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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)

© 2015 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin

[ Hoisin Reader: as my faithful advocates know, I have come to believe that Larkin heads an occult society that watches over me, and puts me through various challenges in order to groom me for leadership as an LGBT juggernaut. As first described in Chapter 11 of my online novel, "Free Me From This Bond." That was back in mid-2012. Since then I've discussed my theory numerous times in consequent blog posts (the latest being my article just previous to this, entitled "Duffel Bag Swagger"...see the end part of that tale). Yet I have never brought up another theory which occurred to me over two years ago, and is even more astounding than my original concept. Guess I've been waiting for the right time to confess My Startling Revelation to the world; and the time is now. Allow me to convey that profound conclusion in a fictional tale appropriate to the advent of America's holiday season. Which is, of course, dated October 31st, and known by the Catholic Calendar as All Saint's Eve. ]

October 1st 2015 has just arrived, and I begin to mourn the likely outcome of Larkin's ignoring me for the entire holiday season once more...and which he has done for the past eight years. He has yet to give me a break. Before I met This Darling Fellow in 2007, I had grieved for lack of another man I've dearly loved and whom I first met in 1984: Randolph Louis Taylor. Which man is a Nam Vet who's seen the worst of war, and was greatly tormented as a result. He either died or disappeared from my life way back in 1992. There was no one else I loved so much as I did My Randolph, until Larkin Kelsey came along. Yet once again, my affections remain unrequited...though I am most grateful that he remains in my world, albeit mostly on the periphery. He has since moved from South of Market into my own neighborhood (around six years ago). Where in fact, he resides barely a block from my own humble SRO. Causing me much frustration and angst, seeing as he excoriates my soul like a chunk of parmesan dragged across a metal grater...claiming he never wants to see me again, and punctuating that desire by a frequent series of "get outta my life" rants whenever I approach him and praise My Beloved with kind words.

"Get the fuk outta my face!" is another phrase he commonly hurls at me, though I do not buy these condemnations one whit. For at other times (though rare) Larkin displays immense affection towards This Bedraggled Beagle at surprising moments. Such as when he came up to me in May of 2014 and declared: "Our friendship, our being brought together, is an incredible Godsend!" Other times he has performed graceful gestures via body language and eye contact, in order to affirm his appreciation of my devoted affections. Such as in the piece I wrote called "It's All About Larkin" (see phrase "drunken old black man"), wherein he knelt upon the concrete and gazed up at me with loving eyes as I exited the tobacco shop.

As if he is putting me through some kind of trial or initiation that is part and parcel of this secret society preparing me for leadership. And that he trusts I shall figure it all out on my own, while I remain steadfast in my loyalty. Therefore he intersperses his unkind behavior with a precious I was his dog begging for a bone that he tosses me whenever he figures it's the right moment. Of course I growl at the many times he taunts me between such tasty swag. For he does indeed keep me starving for his attention most of the time; thus I constantly yearn for his darling gaze like an abandoned pup.

It is now October 7th as I continue the composition of this extraordinary tale. Around 4:30 PM I march home from Castro Station after my wifi activities from the Posh Bagel downtown. Lo and behold, I see Zach calling up to my window. I smile as he turns his angelic face in my direction.

"Hey there, Zach. Good thing I just came home, or you would've missed me!"

He looks bedraggled, as he does once in a while due to all his challenges to thrive on the streets. Zach arrived from New Orleans back in 2005 as a Hurricane Katrina refugee. Along with his equally handsome cousin, Cameron, who has boinked me more than once (in a most pleasurable way, I must add). I was just thinking of Zach when he suddenly appears before my apartment building which is in the heart of the Castro: 2306 Market Street.

[ I cannot say enough, Strabismic Reader, how much Zach has become a loving part of my sorry existence. For his great courage and diligence over these past ten years--along with his thoughtful regard of my own difficult circumstances--has lightened my burdens considerably. Since my tragic downfall in July (thanks to Medi-Cal and Obamacare's raping of the poor) Athena has shown me The Great Blessing that is Zach, a Light In My Life of no small measure. Do I dare mention at this point, what a remarkably gorgeous fellow he is? I'd fall to my knees and beg him for a hug, he is that sweet a visage: thick caramel hair that falls to his shoulders in slight waves, a punk-sweet face with a snub nose that hearkens Cajun epic tales, and a tight torso and firm rump I have yet to worship with my sere tongue. And then there's his kok: OMG the kok! Which has filled my mouth with geysers of pure semen at least five times so far! Not really big, but more than ample with spunky fervor, seeing as his boner springs with rigid foreplay whenever my teeth nibble on that juicy crown. ]

"Some jerk robbed my bicycle last night!" he declares, yet favors me with a pleasant gaze. "They took everything else, too. I am so fukked over."

"I'm really sorry, Zach, but I've told you more than once that I don't have anyone visit me in the daytime," I declare with sympathy for his recent plight. "Let me run upstairs and bring you a treat."

Zach glances upon me with docile acceptance, and states (as he looks up at the bright heavens through amber-jade eyes): "Yeah, I just got up. What time is it?"

"Still daytime!" I shrug in slight exasperation. "I'm just gonna drop off my stuff then go to the library to get back online. I work very hard though I don't get paid; no way can I have you over right now."

"Wow, I'm sorry. I must've forgotten that you don't have daytime visitors," he kindly declares. "But can you help me out with a dollar or two?"

"I don't know," I answer, and pull out my wallet to see. There is only a 10-spot. "No, I don't have the bills to do that right now. But if you come back tonight, I will."

"Okay," Zach replies, "Guess I just needed to see you after my rip-off. I'll do my best to remember: no daytime guests."

"That's alright, Zach. If you do it again, I'll just remind you once more. Come back tonight and I'll spot you some cash. But let me run upstairs right now, to get you something sweet." (Which he has come to expect, thanks to my gestures of appreciation from an aging faggot.)

So he waits outside while I rush hovel to grab two fruit pies I got from the dollar store by the Civic Center yesterday (which pies I particularly chose for his next visit: cherry and lemon). Once entered my SRO, I reopen my wallet to consider whether or not I should give him a whopping ten dollars, instead of three or four later on. A voice tells me "yes!" So I return back outdoors to gift My Louisiana Darling:

"It's really too soon to give you another ten bucks, but here ya go!" (I keep track of my expenses, so my "Zach funds" don't exceed more than $40 per month.) "Just don't expect me to give you any more moolah until after the 15th."

He kindly accepts my lagniappe for his intimate pleasures that so gratify my oral cravings I'm ready to fly to the moon. It's all I can do to keep from embracing him with sweet gratitude: but I hold back, since he remains cautious towards such fidelity.

"Two cops put something up my nose to wake me, I don't know what it's called."

"An ampule," I explain. "They put an ampule by your nostrils to jog you awake!"

"Well, I was sleeping when they disturbed me."

"Zach, they were concerned about you," I regard, "They wanted to be sure you were not dead." Since he thinks on this a few moments without comment, I elaborate:

"They used to be called 'smelling salts.' Just realize that you have people watching your back, who do not want you to perish! The container is called 'ampule,' but the chemical inside that wakes you up is named something else; I forget." (Zach cannot read, thus I take pains to elucidate on matters that might escape his comprehension, for I respect him that much.)

I look down upon him seated on the sidewalk and pawing through a Walgreens plastic bag. Sunlight glints off thick locks of dark bronze hair, like flecks of gold.

"You are certainly no whiner, Zach. I've never heard you gripe about anything, in spite of your trials." With that, he glows like a soul risen from the dead. Then I remind:

"You are such a good man, there is nothing that will keep you down. Thinking of you always gives me inspiration! I sure hope to see you very soon, tonight perhaps!"

Before Zach departs, he hands me a wad of good shake rolled up in tissue and procured from the Bay View District (where drug dealers discard their least profitable product in seedy vacant lots), and an amethyst crystal that resembles an old hag's tooth. He thanks me once more for my generosity, and begins to wander off with a beatific smile. So I call to My Cross Of Brilliant Liberation (the rough gem resting in my open palm):

"You don't know this, but in chapter 1 of my novel I describe an amethyst charm that represents the bullet Randolph shot himself with, and survived! It's been long missing since 2010." Zach pauses with kind regard as I continue:

"The bullet went around his heart and lodged in the left shoulder blade. I flew out to D.C. three months later, to stand by his side at the veteran's hospital."

He grins at me then, and with a fist-bump states: "I guess we were meant to meet this afternoon. Maybe I needed just to hear your good words, after last night's ordeal!" (In spite of Zach's illiteracy, I am impressed by his extraordinary level of eloquence.) As he turns away I call:

"Well I know one thing about you: God's Great Angels are working through you big-time!" As he crosses Market Street light with traffic, I further declare:

"I sure hope you come back tonight. But if not, I'll always be glad to see you whenever!" He hollers just before crossing mid-street:

"I got your back, buddy!"

Now I look forward, of course, to Zach's return this night, and all the fervent reward this implies. But whether it happens so soon--or later on down the line--please realize that my mouth is ready to make him gush fountains of sperm any moment he shows up. And, hopefully: backscratches, along with hugs and moans of eternal friendship. Yeah, that's the ticket indeed! Now, let's get back to Larkin and the approach of the 2015 end-time holidays:

[ So I'm projecting my fantasies of Great Yuletide Expectations of Larkin finally spurting his praise and manly cum all over This Long-Suffering Queer Acoltyte, before myriad bartenders and customers who frequent these Eureka Valley watering holes do same. Yet it's still almost three weeks before Halloween. So I can only sigh and dictate my wishful prophecies before you, My Salacious Reader. Thus begins my tale: ]


Larkin will probably disappear from my life altogether, starting with today and up until Christmas. By which holy sacrament he shall slide down a chimney in whatever apartment devotees invite me over for eggnog, and jump out of that fireplace to grace me with His Testosteronely Drooling Embraces.

But. (I query) how will I survive? There is yet Halloween, Veteran's Day and Thanksgiving coming up, each of which swords shall no doubt pierce my grieving heart with full ferocity. What else can I do but rise up to become the HERO of each of these "Scream" sequels?

If you don't think I am already utterly exhausted at the prospect, then you have never suffered iron deficiency or polio! So go fuk yourself, and don't bother to read any further (if you are the milquetoast type). This means he shall no longer hang out at Twin Peaks Tavern, or any of the other Castro bars where I might find him (and thus be a festering sore of conscience in his exquisite side, if nothing more). Yet there is another puzzle I sense about this upcoming Halloween:

Before this latest Pumpkin Day of Madness, I shall already have clambered through my mind, over the mountains of disappointment that are Larkin's curse to This Aspiring Soul, as Halloween, Veteran's Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's come to pass once more, without That Man's Soulful Rapture. So I shall surrender yet again to hope lost and dreams is Larkin's intent.

Then shall come Halloween, which is one of those eight holidays I reserve to keep to myself, and think of Randolph. For I'd rather dream of him or Larkin, than have some hot trick show up for a quick blow. (That's not the entire truth, but you get the message. Four months ago I had a young fellow drop over for a short while...though long enough for him to shoot off gallons of sperm while I gazed upon his ripped 23-year-old torso and rigid 11-inch boner. He is far from the first, or the latest, in my retinue of bodacious dudes. They are each a piece of heaven beyond imagination... whether or not I get to blow them, fuk them, lick them, have 'em pound their kok up my ass...or something else equally jazzy.)

[ So here is the revelation which you have eagerly sought to learn, My Faustian Reader! For not only is there a secret cabal guiding and challenging me, but that the entire world is in on this joke. "How so?" you may ask, "for I have no conscious intent in this matter." Well, let me clue you in, for if I am correct, you're already one of my countless guardian angels guiding me towards my destiny with a gentle hand...though of course you'd never admit it right up until the final step.

A couple years back I entertained the fantasy that everyone on this planet is already an angel, and giving birth to a new angel (such as myself) requires that everyone else play their role in a clever scenario where the universe is less than perfect. Therefore, 7+ billion people are acting from a screenplay solely contrived to put This Mangled Monsieur through his paces. Once I reach a certain level of maturity (or to put this in other words: once y'all grow tired of fukkin with me) This Illusory Veil shall drop to the ground, and the whole world will celebrate my awakening. So there you have it. I thank everyone ahead of time for an outstanding performance. Now begins the fictitious part: ]

So it is Halloween day, and I manage my usual wifi routines at Posh Bagel (Embarcadero) and Martha & Bro.'s (Inner Sunset), before returning to My Castro Hovel around 5:30 PM. And then a couple hours later comes The Great Castro Street Blowout, when thousands fill up the neighborhood with cacophany and foolishness. I do my best to ignore the frivolity by watching kewl movies I recently downloaded from "Kickass Torrents." Yet cannot totally ignore the mischief going on outside, for I do have these two windows facing Market Street.

Now almost 8 PM and the festivities are in full swing: boisterous behavior, loud screeching, boom-box madness and acoustic insanity rule the night. I look out every ten minutes or so, just to gauge the scene. Otherwise I secure earbuds to head in order to lose myself in a scary flick out of New Zealand called "We Live Here Too." The street noise penetrates my world, yet not loud enough to distract me from my LCD pursuits.

Barely 45 minutes later I hear no disturbance from Market Street, thus yank off my earbuds to see if maybe I've gone deaf. But I have not. Indeed, the street is deathly quiet, and I wonder what the fuk is going on. So I peer through the right-side discover an endless crowd of folks gazing in piety at the same window through which I stare. Their garish madeup faces and masks are further distorted by the argon streetlamps.

Surely one of them must be Larkin, I muse. Yet how can I tell when so many wear platform shoes or even stilts beneath their flowing apparel? For Larkin is usually the tallest dude in any multitude, excepting Halloween and Mardi Gras. These attentive revelers are obviously expecting me to exit my apartment building and share in their celebratory binge.

A chill shiver like liquid nitrogen snakes up my spine and lingers, as my feet step down the carpeted stairway (that I have trod like a condemned ghost since 1983) towards the front gate. What awaits me outside, I hope, is True Friendship and Fair Adonai's Embrace...and, of course, Larkin Kelsey. I take a deep gulp before stepping onto the sidewalk (with Market Street blocked off from cars and public transit) crowded with ghouls, sprites, vampires, flying monkeys, decadent faeries, Spidermen, Casper the Friendly Ghosts, a giant gecko yanking a fake Toyota from a leash, pagan effigies of Father Sun, Mother Earth, werewolves, leprechauns and banshees, pirates with papier-mache parrots, and your token Donald Trumps dressed up like Lurch from the Addam's Family. Plus many more characters from this or that lore of whatever culture, including Native American, Hispanic, Celtic, Hindi, Norse, Wiccan, Aboriginal, African and so forth.

All standing in mute reverence, awaiting my appearance in free-box denims and a black nylon jacket lined in plaid left behind by my latest paramour, Bobby.

P.S. - I just saw him yesterday (October 7th) as I crossed Castro from Market. Meandering by My Duplicitous Diplodocus, I called back: "Hey Larkin! You have a wonderful rest of the day, now!" Of course he just scowled at me, and took a singularly deep draw on his Camel 99 before tossing it to the ground by my feet. I almost cracked up in hilarity as I continued my journey home, looking back at him one more time, simply to drink in the goodness. And put together these two images the next day; taped to a cheap postcard that I mailed dufus that same afternoon.

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