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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781573448659 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Start Publishing Llc |
| Publication date: | 12/09/2001 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 250 |
| Sales rank: | 570,983 |
| File size: | 373 KB |
About the Author
Richard Labonté edits books, walks dogs and works as a chef's assistant at an addiction recovery center on Bowen Island, off the coast of British Columbia, Canada, after living in Los Angeles and San Francisco from 1979 to 2001. One of the founders of A Different Light Bookstore, he has coordinated the judging for the Lambda Literary Award since 2009. He reviews 100 queer books a year for Q Syndicate, which distributes "Book Marks," his fortnightly column and has edited the Best Gay Erotica series since 1996 (along with a couple of dozen other books for Cleis). Eight of his books, including five editions of Best Gay Erotica, have been Lammy finalists, and three of them have won the award.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The Show Palaces
Marc Almond
where do the lovely lovers of the dark go now, the worshippers in the temple of flesh, the shadow people — now the show palace has closed down, the david, the adonis lounge?
1. 1993
23:00, the show palace, eighth ave., new york
a room shadowy in the muted red light, occasionally a reflection caught in the mirror tiles, a muffled, distorted disco tape and an unintelligible announcement tells us to appreciate carlos or jesus (where else would you find jesus but in a temple?). jesus is sexy. jesus and the gods of flesh. the room is heavy with sex scent and musky dark sweat and scented lube oil. the effect is heady, surreal and serious. four of the five enormous black and latino guys dance lazily and zombie-like in a semi-state of crack trance on the small strewn stage rubbing oil into their lithe bodies and stretching their large semi-erect and oiled penises into forever, like a snake dance in the temple to the great god erotica. occasionally they leave the stage and straddle members of the audience, drawing out dollars from the spectators' pockets with their magical hustler powers — money stuffed into socks and boots for one more minute of close attention. in the dark recesses and deep corners, they linger for longer, straddling and thrusting, larger amounts of money getting more exotic attentions.
24:00, the gaiety theatre, times square, new york
it's the final show of the day, the air is twice as thick with dare, anticipation and sex. fourteen boys of mostly straight origin and toned, white-american apple-pie stock take turns performing and selling their wares to an audience of mostly older gentlemen. against a cheap sparkling curtain of the purest tantalizing glamour, they dance, crouch, spin and flex to classic and current disco and house tunes. beautifully fleshed and marbled, perfect-looking bodies, bruise- and needle-mark-free, thrust- and pose-defining buttocks and pecs, living pages from the athletic model guild. sweet homeboy faces, freckles, eager-puppy eyes, hustler grins, sometimes a tuft or two of hair in all the right places, sometimes tear-shaped and teen-like backward baseball caps, white socks and short fuck-me cowboy boots for the tips and added sleaze "erotic erotic put your hands all over my body" moans a familiar diva as eyes meet eyes and dollar touches torso. after removing their few clothes, plain shirt/black jeans, they strut their stuff before leaving the stage for a few moments. one imagines backstage a quick bump of coke, a girlfriend doing her stuff and limp members jolt into brief action. they return stiffly, perky, proud, and erect; some aren't successful in rising to the occasion — nerves, too much coke, too much business, but most meet the demand. they take a bow to the enthusiastic applause, and seats clatter [RL: I think this is awk and it works better w/o it] as gentlemen beat a nasty path to the side-stage lounge to negotiate with the young dancers and a booming, distorted voice bids us to put our hands together for the very talented joey. later, back at the dancer's hotel, maybe the president hotel, off times square, a further performance, more private, maybe a little more awkward, takes place, costs approximately $200 — don't suck, get sucked, or only fuck. if it's the last show, maybe come, only maybe. girlfriend? back home in connecticut. "yeah, she knows."
2. 1994
midnight, the savoy, new york
it's friday night and it must be buddha's big-dick contest at the savoy bar, situated by the port authority bus terminal. the bar is stuffed to capacity with banjee boys and their girlfriends, young black and latin hustlers, a couple of transvestites taking a break from sally's hideaway (a sister transvestite bar up the street), dealers, dopers, and strays, village queens out for a dash of low-rent sleaze, and tattooed white boys out for the thrill. buddha, a fat toothless black man with gray curly hair, a diamanté earring and a long gold mandarin's fingernail, is at one end of the bar. he is with a coterie of underage banjee boys to whom he has promised the world, or the half-world that he inhabits after dark. some wear the blue and yellow beads of the latin kings — i have made friends with members of the latin kings' new york gang, so my safety is assured in the bar and on the street out front, which can get quite scary on forty-ninth street and ninth avenue. the gang members stand guard at the door with ever-watchful eyes. the girls, their hair in bangs and plaits, hang dopily around their hustler boyfriends, who ignore them — playing pool, passing joints and snorting coke in the bathroom. their woolen hats pulled down over their ears (giving them a cute goofiness), their teeth encased in gold, their pants hanging off their hips (one leg rolled up), their necks ringed with gold chains. they swagger around the pool table, shoulders slung low, hands curved inward. at 01:30 buddha takes the stage and welcomes the crowd on a microphone with too much reverb.
he berates the transvestites and dares anyone to enter the contest for the $50 prize — the crack dealers wait. there are two contestants tonight, they are waiting in the beer-storage room, being blown by their girlfriends, trying by whatever means to get some life into their flaccid members (suffering from the effects of too much coke). the first to take the stage is a tall, gangly black guy in a woolen hat. he provides a half-hard monster — the crowd yells its approval. buddha produces his ruler and measures the snake-like appendage. "ten inches," shouts buddha and bends to kiss the snake with a gummy mouth. the sheepish contestant, looking a little peaky and sweaty, as his last pipe wore off some hours ago, slopes off into the back room to work up another inch, and so his place is taken by rico, a latin boy with half his teeth missing. he runs out, quickly followed by his girl, before his proud erection flops and it's obvious he is not going to measure up — nevertheless the crowd cheer him on. "nine inches," proclaims buddha.
the crowd surges nearer to the stage in wonderment and awe, as if they have never seen such meat before.
rico runs off, pulling his girlfriend with him to work a little harder. the first contestant, the gangly black guy, runs up again, nearly falling over his own trousers, which are round his ankles. grasping his piece, he has raised another half an inch. it's official. "ten and a half inches," declares buddha, and the crowd is almost at frenzy point. buddha once more gums the guy's extra limb, causing acute humiliation, though of course the contestants can't complain — this is buddha's place and buddha's show, and beside rico needs that pipe.
suddenly there is commotion as the door swings open. a tall mulatto boy with a huge mouth and a shock of curly hair strides in, wearing an overcoat. pushing through the crowd, he makes his way to the little platform. "it's big bird," gasps one of the transvestites.
silence.
"he's gonna win it again," another shouts resignedly, and sure enough, when big bird opens his overcoat he reveals the clear winner by a couple of inches.
"you bitches, i'm the biggest and the prettiest and it tastes good too," drawls the effeminate big bird, and he claims his $50 prize, much to the chagrin of the gangly black guy, who has to make do with second place ($20). he's not disappointed for long though because the village queens are soon in discussion with him about making a donation of their own. the crowd disperses, boys leave with their girls, some with older gentlemen, and down on ninth avenue the crack dealer is waiting. some of the boys will take their elderly friends to the elk hotel round the corner on forty- second street for a short stay.
it is now a year later and buddha is no longer at the savoy. he was fired for letting too many of the latin kings into the bar to do drug deals. some say he's managing a bar downtown. the owners have moved in plastic tables with umbrellas that look truly surreal in the dark, pokey little bar, and have removed the pool table. needless to say, the place is empty. no more big-dick show on a friday night either — never mind, i'm sure they'll soon see sense.
3. 1996
20:00, chi chi la rue's night at the eros, eighth ave., new york
the eros is the only male palace of porn left on eighth avenue, the rest were swallowed up by the great god disney. it's a plucky little cinema, its brave blue neon eros sign a beacon to lovers of male erotic dancing and blurred celluloid encounters of male-on-male flesh. the eros sign, in 1950s fashion, promises something camp and kitsch and almost cheesecake. i think of the photos in physique magazines from the 1950s and 1960s — men dressed as gladiators, men spread-eagled on tiger-skin rugs, men with oily quiffs, men with sculpted muscles and fixed dimpled grins with eyes full of fun against glitter backdrops, men in posing pouches with anchor tattoos, biker boys in leopard skin tussling each other like playful puppies in heat, sexy and innocent. the word eros in blue neon makes me dream of these things — it makes me dream of bobby kendal in pink narcissus — that strange, erotic movie from a lost decade.
dreaming once in this way, i entered through the turnstile into the murky recesses of the eros and was bought to my senses by out-of-focus hardcore images and muffled grunts of pleasure, or pain. the seats, once salacious red velvet, were now dulled, faded and broken, inhabited by silent sheepish figures, some hand in motion, some asleep, all somebody's husband. hands grabbed at me and i realized i was being hustled and propositioned by two or three latin boys in matching briefs and bruises, red and purple, and stained with baby oil. they wanted to take me downstairs to a place probably even darker and murkier, past a broken toilet to a dressing room. they wanted dollars, and far too many dollars, because these weren't the little latin cat-boy extras from a madonna video — these were hustler trash that even the show palace rejected. one of them checked his watch and said to his friend, "one more dance and then i'm going to the video booths."
(the video booths, if you're wondering, are beneath the show palace, in the basement of a sex shop, a line of male video booths showing pornographic movies, outside the booths, waiting, a line of black and latin hustlers. hustlers circle the customers and the crack dealers circle the hustlers. the monitor dishing out tokens for booths is paid a couple of dollars to turn a blind eye, "keep it moving, guys, get in them booths now," he keeps shouting and the procession keeps shuffling. customer and hustler would disappear into a booth, and five minutes later the hustler would emerge and slope around a corner to buy some coke or crack. this went on all night and all day and got packed around 18: 00 in the evening when business around times square finished.)
the film suddenly stops mid-orgasm, the lights dim and the boys half-heartedly gyrate to some muffled disco music, taking only a small pause before fleecing the audience of any loose change. but that was then. the eros has now had something of a revamp, a coat of paint, a dash of sparkle. the 1950s-style eros sign looks braver and bluer than ever and shouts down decimated eighth avenue, "i'm still here." outside, a sign proclaims "tonight — chi chi la rue." porn director, performer, personality and all-round priestess of porn has brought glamour and tease back to the eros, and as i enter the theater i am dazzled by a mirror ball and blinded by the sequins on chi chi's frock as she paces back and forth, lights exploding christmas all over the stage. burlesque is back as chi chi brandishes porno magazines (featuring her celluloid stud muffins), turns the air blue with cracks, jokes and the cheapest asides of the filthiest tints. she introduces a selection of porno princes to tease us and delight our jaded palates. the stage resembles a pierre et gilles set, with shades of pink and twinkling fairy lights (well, not quite pierre et gilles, but those cheaper imitations who aspire to be them), and it feels good to be sleazy again.
chi chi calls us all naughty boys and slaps us with porno mags and we quake in our seats as this thundering, sequined dynamo storms up and down the aisles. the porno playmates form a fetching tableau while a misplaced attendant, standing self-consciously at the edge of the fraying lurex curtain, eyes us all suspiciously for signs of overexcitement. we dare not be too excited or chi chi will come at us, her boobs like sequined battleships, and slap us over our heads with a shiny, unthumbed copy of inches. yes, i can dream of bike boys in togas, posing-pouched centurians, discus-throwing tony curtis lookalikes and sailors on fur rugs and almost ...for a moment ...almost feel innocent again.
Just Another Night at the World's Greatest Gay Diner
Dimitri Apessos
"I want a chocolate shake with that."
"You do, huh?"
"Yes, please."
"Here you go!"
And with that, Durrell does his ridiculous little Chocolate Shake dance. He always does this when people order chocolate shakes; he positions his arms outward, bent at the elbows as if he's doing the Twist, and shakes his ass around in a belly-dance motion. It's a joke, of course. Durrell's black. Chocolate shake, get it? But, as always, the hapless tourist does not get it and sits at the counter, staring, confused.
Durrell sighs.
"I'll get your shake, sir," he concedes, disappointed and defeated.
With that, the hungry tourist turns back to his USA Today and Durrell walks over to the ice cream machine, which happens to be positioned right by where you're sitting. In response to his failed joke, you smile widely and shake your head at him in disbelief.
He smiles back, while pouring chocolate ice cream into the shake glass, and leans over to whisper: "I am so over this shit!"
You smile, understanding. Durrell is one of your best friends in New Orleans, and you can always rely on him for a free meal, but in return you have to listen to him bitch about all the ridiculous things drunken tourists say and do all day. You know he's not really bitter about it; after all, drunk heterosexuals and testy homosexuals are the occupational hazards of working in any restaurant on Bourbon Street, let alone the Happy Leprechaun, the only gay diner you have encountered in your many travels throughout gay America. For every sleaze from Jackson, Mississippi, who comes in and tells him how good he would be to him as his "white daddy," and for every straight frat boy who walks in accidentally looking for a burger who gets hostile once he puts two and Cher together to ascertain he is the only heterosexual in the entire restaurant, Durrell has the consolation of making and spending more money than any nineteen- year-old should know what to do with. French Quarter tourists may be obnoxious, but they tip well.
As if reading your thoughts, Durrell puts down the shake glass, uninterested in serving this poor tourist who didn't get his joke, and sits on the counter to talk.
"You should have been here earlier," he relates. "You know that hot blonde stripper from Procession? Claude, or whatever he's calling himself today?" "The hustler one?" you ask.
"Honey, they're all hustlers," he answers. "Anyway, he was here earlier with this big daddy from Florida or some shit, and we was packed, so service was slow, you know? Well, this daddy starts yelling at me that he wants his food, and he can't believe the service is so bad. And the stripper knows me and comes here all the time, so he's, like, whispering to him 'sit down' but this daddy won't listen so he comes up to the counter and starts yelling in my face that he knows the owner and is gonna get me fired and all that."
"Shit, what did you do?"
"I didn't do nuttn', I don't deal with trash like that. But Mike, the cook, gets in the way and yells at him, 'Look, just because you're paying your hustler by the hour, it don't mean you'll get your food any faster! Now sit down and shut up, or get the fuck out!' and this daddy just stands there wit' nuttn' to say but then the stripper gets up and starts yelling at Mike ..."
"What was he yelling?"
"Oh, you know: 'Watch what you say. You don't know me!' That kind of shit. As if there's anyone in the Quarter who don't know that he's a hustler."
"Right," you agree.
"Right! So Mike says somethin' like 'I don't need to know you' and the hustler makes to come around the counter and Mike starts hitting him on the head with a frying pan!"
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Best Gay Erotica 2001"
by .
Copyright © 2000 Richard Labonté.
Excerpted by permission of Start Publishing LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Title Page,
Dedication,
Foreword,
Introduction,
Knowing Johnny,
Foucault's Pendulous ...,
from Onyx,
The Show Palaces,
1. 1993,
2. 1994,
3. 1996,
Just Another Night at the World's Greatest Gay Diner,
Warm-up,
"You Need a Boy",
Thursday,
Saturday,
Sunday,
Monday,
Tuesday,
Thursday,
Friday,
Saturday,
For Hire: A Date with John,
Shiloh: The Other Size Queen,
Aaron: The Suburban Hustler,
Bino: The Classic Eros,
Iseha: The Video Fantasy,
Jonathan: The Tourist Trap,
Johnny: The New New Yorker,
Niko: The New Economy,
Gucci,
Gymnasty,
Knot of Roads,
The Future of the Future,
When We Are Very Old,
Bear Basher,
Heart,
AIDS Is Over,
Body Symphony,
The Hittite Slave,
Five a Day,
Artichoke,
Mango,
Asparagus,
Apple,
Yam,
Never Trust a Pretty Face,
Prolonged Exposure May Cause Dizziness,
Woof. Yea. Uhuh. Yea, that's it. Uhuh. Yeaaa.,
About the Authors,
About the Editors,
Copyright Page,