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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)

© 2014 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin

Let me tell you about Ely, a homeless fellow 28 years young, a lanky 6-foot-3 with coal-black dreadlocks cascading down to the shoulders...and silky bronze skin that makes my bones ache with lust simply for the touching. His face is a bless-ed hawk's, noble and proud, jet black eyebrows and sparkling eyes like anthracite. Tight nipples and skinny torso (though well shaped and bursting with muscle just beneath the flesh).

Barely minutes after he first dropped over, I seated him in the cushioned chair and pulled down those dusty bluejeans that smelled of ocean breezes and the tang of heavy metal emission. To reveal a proud, uncut johnson wonderfully thick, long, and hard as porcelain. My tongue was ecstatic with Aaron's Rod thrust between my lips and surging down my throat. I pulled back to admire his divine masculinity, then desperately licked those ribs, armpits, Adam's apple...returning below the Mason-Dixon Line to slide my tongue about his crotch and lap up those hefty balls. Ely moaned in rapture as he spread his thighs and I plunged two lube-slick fingers up the anus. This boy packs a wallop, baby!

[ FYI, Emolumentary Reader: I always keep my fingernails closely clipped just for this purpose. Safe sex can be fun sex, too! ]

Suddenly he needed to leave just when things were getting torrid. (Goddess only knows why, but I conjectured it was either shyness or the call of methamphetamine. What else could it be? If you have any idea, please click on the comment link below.) But I did learn one secret about him: he doesn't like to kiss but sure loves ass play! So I noted that tidbit of data in my brain's file cabinet for future reference. Of course I dropped my own trousers and jacked off copiously the moment he departed. It was the only thing I could do, or go blue-ball rabid.

About six weeks later, I met up with Ely once more, and invited him home. Though this time around, he seemed less interested in conjugal foreplay than in finding friendship. Fortunately I felt the same way, so we chatted about matters that had to do with life issues and the present situation of the homeless here in San Francisco. After 20 or so minutes of such Puritanical commiseration, he departed while I remained horny as hell in my hovel, with nothing else to do but whack off like there's no tomorrow.

Three more weeks passed before we got together once more. It was August 22nd when he finally welcomed his sweet wanger into my mouth once more. This time, though, he was prostate (rhymes with "prostrate") on the bedding that I'd laid out an hour before, in hopes of procuring a hottie for the night...mostly wishful thinking on my part, which ritual I perform every evening just after sunset, in spite of the usual letdown.

While feasting on Ely's yummy flesh like a connoisseur to French pate, I was surprised to discover some kind of short, wooden rod up his anus the moment I reached a hand to his hindmost parts. Which seemed to be a wooden pestle about five inches long, and an inch or so thick. Two inches of one end was carved down into an elongated oval handgrip. The other end was sawed-off and flat, but the entire piece was oily-smooth and of a dark shade like mahogany.

[ Kedgeree Reader: please realize that my description of the quasi-dildo only came from hindsight, well after we committed the sinful act of homosexual sanctification. ]

He begged in great yearning: "Tug hard, tug hard!"

So I did just that, moving the thick appliance about so as to arouse his rectum into heights of delirium.

"Harder! Harder!" he demanded.

And so I pulled ferociously on the makeshift butt plug that I figured he picked up off the streets, that I may show him the best time of his life. His ass was so tight, not even a hundred horses could've yanked it out! No doubt he desired I fuk him like a Bengal tiger, but alas, the alcohol coursing through my veins would not permit. IOW: I could still achieve an impressive boner, but not so rock-hard as to be amenable to the situation presently in demand.

Somehow (and without any notice) we fell solidly asleep. He departed quite early, and without any fuss. Didn't even request breakfast, but simply slinked off into the new day. After taking a brisk shower and returning to my hovel, I discovered the 5-inch piston on the floor near my bedding. I examined it and noticed how clean it was, indicating that Ely ain't no whore. It didn't even stink. Nonetheless, I tossed it into the waste bin. Let us backtrack a bit:

Some time before he exited, I asked him: "Where are you from?"

He declared, "I was born and raised in South Dakota."

"Don't tell me you're Native American! I should have realized that by your copper skin and facial appearance the first time we met."

To which I added: "You're Lakota, aren't you?"

"Yep," he replied, and described how his family moved to California when he was barely adolescent.

So I told him of my adventure in The Mount Rushmore State, back in 1971, the year I had turned 21 and was able to legally imbibe. I was in my junior year at the University of Missouri, and was hired that summer as site photographer for an archeological dig near Mobridge, which lay just 20 miles south of the border with North Dakota. The nearest Indian village, Wakpala, lay just 5 miles northeast of that town. We had finished our dig two weeks ahead of schedule when our field director, Kerry Vodinska, had told us:

"There's another spot we can dig, that is burial ground and rich in artifacts."

I asked him if we had legal permission to do so, and he said yes, it's all arranged and on paper. But I had my doubts, and took my concern to an elder at Wakpala, who declared:

"No, nothing was arranged for that dig. We will have to stand against your university, and physically obstruct this offense!"

So I joined the Lakotans in a demonstration that thwarted the dig, and cost me my university credentials. Thus, I dropped out and lived among the natives at Wakpala for the rest of the summer...per their invite and gratitude. During that time, I participated in one of their religious rituals, by imbibing a highly potent hallucinogen while dancing around their bonfire.

[ I need to note here, Flagroot Reader, that the native population was riddled in poverty at that time, due to the wresting of their farmland and livestock by the US government, in the creation of the Oahu Reservior which plugged up the Missouri River and flooded their fertile land. It was still the law back then, to pay minors and Indians less than minimum wage. And the only remaining option they had at that point was to work for the railroad. Jobs became scarce and unemployment soared. Thus, much alcoholism, strife and violence was rampant among these tribes. I swam in that reservoir several times; the water so pure you could drink it as you glided across the surface. ]

Of course I threw up like a teen at his first beer bust, and remembered nothing when I awakened the next day at five or six PM. A village chief explained to me that I had prophesied great things to his people, none of which I could recall. He further stated that such visions would come back to me--bit by bit--as I grew older, and in wisdom. Which seems to be the case, and which comes through over the years via my many and varied tales that I've been posting to my web site and blog since 1997. Two among them are specifically Amerindian: "Grandfather & Grandson" and "My Best Friend Yote"

This elder also promised that a Lakotan or other Native American would visit and honor me every 6 or 7 years, to keep me on the path. And so that, too, has happened. Upon learning that Ely is Lakotan, I expressed my deepest appreciation:

"It figures this time around they'd send me a handsome buck from their tribe, to give me such profound love and affection!"

Whereby I hugged and kissed Ely with immense gratitude for my Lakota brothers before sending him off.

Now this is August 26th, several nights after I ravaged my Lakota savior, when my path crosses that of a dimutive fellow with coffee-tone skin; so I assume he is Latino. Handsome nonetheless, but an inch or two shorter than myself (who is all of 5-foot-7). Naturally, I invite him home, as he is certainly handsome enough to pleasure with a BJ, or to receive one in kind. Either works for me.

"Welllll," he hesitates, so I assure him:

"No, no sex. Just drop on over for a friendly visit. I'm not a pervert."

He then accepts, after my straightforward appeal, and accompanies me hovel a half-block up. The man has lovely golden-brown skin like the shell of a hazelnut, seems to be around 27 years old, and his name is KC "like the initials for Kansas City," he elucidates while seated in the chair across from me. My laptop and extended monitor are brightly lit, though can't connect to the Internet due to AT&T's lousy service. IOW: my usual setup which mandates that I continue to rely on coffeehouse wifi.

I talk to KC about my gay street acivism, proudly boasting of my many achievements in spite of all the great odds that attempt to thwart me. Then I query:

"You speak perfect English, but I sense America is not your home. Where are you from: Mexico?" To which he replies:

"No. I am from somewhere in South Asia." So thinking more of Southeast Asia rather than the more general South, I guess:

"Vietnam? Laos? Cambodia? Malaysia? Singapore? Indonesia?"

Yet he shakes his head "no" to each and every one of my guesses. Then it dawns on me, as I examine his facial features more closely to realize his appearance is far less Latino than Central Asian:

"Oh my gosh, you're from Tibet!"

He shrugs his shoulders in partial acquiescence.

"Makes perfect sense to me, that you are from Tibet, after all the spiritual adventures that have recently taken over my life. In fact, here's my Tibetan singing bowl I purchased from barely one year ago."

With that, I grab the bronze bowl from my side table and raise it before his eyes. At that moment I notice the wooden mallet that came with it has disappeared. Strange because I always keep it seated in the bowl, so I could use it any moment to make the bowl chime. But I shelve that observation for future reference, as I figure it will show up somewhere soon, and is not a major concern for this moment's revery.

KC then elucidates further: "Well, I'm not quite from Tibet. I was born and raised in Nepal."

"Oh my god, that's amazing!" I declare while setting the bowl back down on the table. "You've come to America all the way from Nepal! What tales you must have to tell. I'm just an ignorant American who thinks everyone with brown skin is from Mexico. My apologies."

He then describes his adventures in New York City, with a friend who travelled with him from Nepal.

"He planned to become a student at NYU, but money problems led him to employment as a cab driver."

I think about that a few moments, then guffaw: "OMFG, us dumb New Yorkers probably assume he's a Pakistani, being a cab driver and all!"

KC laughs heartily and admits: "Yes, my friend and I joked about that all the time: 'I'm not from Pakistan, I'm from Nepal!'"

So I next ask him: "Were you raised Buddhist?"

"No, Hindu."

So that's where he got his fluent English from (I concluded): he grew up near the border of India, where the majority speak English as a second language.

KC then whips out a glass pipe, lights it and takes some puffs of what I realize is crystal.

"How about shotgunning me?" I suggest. "Since you have to exhale anyway, I won't be mooching offa you, and I'll get a bit of a high."

[ Koinoniac Reader: you should know that secondhand smoke from meth rarely gets one high, unlike marijuana...or at least that is how it works for me. I just used shotgunning as an excuse to press my lips upon his, which nonetheless backfired. ]

"Whoa!" he exclaims as I attempt to seal my mouth with his. "That's a bit much!"

So I apologize, and the next time he exhales he places a horizontal fist between my mouth and his: that I may benefit from the secondary exposure minus touching lips. Nonetheless, I so enjoy feeling his kindly breath exhale into my own trachea.

We speak of many interesting topics around Nepal and Western Society, before he finally takes his leave. But most importantly, I come to understand his heroic struggles to surpass the borders of human ignorance, which guides him to these United States. So I take him tenderly in my arms and declare:

"San Francisco/California/America, is tremendously blessed and honored to have you here." For which declaration he pulls apart from me in thankful bliss to acknowledge:

"I've been waiting for someone to tell me this, ever since I landed upon your shores!"

He smiles then, and it lights my life like Eternity's Rainbow.

The next day I'm inspired to learn further about the life and wisdom of Buddha, by DuckDuckgoing his name. One of the things I've come to realize, is that Siddhartha Gautama (another name for the Buddha) was not the jolly fat fellow so often depicted in statues and paintings, but was most likely a short and skinny man like most Central Asians. He was born a Hindu prince, though converted to Jainism early on, and rejected his royal status.

And that the land in which he was birthed and grew up, was not India, but Nepal. Though Indian poliicians, celebrities and gurus often claim the Buddha as their own. Yet quite recently, the people of Nepal have been attempting to correct this misappropriation of The Enlightened One's origin, as described in the following article:

Buddha was born in Nepal, not India

Now I wonder if KC was a spiritual visitation of the Buddha himself, expressing gratitude for my many sacrifices on behalf of LGBT liberation. Indeed, I think it was. There are two statements by the Buddha that have guided my activism more than any other ideas, since the late 90's. Which are: "Heaven and hell are states of mind" and "We have no enemies, only teachers." Which takes me back to the missing wooden striker of the Tibetan singing bowl. And gives me wonder over the spiritual connection of Native Americans to Central Asians. And the sense of humor that unites the two.

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