Ode to Mitch: I
Memorial Day weekend, the kick-off for the long awaited summer season in most of the country (it’s always summer here in Fort Lauderdale) is here and it’s been seven years since Mitch, my crazy, meth head brother left me on that Memorial Day in 2010.
Not a week goes by that I don’t think of him.
One Saturday night at 2606, the now defunct leather bar in Tampa, I was stalked by a dissipated, bloated guy, probably younger than me. I tried to be polite with some non-committal small talk but each time I delicately got some distance between us, he popped up again to leer. Finally, inevitably, he went in for the kill.
“So buddy, what exactly are you waiting for?” he asked in a guttural, butchy tone.
Without hesitating, I blurted straight out: “My clone.”
“Huh?” replied the guy.
“Let’s put this way. If I had a twin brother, we;d never leave the bedroom.”
Well, Mitch, my sturdy little furry New York City Jew boy, was the closest thing to my fantasy double I think I’ll ever meet in my life.
I don’t quite remember who came on to whom on Manhunt that late Tuesday night, but there was no doubt his rough hewn bearded face and naturally muscular, slightly stocky hairy body donned only in 501’s and a profile that emphasized, “looking for older, masculine hairy guys only- facial hair a must” caught the attention of my dick. That and the fact that, despite measurements that read “9 inches,” his screen name was “beefyhairybottom.”
I mapquest his address to a non-descript house off dingy 13th Street just a few blocks from Lauderdale’s leather hangout, the Ramrod, and drove over. Wishing to make a good first impression, I threw my tank top in the car and followed his instructions to walk to the rear to a small dilapidated guest house. I knocked on the splintered wooden door.
“Who is it?” shouted out a deep voice with that distinct New Yorkeese accent I knew so well, having spoken it myself most of my years.
I announced myself.
“It’s open,” he shouted back.
I walked through the foyer, if you could call the three feet that separated the door from the rest of his space a foyer, and parted the plastic shower curtains.
There he stood, naked except for a pair of leather boots, designer boots he would tell me later, a relic from his fat cat Manhattan days, holding a mini blow torch of a butane lighter beneath the end of a glass pipe. He took a deep drag, blew the smoke out just as quickly, then reached out and carefully handed it to me. He had said nothing about partying either in his profile or in our e-mails but I grabbed onto it anyway. Our eyes – both cat eyes, green but with a flash of blue in the right light – met as I clutched the pipe tightly so not to drop it while he held the lighter beneath the bowl end and gestured for me to gently shift it back and forth.
“Suck it in but don’t hold it – the shit can crystallize in your lungs,” he cautioned, still staring into my soul. “Not a good thing.”
I dropped my shorts and stood naked, our faint six pack abs almost touching.
“Leave your boots on,” he whispered. “I like that.”
Except for the fact he was a bit taller than me at 5 foot eight and younger, I could have been staring at myself in the mirror. Buzzed cut, balding, scruffy beard, broad hairy shoulders, tight muscular arms, hairy chest and abs, thick thighs and calves, again all covered in fur, he was the idealization of manhood in my mind. My brother. My clone. Even though he was Jewish and I was a Lutheran, we were both, I learned later, Slovak/Russian mutts with that hint of Mongolian in the slant of our eyes. We had the kind of bodies my so-called friends would chide me were made to lay down railroad ties until I retorted I made three times the money they did.
About the only obvious difference besides age was Mitch’s huge fat cock (versus my more conventional six and a half) and his super erratic behavior. He was jumping around and rambling on as if someone had shot a tube of Ben Gay up his beautifully furry, manly butt.
“You want another hit?” he asked.
I never searched out for the stuff but if a trick had some to share, well…
“Yea, but I want Mr. Peter to cooperate,” I replied, grabbing my semi-erect cock. “You know junk and hard dicks are alien enemies.”
“Don’t worry. I got Viagra. Want one?”
I had already taken 100 mgs, figuring I had to be up and ready to fuck the shit out of him, but accepted the generosity of this beautiful stranger and popped another. I wanted to make damn well sure I would keep “beefyhairybottom” happy.
His studio apartment was a penitentiary cell pigsty, furnished with thrift shop furniture rejects and littered with half empty Gatorade bottles and Twinky wrappers. He used the Gatorade to prepare some G for the both of us in a liquor glass – G was something new for even this seasoned boy – and after that, we moved to his air mattress, aimless music blaring from his pc perpetually set on his Manhunt inbox. I found it flattering that he had summoned me when, as he boasted later, he had gotten over 200 hits since arriving from New York just a few weeks before. Lying there, slowly stroking his dark carpet of chest hair as he pulled incessantly on his fat, spongy dong, I felt myself slowing climbing that same staircase Mitch apparently had ascended hours before, to the top of Mount Perpetual Pleasure. There, hard dicks, the gold standard for so much of the less than satisfying sex I had had of late, were incidental.
Throughout all our carousing and stroking and kissing and licking one another’s armpits and sweaty matted bodies, Mitch continued to babble on almost incoherently, not so much because of the junk streaming through his veins but, as he admitted, because he suffered attention affective disorder and didn’t take his meds for fear they would fuck up his high. Yet despite his ungrammatical soundbites, I learned a lot that first night about my clone.
That he was 42, had grown up in Westchester – read comfortable – a graduate of NYU, with a CPA’s license he had never used, how his parents were snowbirds with a place in West Palm, and how he had avoided working at a real job like the plague while somehow living the highlife in a beautiful Chelsea duplex. He proudly pointed to the framed page hanging on his wall from New Yorker magazine circa 1989 crowning him one of New York’s sexiest men (“I know had a lot more hair then, but I still look good, right?”) and gloated how he had gone from one successful business venture to the next, his last selling designer sunglasses on line netting him an incredible $25,000 a month which, when he wasn’t smoking it away, he lost on the poker tables of Las Vegas. Bottom line: he had come down to South Florida with $300 to his name to be near mommy and daddy and their wallets, and where he could live cheap, as exemplified by his $500 a month apartment, the size of my walk-in closet, that, despite the hole in the wall, he prided himself in finding.
As far as men went, he liked them about his height (“tall guys are goofy looking – most of the porn stars are short like us, anyway”), hairy, with facial hair, and in-shape bods. It was as if he were reciting my own private wet dream. He tapped my hard earned six pack, then his own. “It has less to do with the gym than with genes, believe me,” he concluded smugly.
As predicted, Mr. Peter was rather shy that night, though I did succeed in fucking Mitch for awhile before my hard-on succumbed to the stuff. But it almost didn’t matter. We rolled around in our mutual sweat, mouthing our pretty but pretty useless genitals when we weren’t yanking on them like two adolescent boys exploring their puberty dicks.
Then came my moment of inspiration.
“You ever get fisted?” I asked, eyeing his toy box to the side of the bed with its eclectic collection of dildos and not wanting to disappoint that hairy, manly butt of his.
“Once, back in New York, but the guy was too rough, didn’t know what he was doing.”
“Well,” I boasted, holding up my right hand, “a cast of this hand is in the Fist Fuckers Hall of Fame.”
With that, as he lay there facing me, I gently entered him, and we were both elevated to a new level of Endless Ecstasy. In the past, I had found fisting a guy as exciting as doing my laundry but it was different with Mitch. As he groaned and gyrated on the bed and I slowly went ever deeper, we became one. Brothers in spirit, brothers in flesh.
In the end, what I thought would be a 47 minute quickie turned out to be an all nighter. With the heavy shades drawn on his single window, it was hard to tell morning had arrived, whether we liked it or not. My sole focus now was to get off but, with all the shit I had smoked and slugged down, it seemed a miracle to get my dick up enough to finally squirt, stroking the heavy fur on Mitch’s chest and abs as my erotica while he faded into blissful oblivion. Sweaty and smeared with Elbow Grease, my boots still on, I stood up and slipped on my shorts.
“You are one beautiful man,” I said, scanning him slowly from head to toe, never expecting to see him again. He smiled faintly, turned over and fell almost instantly to sleep as I walked out.
Part II Monday…