Whippoorwill

42 +/-

My first visit to the then-Soviet Union was during Perestroika, when the country was beginning to open up. I was on a month-long cultural exchange, and the first quick stop was one night in Moscow. I was bunking with a gay (platonic) friend from the U.S., and during our training had met several other gay guys in the group. Having grown up during the Cold War, I/we imagined all kinds of terrible things about the country, including a dangerous homophobia. (Even my mother had warned me about picking up tricks there!) Imagine our surprise when we arrived at Sheremetyevo Airport and up walks our tour manager Dimitri, who was blasting out gay vibes in all directions. Could this really be? (Indeed he was a screaming queen, and later followed me back to the States, but that is another story). We got signed into our hotel, giving up our passports, and several of us went to check out the Bolshoi Ballet. We were in luck...Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake was playing that night and there were tickets available. We got seats in one of the mid-level balconies, where the whole stage was in full view, if a bit far away. It was magnificent. During the intermission, we wandered to the lobby and were amazed to find not only a bar serving champagne and other alcoholic delights, but an elaborate dessert buffet laid out...and...all free (or I should say, included in the admission ticket price). I imbibed a couple of coupes of champagne and a sampling of beautiful petits fours. Before heading back to my seat, I thought it prudent to stop in the Gent's, and what a surprise awaited! There were all kinds of fun and games going on at the urinals. As a new face in town/American, a bevy of young gentlemen descended on me. I couldn't believe it, but even visions of my exile to Siberia didn't stop me from grabbing a luscious uncut cock in each hand as another guy went down on me. It was either so crowded in there, or straights were just obliviously going about their business, or this particular mens' room was the designated orgy zone, but no one batted an eye. Eventually two guys, a gay couple, invited be back to their dacha for the night. This was too much for even me...would I be murdered in bed, or arrested by the KGB, sent to Siberia, or kidnapped and never make it back to my hotel in time for the next day's flight to the provinces? In one of the few times I ever exhibited such good judgement, I declined, despite continuing advances. If it hadn't been during my first few hours in the country, I would have gone for it...the USSR turned out to be filled with gay guys ignoring their government just as much as we ignore ours when it comes to dick. But alas, it took a few days of getting the lay of the land, and confiding with Dimitri, to be my usual slut, there in the land of the hammer and sickle.

I am fortunate enough to live in San Francisco, so no need to import boys from elsewhere. When I am in Honolulu I typically meet traveling boys from Los Angeles, who also travel to San Francisco on occasion. I always think about doing a reprise with them in S.F., but tend not to because my local squeese(s) keep(s) me busy. Ah, enjoying this plentitude of riches.

Many of us say we want to live only while we are healthy, active, have our marbles, etc...and that we will know when it's time to go, and will let go. Would that we will be so lucky. Having seen many friends die of AIDS in the '80s and '90s, and now of the diseases of old age, if you want to control whether or not you have a good death, you have to die before you are ready. That is, stop eating and drinking, stop taking your meds, or actively kill yourself while you still are lucid enough and well enough to do so. I have seen people, after a lifetime of saying, let me die when it's time, hang on for months or years because they no longer have the mental acuity or physical strength to do the deed. If you are taken to an emergency room, their remit is to save you, no questions asked. They don't ask for your Advance Health Care Directive. If you are in a Senior Living Center, every time you sneeze, you're surrounded by a phalanx of medical professionals intent on keeping you alive. If you are asked if you want treatment, chances are you will say "yes" even though in your former right mind the answer would have been "no." States that have end of life option laws are a great help, but even then...in California where I live, you have to request the drug twice, 48 hrs apart, then make the request in writing, then sign a consent to the pharmacy, then get someone to get the drug from the pharmacy, then take it yourself. Many people lose the ability to complete all the steps, and end up lingering for weeks or months. My only question is, will I have the mental strength to do myself in before it is physically necessary? I hope so.

A major reason many people (like us) use hotel rooms is for "illicit" sex of one kind or another. Everyone knows and no one cares as long as your screams of ecstasy don't disturb the neighbors or you pull the chandelier out of the ceiling hanging on it. Oh yes, for the sake of the maid, strip the bed and wrap the sheets around the towels and leave on the floor...the maid knows what that means.

It's good to know that there's nothing new about debauchery The Sublime Sewer Club - The Gay & Lesbian Review GLREVIEW.ORG

Yes he has moved-he is on Fell between Franklin and Gough. Easy walk from the Market St transit spine, and also from Van Ness.

He is in the Symphony Hall/Hayes Valley neighborhood. Easy transit access.

I once belonged to an invitation-only membership sex club. The criteria were two out of the three: good looking, big cock, hot body. You wrote the organizer and told him which you were, and at the first meeting he verified in person. It actually worked quite well. This was strictly for sex. Husband hunting is altogether different.

I’ll be 82 in a couple of months and I’m still raring to go. True, the body parts are wearing out and nothing works quite the way it used to. But, a couple of weeks between orgasms, a couple of viagra, a couple of a hundred dollars, and the right provider do the trick. I have always been a chicken hawk, and today “chicken” for me is definitely someone over 30…or more…someone who has been around the block a couple of times, who understands they are not god’s gift to the world, who are skillful at what they do, who understand that they are in business and each of us have a role in the transaction. My role is to respect them and their work, to be flexible in setting up appointments as with any professional, to be clear on what I am buying, to pay the fee asked, to show up on time clean and prepared, to be complimentary as appropriate, to express gratitude for a service well rendered, to write positive reviews on their ad page and on COM, and to be a loyal repeat client. In the situations where it works best, I have become the old guncle who shares whatever wisdom I have gained in a long life and they share the excitement of youth and change. With the right person that goes beyond sagging tits and a limp dick.

My favorite boy has a large mirror strategically positioned next to the massage table so you can admire the goings-on whether on your stomach or on your back. Depending, you can feast your eyes on his beautiful ass as well as chiseled torso, six pack, and raging hard cock. No need to fumble around feeling for his cock and grabbing air. No doubt that a massage in that room will end in debauchery!

I too am baffled what the big concern is. It’s like when I first was coming out, and I would see a friend/classmate/neighbor in a gay bar/baths/T-room. It was only awkward until I realized that if they were there, they were there for the same reason I was. Honor among thieves, and all that…

In my experience providers know many of the others…they go to the same gyms, live in the same neighborhoods, read each other’s adverts, etc. I have had them ask who else I am seeing when they are looking for a new masseur, looking to rate other’s services against their own, ways to improve their services, etc. They have told me things about other providers and their services that I otherwise would not have known, recommended other providers they think I might like and vice-versa…all in a natural professional to professional way. I cannot imagine they don’t also say, “So and so may come see you, I told him you’d probably be good at the xyz he enjoys.”

He’s advertising his RM services; you buy RM services. Why would he find it awkward or uncomfortable? If he does, he’s in the wrong business. I say go for it.

Thanks for the reminder…I did it

Listing it as an amenity is strange, but nonetheless it is very helpful to know what the situation is in advance.

My husband and I could “cook” for ourselves or we can go out for a fabulous meal. We could have built our house or we could have hired a great architect. We could pick out our own clothes or we could hire a colorist/fashion consultant. Likewise why wouldn’t we hire professional courtesans who can strive to meet our every sexual desires?

Oh and I forgot to mention perhaps the most important thing…are you a skilled trained masseur? Or a hot courtesan? There is a market for either or both. Just be clear in your marketing.

Rate-setting is not a business plan; it is just one component of a business plan. You need to be clear to yourself what are your goals and objectives, time frame, limitations, etc. Is this a quick money idea, or a long term strategy? Are you truly service oriented, dedicated to pleasing others? What services are you selling, how are you planning on marketing them? What is your comparative quality and appearance? What is the venue and location? Is this rate an introductory offer (is this a first appointment rate, a 2025 rate, etc) or what? What sets you apart from the competition, etc, etc, etc? I encourage you to think deeply about this profession, be honest with yourself about your goals, advantages, and abilities, and make a decision that will work both for you and for prospective clients. If you decide it’s a “go”, I will welcome you into what can be a rewarding profession for provider and client alike.

You should have money of your own to spend without your wife supervising. For that matter, she should also. Nothing in particular to do with sexual naughties...just basic human dignity.

I haven't been back to NYC post Covid, but I have always loved the Rambles in the daytime...fresh air, no smoke, you can see what you're getting, and everybody wanting something. The only danger is running into the old ladies in tennis shoes watching birds while you're en flagrante dilicto. Even then, you ignore them, they ignore you.

I have helped two of my regular boys with resumes...they never asked but rather I volunteered. They are regulars. I like them. I want them to meet their potential, and be successful. I am happy to give away an hour of my time, and feel I have gotten it back in spades with service and/or friendship. This is of course very different from Ali's situation where he was not only asked but then haggled with over price. I would be finished with him also. In one of my instances, I rewrote the provider's advert for him. In that case I continued as a client. In the other instance, I helped the boy expand into a different profession. Like ApexNomad, I no longer felt I could have the same professional relationship with him.

Some time ago, in the 1980s, a darling British twinkie and I were an item, he visiting here, and I there. On one occasion, we were visiting York, a delightful medieval Yorkshire town. We were staying in a B & B just off The Shambles, a quintessential medieval neighborhood. Medieval folks tended to be shorter than today, and the room was quite compact. We were in a top floor garret, and our bedroom aerobatics had the top bumping his head on the ceiling while the bottom, on his back, could brace his feet against the ceiling. It didn't hold us back too much, as we quickly were running out of both condoms and lube. We found a chemist just across the street from The Minster (that glorious early medieval cathedral) and I went to find condoms while he picked out lube. This being England, such naughty things were not out in public so I had to ask the clerk...a 70ish year old white-haired matron. "I'd like some condoms", I said. "Condoms? What are they?" she replied. "Ah, er, condoms" I replied. "Condoms, what are they? How do you use them?" "Ah, er." "Just tell me how you use them." Not getting any helpful information from me, she yelled across the room to the other clerk, a matron of similar vintage, "Florence, this man wants condoms...do you know what condoms are?" Florence replies, "Condoms, what are they for? How do you use them?" At this point, the bf walks up holding a super giant economy size container of Vaseline. At which point the clerk puts 2 and 2 together, and says, "Oh, prophylactics." We soon got over the embarrassment, and roared all the way back to our garret to try out our new purchases. He and I still have a giggle over it. And every time I see York Minster in some photogenic TV mystery show, I look for that Chemist's, just across the street from the holiest site in town. I only hope in 2025, the prophylactics are self-service.

I was having my annual exam with my gay GP, and in he walzed with a stunning blond 20-something year old med student from Germany, who was on an exchange residency. He asked if I minded the visitor, chortling under his breath. Now it happens I have had a pea-sized benign lump on one testicle for years. My doc proceeded to examine, inspect, and manipulate both testicles in great detail. Then he turned my nuts over to this Teutonic beauty, who went through the same procedure several times (practice makes perfect). At which point my doc looked at me, and gave me a big knowing wink. It was all I could do not to break up laughing.

Ah yes, "the love that dare not speak its name" is now shouting from every rooftop. Strange indeed. Plus it's just boring.