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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.
© 2014 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin
Vagina & Boobs
(a true tale from the castro; eat your heart out armistead)
© 2014 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin
25 September 2014
Look, Larkin, I am ready to drop dead from heartbreak. You know all the sacrifices in my life that have brought me to the edge of extinction. When I iterated (in good humor, back in late 2012):
"How many more sacrifices do you demand of me?"
I didn't expect to lose your hugs once more, and have you continue to drag me over the coals for sixteen-plus months of even more grief at this point. Do you really demand of me the ultimate sacrifice (my death)? I don't think so, but so many cruel things have happened to me since then, I'm really disgusted that God would allow my trials to continue unabated, and even worse than before.
I have met, and befriended, numerous lovely and sweet-natured men since your betrayal, that could give me great respite, but now the bedbug issue has squelched all that. For these gracious men are all homeless, and depend on free clothing to maintain their integrity.
And no matter how decent and clean they are (so much you wouldn't even know they're on the streets unless they told ya), you just can't avoid totally, the pestilence of such bugs forever. What I mean is: it is not their fault they bring bedbugs into my world, but I have no choice but to eliminate their visits in order to keep a roof over my head.
So while I've made some new and wonderful (and darling, and sexy) friends these past two years, I've been forced to drive them away, thanks to this new dilemma of rampant insects. It is too much for me to expect the building manager (and residents) to suffer constant reinfestation, in support of my homeless outreach...no matter how decent my friends. Or IOW: I continue to be forced against my will (and against all that is fair in this world), to live in virtual loneliness. Either that, or face homelessness myself, which would surely kill me.
Seems that--no matter what I do to resolve my many-decades of loneliness--one thing or another manages to thwart all my efforts to attain companionship and social camaraderie. Before the bedbug plague, it was jealous gossip or sudden tragedy. But these insects spell a final kibosh on my desperate attempts to find companionship.
The kind friendship you gave me on-and-off since 2006 has been the only respite (and godsend) I knew, to alleviate my tribulation from social invisibility. And it gave me such gratitude for your outreach, of course I fell in love with you. So the night you shoved me in late January 2013, my whole world of joy came tumbling down in a frightening crash. Since then I have been struggling to restore our friendship...the nicest I have ever known. Though maybe compared to the ease with which so many other gay folks find good company, what you gave to me in the way of compassion may seem but a drop in the bucket. In my difficult life, however, your kind regards were like a fountain gushing with affection.
If love comes to me like the sparsest of breadcrumbs, then it's breadcrumbs I shall accept, when you consider the alternative: an existence of pure destitution and utter isolation amid a teeming crowd of pleasure seekers who don't give a fuk about me. And who even enjoy rubbing their good fortune in my face. As I like to say: "Cinderella has nothing over me. She just had three evil stepsisters, I have hundreds, perhaps thousands."
And you know that. In fact you know everything about me, certainly what I have suffered my entire life, and all the good deeds I have accomplished in spite of these terrible odds. For you are My Guardian Dragon who has seen me through all difficulties since the moment I was conceived. In fact, I believe you know me even better than I know myself.
Before I realized I cannot have anyone over any more, I've encountered (and stripped naked on the bedding) various gorgeous dudes who've insulted me by demanding I display straight porn on my computer screen, or at least provide them with bawdy magazines that display boobs and vagina...that they may somehow get it on while I suck on their nipples, kok and balls, and lick their stunning torso, neck and ears. Some even went into a panic when I told them "no!" Like they couldn't just kick back, close their eyes and fantasize some gelatinous kunt clamped about their meaty shaft.
What an insult! That I be coerced to accommodate such dudes with hetero titillation, in spite of my dedication as a 100% gay activist. Is this all that it comes to: my subjugation to breeder mores just for the sake of male nooky? You gotta be kidding me! I refuse to be compromised by their ridiculous anxieties of having hot sex with another man without the crutch of gross vagina (and tits) invading my space. Though you should know that other, more gracious, men have recently entered my life (and SRO) who have no problem with outright gay affection...and were a delight to hold in my arms through the dark, starry night. Be that as it may: it's these accursed bedbugs that have spelled my doom, and forced me once more into social isolation.
You are so wonderful, sweet, beautiful and funny to me, I don't even miss the sexual dimension when I am with you. Even when you act like a byatch (which has been the case now for well over a year-and-a-half). Yet you persist in calling me a psychopath and stalker, to me and anyone else who listens to your slander. Causing me unendurable grief that haunts my every waking moment...and sometimes my dreams.
For I know in fact, you are a remarkable and compassionate man, who has my back big-time, and cares more about me than anyone else on this planet. And you are playing a game on me, pranking me so to speak, or better said: putting me through an initiation of utmost import. And is very much a tremendous sacrifice on your part. I am merely expressing my angst to you, letting you know how much I weep for lack of you. No question you deserve to be admired and greatly respected for all the terrible trials you've been through, of which I know little.
Just please realize I will always be here for you, no matter the difficulty. I have great joy that God has brought you into my life, in spite of the BS. I look forward with immense gratitude, towards the end of these tribulations. Yet while they continue, I suffer your cruelty. Many tears I have shed on your behalf, though with great pride.
I am very sorry, Dear Larkin, for sometimes displaying my fury in your presence...but I also know you understand, and don't blame me one bit. I do not stalk you, and would never stalk you. Though since it is so important I display my love to you now and then, I must possess the courage to confront you, and sometimes walk near you, that I may express my devotion and appreciation. I am not the least bit interested in discovering the addresses of those for whom you walk dogs, or any other residence that you visit.
Your housemate, whom I call Zachary, told me you don't even open my letters, but toss them into the trash. This has just added one more nail to the crucifixion of our association. So I don't even know for sure if you'll read this letter, much to my sorrow. I like to believe that Zachary is just screwing with my head, and that you do, indeed, respect my letters and postcards...though you might not read them right off, but get around to each and every one of them in due time. Yet not one moment in our dialogs, have you given me proof that you do, indeed, read my missives.
Two days ago, late afternoon, I saw you at Duboce Park once more, tossing a tennis ball for a sweet doggie that you walk. I loved so much gazing upon your handsome self (wrought wonderfully by God's artful design). Yet you finally marched off in the opposite direction from which you usually travel. I followed you around the corner, where you awaited me with a grimace, and I declared:
"Wow, such a glum face. Where's your sense of humor, Larkin? You've certainly expanded mine!"
You then turned away without a reply, and marched on down the sidestreet. And I called out to you:
"You're mimicking me by wearing an almost identical red haversack to mine...I like that!"
Since you didn't respond, but moved on, I followed you on the opposite side of the street. You finally looked back, hollered:
I really couldn't take seriously your sour regard, so continued my stroll in your direction. But after you turned the next corner, you made yourself invisible as I tried to catch up with you. I sought you out as I crossed to your side, but no more Larkin.
Okay: I just want you to know I had no intent to discover the address of the dog's owner...as if discovering addresses of those you visit would enable me to send letters to you, care of their residence, as a form of retaliation. I only wanted to assert my right to be present wherever I want, in my own neighborhood. In opposition to your apparent desire to drive me out entirely, and make me even more invisible than I am, here in the Castro.
I understand that you are simply humbling yourself before me--by acting like a royal arsehole--in preparation for opening doors to me that will turn into a great celebration of my many years' sacrifices on behalf of LGBT conquest. And that our renewed friendship will be a tremendous victory that will not only liberate sexual minorities, but expand way beyond that, to save the world. An incredible claim on my part, no doubt, but nonetheless true.
So I guess I'm just composing this piece to affirm that I am not at all deceived by your apparently wicked mistreatment of This Long Suffering Soul. But to assure you I will hang in there no matter how long the journey, until the time is right for Our Mutual Triumph.
I don't think you realize how much more difficult it is to be a "tough guy" when you're just 5-foot-7 and 64 years old. Large and strong as you are, rarely does any goofball attempt to mess with you. But us small dudes who walk the 'hood alone, are much move vulnerable, and often threatened. 'Cause bullies always attack those they perceive as weaker than themselves...and I am often at the top of their list. I now have a black eye, thanks to a totally unexpected sucker punch by one whom I befriended over a year ago, and came to trust. His name is Mikey, and he's always been kind and most appreciative of my hospitality. Every time he'd visit, it's always been a sweet interlude up until this tragic twist.
You've seen me with him, at least once. That time in early July, when I hollered "You're a drug dealer!" back at you just before you entered The Cafe, Mikey stood beside me as I clung to his sleeve. He's tall (6-foot-2), skinny with dirty brown hair and a strikingly elfin face (often wears a trenchcoat and hoody that conceals his eyes). You smiled in spite of my cusses...prolly 'cause you admired his beauty (and saw the humor of my situation). Our friendship grew intimate and was a great joy to us both, certainly a balm to This Aching Soul. We had sex, yes, numerous times; and it was always amazingly sweet. safe and elegant. In fact:
Every time Mikey dropped over, he'd preface our interlude with the declaration: "So good to see you as always, Zeke!" This is an intelligent and thoughtful man who really doesn't possess a mean bone in his gloriously embraceable body. He's got the best equipment on the planet that would satisfy any gay man's oral dreams...not to mention sturdy, elongated-but-plump thighs and calves along with a powerful torso that served me for a pillow through many dark nights. In fact, I'd rather lose sleep than miss out on licking those fine nipples, armpits, bodacious balls, 9-inch fat-and-gloriously-crowned kok till the cows come home or pigs fly (whichever arrives last, may it be never). His semen--when it finally gushed--coated my esophagus like gilt gold on illuminated manuscript. Truly, nectar of the gods.
Did an anti-Zeke cult member poison him against me...there on the streets where Mikey dwelled, while I lay safe in my bedding with dreams of peace and Mikey's dick in my mouth once more? I presume so, as he never gave any indication of anxiety in our visits, not even on the night he busted my left eye. It just struck outta the blue, like a sudden flash of lightning. And he promptly bolted through the doorway, ran down the stairs before I even realized what happened. And to think that, only several days before, he brought me a gift of ""Ciel No. 2001" handcrafted soap.
Your persistent slander against me also increases the odds of further confrontations by idiots who think everything you say is the Gospel truth. And you know that: using your slander against me eventually spreads out through the entire community, and makes me into a sitting duck.
No doubt I will soon run into a jerkwad or two who lashes out at me in anger: "Stop stalking Larkin!" So I have to conclude: you are not as tough a dude as you think. So much easier to come off as macho when your appearance alone is formidable...so large and strong as you are. But just you try walking in my shoes for a week or two, and you'll see how much more of a hero diminutive dudes like myself, really are. Especially without the accompaniment of friends, whose potential witness can discourage confrontations in the first place. Plus:
Using gossip to cause injury to another--simply because you're having a bad hair day and seek to scapegoat me--is the mark of a coward and a bully. "You're a nice man and have always been good to me," you said once, over my answering machine...and ironically, just minutes before you attempted to slam me to the concrete. It appears to me it is your intent to have me destroyed, if need be, to erase me from your life. But I assure you, My Skanky Salamander: it will backfire, and backfire big time.
I do not look forward to such an outcome, thus have attempted (since January 2013, and with much risk to my own well-being) to nip it in the bud and direct you onto a better path. Simply because I still regard you as My Best Friend Of All Time And Space...therefore whatever happens to you (both good and bad) impacts me directly.
When I declared to you (God knows how many months ago, probably some time last year): "I'm the only thing that stands between you and the Devil," you snarkily replied: "Well maybe I want to stand with the Devil." NEWS FLASH: even the Devil is on my side, and he is about to display his utter disgust towards your nonstop abuse of One Who Bears Your Cross With Great Courage And Pride.
Speaking of "much risk": do you realize I use my own methodology to expose who is and isn't a homophobe, wandering our streets? When I encounter a new homeless male in the Castro, I say or do something to test the waters...such as cracking a very pro-gay joke, or patting them on the butt or crotch. They will react in one of two ways: either raising a fist in threat (or screaming at me or even striking out with some force), or politely turning me away though showing appreciation for the compliment. The former response is, of course, that of a homophobe...while the latter indicates gay friendliness. I realize that many who act gay-abusive are queer themselves, but feel the need to act macho in order to guard their safety. This is The Law Of The Jungle, even here on the streets of Gay Mecca:
Heteros rule, no ifs, ands or buts.
Us smaller guys--especially when strolling on our own--are in constant danger of threats, stalking and violence by these thugs. We cannot enjoy the Castro at night with any sense of safety. If I tell some creep his behavior is disgusting, he'll start screaming, and sometimes become violent. (Whereas if a big dude tells him the same, the idiot will instantly back off and quiet down.) Quite often a scumbag will hang out in front of (or nearby) my front gate...which forces me to remain outside from a hidden distance until he departs. Besides the risk of being jumped should I enter my building while one stands close to me, I really don't care for these types to know where I live...especially when 2306 is easily accessible by strangers. As a long term resident I become a familiar face to them, since I stroll the Castro daily. So they feel free to approach like we're "good ol' buddies." It's a ruse they use to push their weight around, and intimidate the vulnerable. Coercing money, perhaps, as a form of "buying protection" al la the Mafia. In our own fukkin gay neighborhood!
Us shorter men are the ones most often stalked, threatened, stabbed, beaten, shot and sometimes even raped. So don't tell me what a tough dude you are! I'm light years ahead of you in that department. Yet you, in your smug and selfish stupidity, have decided to be just one more bully in my life. Instead of my friend and protector, as all strong, large gay men should be for their less robust brothers. The whole scene in the Castro is vulgar, petty and a shameful example of the worst aspects of our LGBT Family. And you, My Insincere Amigo, are now a perfect example of bullyism and internalized homophobia among our own kind. I wouldn't be proud of that if I were you, Larkin! Do you really want to be featured in my books as one such? 'Cause you are clearly headed in that direction, and the window for you to turn this around will soon be shut.
I don't see you being such a "tough" dude when compared to my own street activism that puts me in danger each night I'm out there, testing the waters. But I do document everything that matters, regarding the street scene here in the Castro. In hopes that certain members of the SFPD--along with bartenders and other interested citizens that compose our LGBT Family--will be better informed, and perhaps take the proper actions to secure a better safety record. After all: a neighborhood that is safe for gays is also safe for women and children. You should know that my brazen strategy often sets me up to be stalked by nutjobs who haunt the Castro and make this district one of the more dangerous. So it is especially egregious that you slander me to others (bartenders, patrons, et al) as your stalker...which is utterly wicked, and a great grief to my heart.
Signs suggest that Mikey may become my latest stalker, seeing as our paths crossed last night, and even though he saw me, he continued his march across 16th Street with a certain smug air to his carriage, while keeping his eyes masked by a hoody. After we crossed, I looked back to see him seated alongside my building, just 20 feet distant from the front gate. Which gate remained wide open by a knotted rope placed there to accommodate someone moving into (or out of) 2306 Market. By the time I returned (after an hour respite wandering the ocean-chilled streets of the Inner Sunset), Mikey was no longer there...though the gate remained ajar; thus I was wary of entering my own apartment building. It is a bitch to have to wield pepper spray in my journey up the stairs and into my own unit. The security level of this building is pathetically zilch, which is especially traumatizing to one who, like myself, is a well-known activist in his own neighborhood...and who is regularly confronted, and threatened by, homophobic goons who want to make this area their turf.
My precarious situation with Mikey continues unresolved, thus remains a "fuk you Zeke" nightmare. No thanks to you, Larkin, whose abrupt betrayal tossed me back to the wolves and forced me to be alone in this world once more. Thus I am far more vulnerable to attacks and threats, as I am without your support...which support from a powerful dude would've gone a long way towards protecting me, and establishing a more gay-friendly neighborhood when it comes to the homeless scene. You also should know that my documentation of events here in the Castro also includes our relationship, and the many offenses you've committed against yours truly: a dedicated and most well-regarded gay activist. Surely more than a handful of bartenders, police and other community members read my reports regularly, and are well aware of your crimes. (In fact, I have over 600 subscribers at this point.) And for which they may soon take action...such as blacklisting you from every gay bar in the city. And since you did give me signed permission to use your real name...well (nothing more to say)! Have fun with that, lover boy.
I adore you always, My Devious Dragon, and invite you to Bean There Coffeehouse, where you walked by yesterday afternoon, knowing I'd see you pass, as if to assure me of your friendly devotion. I did step out frantically to watch you as you approached Haight Street and crossed to the other side. I desired so badly to catch up to you, but remained in my spot, knowing that I'd only receive yet one more hateful glare.
And one more bitter demand that I get the fuk outta your face. This is my "social life" for what it's worth:
Since you've driven me outta the bars here in the Castro, I cannot enjoy any commiseration with my gay brothers. I have very little expendable moolah to eat out or go to clubs. I'm lucky if I can afford to hang out in this or that coffeehouse every day, to enjoy a cup of java or tea, let alone a tasty snack. No one to talk to, as everyone keeps to themselves, fidgeting over a cell phone or expensive "Macintosh Air." I ride the local transit for 75 cents disability fee (especially the N Judah since it takes me to the ocean), just to break the monotony.
Can't even afford any more to zip on over to Berkeley once or twice a week, which I enjoyed immensely. (To be honest, it pains me to leave the Castro at all, since I know you now reside here, even if you voyage to other parts of the peninsula.) Read a book on the train, or just enjoy the view. Oftentimes, I think of you and fantasize you're with me, holding me in your arms and whispering kind words.
Evenings, I'm always in my stupid little hovel watching a TV show or movie I downloaded from the Internet. (And sometimes peering out the window to see you gallivanting off to some fun digs while I remain home alone w/o the respite of a friend.) I've received more solace from actors on the screen most of my life (with rare interludes, such as ours), than from any real person, thanks to this isolated existence forced upon me regardless of what I do to break the curse. Step out later at night to stroll the Castro in hopes of meeting someone nice...rarely occurs, but what the fuk, I can't invite them home anywayz, and no one takes me to their place (hasn't happened in over 30 years). Then step back "hovel" to watch a little more video, then crash out on my comforter laid out on the hard floor ('cause the bedbug crisis has wiped out anything like a real bed for comfort). Though I often dream of you, and better times.
Kurt now seems to be my best bet for companionship through my turmoil over your grievous behavior (especially since Mikey turned enemy). Yet the potential for another bedbug invasion remains a diabolical censorship towards enjoying the company of such a kind-hearted, brave and handsome fellow. So there ya go, Larkin:
My life sucks like nobody's business. And you continue to abuse me. No wonder I'm ready to drop dead from heartbreak. Thanks for nothing, good buddy. Though I know I'm with God and I have no doubts over my soul's redemption. So I'll see you when you get there...if you ever get there.
The holidays are coming up. So I guess it will be yet one more Christmas I survive alone, with memories of My Randolph (whose birthday is December 30th), and the consequent sorrow that goes along with that. It would be such a wonderful thing if you stepped in around that time, and ended my trail of grief over a Nam Vet whose cross I've borne since 1985. But if you don't, wow, life will be one big pile of shit for me, and I don't think I'll ever give you so much as the time of day after that. Halloween/Thanksgiving by my lone self will be pretty awful, too...so maybe you'll reach out to me well before Yuletide.
You could be my savior from all this pissing grief, especially since you've caused a lot of it in the first place. Or not. Yet I certainly have hope, thanks to your wonderful confession several months back: "Our friendship, our being brought together, is an incredible godsend!" I just don't think I can live with hope and nothing more, into the new year.
All my love no matter what,
PS: I've added another charge on my police report about you: elder abuse. I don't like to think of myself as "old," but for the sake of justice I will. Kiss-kiss, poo-poo.
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