robberbaron4u

Prior to the AIDS pandemic, the escort industry at New Orleans flourished; indeed, several agencies did business in that city. As you stated, the "pickins' are slim" these days; I "import" on the occasions NOLA is on my calendar.

Derivation of "rescue dog" without any intent to demean the escort on my part.

HungLovingCutie is a mature " rescue escort". Homing fee is applicable.

The young man has not only burned his bridges, he has blown up the pylons. There comes a time to recognize that you have not done the big city, the big city has done you and you should head home and begin again from the beginning.

I did a charter flight, Orlando to Palm Beach, some years ago; the plane, an ancient two engine affair, was operated by Air Tonga, yes, Air Tonga; we ran into an electrical storn over Lake Worth. I found that "old-time" religion in a New York minute. That stated, every seat on Southwest is a "first-class" seat, and, on occasion, the flight attendant will toss a bag of Cheez-Its your way. . .

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. I am, but I would be amiss not to defend the reputation one of my favorite boys.

Howard Hughes didn't have access to a TOTO AQUIA IV.

Cognac and Cheez-Its on my part. Given some small diversion from the topic, the thread has served its purpose: given the choice between Nick Gruber and Benjamin Nicholas, BN is the "fairest one of all". I am giving up posting to the forum for Lent and delivering myself into the hands of an aging one-time escort that I have lusted after for a decade for a month's sojourn at San Miguel Allende. I pray that there is a spa in Purgatory. Be careful out there, Gentlemen. God bless and keep us all. Until Easter then, RB4U.

Veneers, accutane and the artistry, if you will, of Dr. Mark Warfel.

Now, now. . .Nick was "right pretty" at one time. Nonetheless, the proverbial "dog" in comparison with Benjamin Nicholas.

A story of Miss Pickford, Buddy Rogers, The Pontchartrain Hotel and low wattage pink light bulbs; too off the track of this posting to recount. . .do not neglect to read my memoir, "I Can't Begin To Tell You"; royalties will benefit The Lost Boys Fund.

Flavio had no need to talk. Merely contemplating him in his physical beauty as he took the sun by the pool at The Colony served to suffice. . .a decade, tempus does indeed fugit.

Yes, my good man, I am that old. . .but in my "day" I was "hot stuff"; indeed, Mary Pickford complimented me on my beautiful, brown "doe eyes". Now, I have lost my ash blonde locks as an old parrot motes feather, but, I yet possess a svelte figure, all of my teeth, a small, respectacle fortune that serves to meet my needs and follies, and, being practical in my personal and professional life, I know how to work the "Old Gentleman" angle of life to my advantage. When my time comes, hook me up to a five gallon drum of morphine and give the tap a full turn; if there is a recording of "Going Home" that will do for mood music as I take my leave from the stage of life with a song in my heart and a smile on my lips.

As with the old Bayou Bar of the Pontchartrain Hotel at New Orleans, the Polo Lounge of the Colony is in "a class all its own"; sadly, the new owners are undertaking to "update" the ambience of the place. Oh, for the days of Senora Baptista cha cha chaing across the dance floor with the Duke of Windsor...

Sink me! Take heart as I! If nothing else, I can yet draw a crowd on a Sunday.

Sticks and stones, sticks and stone. I is old and tend to wander off the trail, and, too, as my late mother made remark, I tend to talk too much; even the house cat regards me with scorn.

"I danced with a man who danced with a girl who danced with the Prince of Wales" syndrome. I had the acquaintance of a newly rich man who paid five figures at an auction for a cheap chest of drawers which had once been in use in JFK's childhood bedroom, cast off by Mrs. Onassis, to the end that he could boast to his friends that his son had JFKJr's chest of drawers.

Yes; he has need of new tires for his bike.

Nick Gruber, not Nick Gurley. The American Classic Breakfast is too heavy for the digestion of a man of my years; it slows the thought process. But, oh, the bacon, fresh off a prize Kentucky hog, cured to perfection and fried up crispy and the batter cakes smothered in fresh strawberries!

No, an opinion tendered to a fellow traveler, pondering a prospective "hire", over drinks in the Polo Lounge of the Colony Hotel.

For myself, I do not have to give the choice so much as a minute of consideration. . .Benjamin Nicholas.

Ouch...

The reality of the thing succinctly stated...