though greatly diminished) version of my engorged, fleshy serpent. He graciously accepted, touched a hand on my thigh, then started sucking.

That was when I asked his name and learned it was "Ray." But to my regret both he and chubster stood up then to depart. As they reached the other side of Castro Street, he glanced back with a smile like a nuclear flash (and I was but a snowman).

"I'll never see him again," I grieved as they diminished down 17th Street. Though of course I hoped otherwise, that maybe I'd find him again at these benches some time between now and eternity. Alas, I did not, as the benches were removed some months later. Though Ray's darling visage remained a scarified icon in my prefrontal much so that I actually described him in a tale I composed five days later:

"Mistook him for a stupendously handsome buck I met just the day before, named Kenny. Had a righteous buzz-cut with whitewalls that absolutely set off his snub-nose profile in such a pleasing way as to give me an instant woody. A very rugged, male countenance. Like a model advertising Old Spice, or a luge competition."

Now here I found myself some 35 months later, in the same sweet arms of that righteous buck I so badly craved one blustery afternoon at HM Plaza. What made it especially sweet, was that I had not even realized he was the same dude until hours later...after I had already blown him twice and shared many endearing intermezzos as the night waxed into dreams.

"If this ain't heaven," I thought between drowsy revery, "then I'm a monkey's uncle." And so we embraced in the most mutual brotherly fashion you can imagine. He snored at times, yet in such a way as to soothe this bumbling little soul.

You should also know that before we bedded down for the night, he held my hand and said: "A real friend is very hard to come across."

To which I replied, while bussing him on the neck and right ear as my fingers rubbed the deep tissues of his calloused hands: "Amen to that, my brother. You have no idea what I've been through so many years, here in the Castro."

And upon speaking those words I nuzzled his powerful neck and clavicles for the umpteenth time. Soon thereafter I dragged him to bed, and blew the daylights out of such a handsome brute (for the 2nd or 3rd time that night, first being while he was seated by desk #1, earlier that eve...I think). Then slept most contentedly in his Marine-pumped arms until an hour or so later, when I resumed rubbing that delightful penis into sweet erection, blew him again while caressing those solid thighs, calves and soldierly torso.

Once cum fully in my eager mouth, he pulled me into his arms and showered me with military kisses that would've inspired my own cannon to shoot wads, but for the alcohol. Doesn't matter though, for my spirit was in full ejaculation that thrust me into a coma of testosterone filled sleep.

Upon sunrise when he awoke a bit drowsy, I pressed my tongue to his mighty shaft once more. There was no stopping me, the passion irresistible. But some minutes later he took matters into his own hands, thus I licked his sternum, nipples, armpits, neck and ears while Ray climaxed, shooting sperm into his fist and onto that sexy belly. I pushed his hand away before the final ejaculation, thrusting his crown and upper bone into my desperate maw, to taste the final, salty spurt of brotherly surrender.

He moaned like a werewolf in heat, as I firmly slid my lips down to the base of his rod (that made me choke after five seconds, so I had to pull halfway back and use a slicked hand on the base), made sure to swallow any remaining cum...then licked the outcast semen that spilled about his navel. Oh my fukkin goddess, he was delicious!

Soon as the nasty deed was done, he grabbed me with both arms, pulled me into his embrace and held me close for several glorious minutes. I nibbled his ear and kissed him gently on both sides of his face. I tried to kiss him on those glorious lips, but as usual he turned his mug into a position where I could not do so. Anywhere else on the face and cranium was perfectly fine, so I gave him good head, literally. Especially on the ears, which nibbling seemed to transport him into a world of pure ecstasy.

He then grabbed my head, turned it so he could whisper in my ear: "You're one good man, Zeke."

And so we drifted back into slumber land for another half hour before it was time for me to start the day, and for him to depart. Before exiting my SRO, we shared further affectionate exchange. I had asked him last night, what he'd like to do career-wise, once he achieved a stable home life.

His immediate reply: "Open a pot farm!"

"A man after my own heart!" I delighted in thought. "A relief from so many kind buddies who still mess with hard drugs."

Like Moose who politely requested to shoot up morphine in my hovel. Of course I said okay, even assisted him with antiseptic on the point-spot, and held the bandana tourniquet. Moose was an absolute darling through it all, and certainly so much fun to blow no matter what! Just glad it wasn't speed, as that is the greatest nuisance of all hard drugs...and I'm surely as burnt out as a roast pig at a Hawaiian luau, counseling speed freaks.

I've always found that morphine and heroine users are much easier to get along with on all the important fronts that count, at least in my eye: brotherly affection (friendship), knowing how to make a bloke happy (which always has to do with a fantastic blow or hand job or both, terrific back, chest, thighs or crotch/buttocks massages, or licking their Adam's apple till the cows come home), or kindred spirits of any sex or sexual inclination who adore taking the time to admire one another on their spiritual climb towards perfection.

And this stud seemed to have it right on all three points, in spades!

The man is, I am proud to say, totally independent of societal expectations...yet bravely clings onto an extremely high moral standard. And by "high" I mean: "full respect for gay people right alongside heteros, all sexual hangups from the straight perspective fully disregarded."


And you can truly see by now, after reading the largest part of this chapter, what a genuine affection I now have for Ray (who revealed he was actually 49 years old, not 34). Every bit as much as what my heart holds dearest for Larkin. Which is most curious, as well as revelatory. For I know sure as the nostrils on my face, that Larkin is summoning these darling dudes to my side. They are his scouts so to speak, to watch over me and bring me the joy I have so well earned from decades of sacrifice on behalf of my gay brothers.

Four "scouts" thus far, in the short span of two weeks...immediately after that night I proposed to Larkin in a most hilarious fashion: "Marry me Larkin, I'm tired of sucking strange kok!" So now, here comes the strange (but beautiful) kok!

These sweet tramps have even dropped clues they are emissaries of My Reptilian Sweetheart. For one: they totally grasped my dragon prophecy and speculation of Andromedan guardians. No one who isn't a Lizard Luminary would acquiesce to every single outrageous claim by This Lucky Gay Soul. Of course I'd never confront 'em directly with a statement like: "You're one of Larkin's messengers, aren't you?" Since I'm certain they'd deny the accusation, as they are so instructed.

Now, three days have passed between the fourth paragraph above, and the one that follows. But can you believe this: last night yet one more handsome waif by Mikey kept me company through the dark hours unto daybreak. Just 26 years old, and full of joy, wisdom, passion and affection. But the piece de resistance was (I shamelessly admit) his 11-inch hard-on which thick rosy shaft was a delight to my tongue. Skinny, super-hung, gorgeous in every way possible.

Wasn't till morning that I finally got into Mikey's pants...which I never really expected, due to his shyness in my arms. So I figured what-the-hey, he's just such a darlin' to sleep beside and kiss. Yet when dawn broke into a soft San Francisco haze, I noticed his stiff wanger protruding from a suddenly-unzipped fly, as I arose to use the restroom. Still, upon returning, I figured "leave the guy alone." To my delight he did not push my hand away when it grabbed that golden horn. Instead, it thrust upward of its own accord several times to assure me he's ready to play. The rest I'll leave to your imagination, and complete my "Light of Ray" true tale.

Ex-Marine Ray never did return from Oakland the next eve, nor any day since. Much to my disappointment, as he whispered in my ear like an obsessed serial killer just before he strangles the victim (and just before he departed): "I'm gonna crazy-drool all over you, from your ass crack to your armpits and everywhere else. Get you stoned outta your ever-friggin brain and massage every square inch of you for three hot hours! You fukkin sex-crazed demon!"

I shivered in his soldierly clutch and gazed into those steely-gray eyes: "You're so damned sweet to me!" Kissed him a dozen more times before he exited my SRO and headed for the East Bay.

I'm sure he's fine, probably hangin' at his pot dealer's abode. And that I'll find my lonely self in his embrace again, soon enough. To resume (and build on) what I'm sure is destined to become a righteous friendship. Don't know what I'll do if two or more of my newfound amours show up the same evening! Had I a larger space such as a real apartment (even if but a studio), I'd have them both (or "all") spend the night in gay-glorious debauchery! But more important:

I intend to network these sterling cum-suckers with each other, in hope that friendships will take off to make their street lives easier to manage, thanks to loving associations between them. That is my way of returning the kind affections they've so graciously brought into my own simple world.

But most of all I need to thank Larkin. So maybe I should step out now and see if Dragon Butt is hangin' at JW Plaza.

ADDENDUM: "I Know You Can Do Better"

27 February 2014

Larkin, while I much appreciate the bonnie young men you've recently brought into my world, that my oral craving may be totally satisfied (along with my heart's yearning for beauty of face and frame). And that it's a sort of joke for my proclaiming sweet love to you by declaring, "Marry me Larkin, I'm tired of sucking strange cock!":

Nonetheless, I know you can do better. For all these bodacious dudes you send my way are homeless...albeit very independent, totally capable of caring for their clothing, food and health needs to the point you wouldn't know they're on the streets but for their heavy backpack or shopping cart. (Which cart obstructs me from inviting them over, due to the stick-up-their-asses wealthy queer neighbors who inhabit 2306 Market, and freak out if they see me bring someone home who is obviously w/o a roof over his darling head.)

Larkin: you have powerful telepathic abilities that have enabled you to select these well-hung men for my conjugal happiness. Yet I also know at this point, that you are quite capable of bringing gorgeous blokes into my life, who also have tons of expendable money, their own apartment, car and other yummy accommodations that come with affluence.

So why don't you loosen up and give me one or two of these sweet and wealthy dragons, mingled among my street buddies? I surely need a break from my claustrophobic cell of a room, as well as from the noisy chaos of the Castro. Even just once per week would delight this desperate horn dog, and give me much solace and empowerment as a result.

Also, while these houseless lovebirds require very little in the way of food and other material items, nonetheless they are a burden on my meager wallet, as well as on my free time which really mandates I relax rather than work to make the lives of these needful vagabonds a bit better. And believe me, Good Mesosaur, cooking takes work! I can barely cook for myself, I am that exhausted from the stress of all my good deeds. Can't afford to eat out but rarely, so I live on simple fare most of the time.

So I need at least one handsome queer to buy me dinner, invite me to his home, and give me a weekly break from the Castro. Though I'd prefer two, I leave that up to you. Furthermore:

I know that as commander of a vast fleet of star ships from the Andromeda galaxy, you have access to the most delicious, healthy food anywhere in the universe. And plenty of space to provide me with living quarters on your mother ship, or any of the 100-thousand-plus seed ships.

So beam me up, Larkin!

Would be so much better as an author, to have comfy quarters without street noise, hateful neighbors or lousy wifi. I am sure that you already plan to do all these nice things for me. But I have grown so desperate from lack of your hugs and lack of any real friendship for more than 23 years, I have no qualms over presenting you this rather innocuous challenge.

Saw you this afternoon step out of Twin Peaks Tavern. Tried to say hi and have a bit of conversation, but apparently you regard your cell phone as more important than my company...which is so infrequent as to be quite an insult when you wave me away like a useless piece of flotsam.

Just wanted to give you some love, and ask how you're doing. My god, you acted like I'm the worst nuisance in the entire cosmos! So get over yourself, My Divine Reptilian...for I know full well at this point: you adore me like nobody's business, far more than anyone else. I'm just asking you to give me a break before our incredible friendship takes off.

Like a coupla hot wealthy queer dudes who are totally infatuated with My Immaculate Presence. Easy enough for you to accomplish, if you did not allow your own petty jealousy to get in the way. Your psychic power is more than enough to achieve my present wish. So it seems that the only thing standing in my way is you, who for whatever sad reason chooses to see me suffer in continued isolation while you are showered in friendship, adventure, and all the hot sex you want.

If you don't fulfill my request, I assure you that your life shall become a miasma of utter misery. It's the Law of Karma, not my own wishes.


- Zeke

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