Ode to Mitch: Part II

Ode to Mitch: Part II

A few nights later after meeting Mitch, I was canvassing the websites to see if anybody loved me, when Mitch beckoned me again on Manhunt with a “Why don’t you come over?” I taught college at the time and had an 8 a.m. class and I know Mitch mentioned he was starting his temporary Census job that same day but I followed his call like Odysseus and his men were wooed by the Sirens. Was it the drugs or was it Mitch seducing me? Who knew? Who cared?

He was out of Elbow Grease and we spent the next hour rambling from all-night drug stores to a 24/7 porn shop on Dixie Highway which only had some small canisters left.

Lighting up in the car, we began another trip to Arousaland and it was that night that Mitch – or was it the G? – confessed he hadn’t enjoyed being with a man as much as he had with me in a very long time. This time neither of us came.

As we walked out from his place to my car together an eternity later, he gestured to his new little compact Cooper sitting in the front lot that his parents had leased for their 42 year old only child. By 42, I was a vice president with half a million in the bank and two houses.

“I’m a little pissed at them, though,” he whined, “I really wanted a convertible. After all, this is South Florida.”

“You don’t sound very grateful,” I said.

“Hey,” replied Mitch not at all defensive. “They made me the egocentric fuck I am today. It was always Mitchy you’re so handsome, Mitchy, you’re so great, Mitchy, you’re so smart. So why shouldn’t they get their Mitchy, their little boy, a convertible, huh?”

The cynical former New Yorker slash former public relations exec in me knew it would happen sooner or later if I continued these liaisons with a meth-head, beautiful as he was to me. Sure enough, a week later, early on a Saturday afternoon, after inviting me on line to his lair, Mitch followed my, “yea, why not,” with, “I’m out of stuff. Got any $$ so I get some for us?”

Usually, the “I’m not going to fall for this shit” side of me would have responded, “thanks but no thanks.” But, hell, I had gotten high twice on his dime so, I rationalized, I owed him, right? I left the hundred bucks in twenties in my mailbox while he went to meet his dealer in Miami and I took a nap. Our plan was to rendezvous around 9. When I didn’t hear from him by ten I figured I had been taken but decided to call him anyway.

“Sorry, he wasn’t ready with the shit,” Mitch explained, all apologetic. “I’ll be over at your place by 11. Promise.”

Now, call me paranoid, but I wasn’t exactly comfortable about letting a confirmed druggie know where I lived but I had been getting increasingly claustrophobic about his place. Besides, he didn’t want me to use Crisco when I fist fucked him on his air mattress since he claimed it smelled up his humble abode. My house, with central air, eliminated that minor problem.

Mitch made good on his promise and we spent the night and most of the next day in Druggie Heaven. And the Crisco helped me go in deeper, so that by the end of that night Mitch had become a full fledged fistee graduate.

While I instructed my lawn man that morning about some new palm tree plantings, Mitch catnapped. But I noticed that when all the stuff we had been taking wore off, my usually very animated and boisterous stud, my butch Chatty Cathy doll with a knot in his cord, became very quiet and subdued, almost shy.

“My generation needs drugs to have sex,” he explained. His observation made me feel old and superior all in the same moment. And when later he was leaving and asked if I wanted to keep what crystal was left – “after all you paid for it,” – and I told him no, he was surprised.

“You mean you don’t need all this shit?”

“No,” I repeated, very matter of factly.

“You know something,” he said, grinning. “I admire you.”

I didn’t hear from Mitch again for over a week and figured that was that. Maybe he was disappointed that his hypnotic hold on me had not quite succeeded as he had hoped. Translation: transform me into a crackhead fuckbuddy just like him. Then, one o’clock one night, out of the blue, he called, explaining he had taken advantage of a freebie in Key West, courtesy of a couple he had known from his NYC days who had fought most of the weekend but kept him amply supplied in stuff. He wanted to see me, said he missed me, and could I come over now?

His hair was a mess. Apparently he had tried to buzz cut himself but with no second mirror the back of his head still had uneven blotches of hair, making him look like a cross between a slightly deranged, homeless guy and an inmate of a Nazi concentration camp. I pulled out his Oster and evened things out. Even then, just touching his head, my dick sprung to attention.

So how’s the Census job working out?” I asked.

“Oh, I gave that up – too much bullshit for too little dough. I’m on Rentboy.com now,” and he proceeded to pull up his ad.

“Italian Stallion?” I asked as I scanned it. “OK, but why are using Larry? That sounds so Brooklyn Jew. Why not Vito or Tony or Joey or something?”

“The name Larry worked for me back in New York,” he gloated. Then he opened his bureau and, reaching for his wallet, flashed a seemingly endless sea of bills.

“I could make a lot more back in NYC but there’s also a lot more competition. And hell, eight hundred bucks for one night ain’t bad, huh?”

We lit up again.

“You know,” he continued to ponder in one of his rare, less erratic moments, “I bet we could sell ourselves as a tag team and make some serious dough. There’s a lot of lonely guys out there looking for a dynamic duo like us. Hell, we could pass ourselves off as brothers. Shit, now that would be some gimmick.”

All I kept thinking was how I would make the Guinness Book of Records for the oldest guy to have the balls to attempt to sell his bod on Rentboy.

“Yea, but aren’t most of these guys looking to get fucked? I mean, how can you perform if you’re …?”

Mitch shrugged his usual arrogant Manhattan shrug.

“Oh, I’m a total top to my johns but I tell them that, after all, I am 42 and sometimes the Snake ain’t up for biting, and they’re content to get fingered fucked or have me shove a dildo up their ass just as long as they can feel all this fur of mine against them.”

He stroked himself, then seamlessly moved his hand ever so lightly up my abs to my chest and looked me straight in the eye. “That’s why I know we could be a winning team.”

A few days later a far more frantic Mitch called me.

“Can you do me a favor?” he pleaded. “Can you loan me $50 so I can get to my parents? They’ll give me some dough once I’m up there and I’ll pay you right back.”

“But what happened to all that money you showed me the other night?”

“Ah, those fuckin’ Indians stole it all,” referring to the poker tables at the casino the Seminole Indians ran in Hollywood, “and my last two johns were no-shows.”

Suddenly the Daddy in me creeped out.

“But Mitch, you gotta get your shit together. You’re an intelligent adult. You know that.”

“I know, I know – I will…” he replied, more to pacify me than attempt any moment of self-realization. “You’re beginning to sound like my father who keeps telling me to check out Gamblers Anonymous.”

I stuck twenty dollars in the mailbox, enough to fill the tank of his compact, and woke up to the reality that he was beyond redemption. That was about the only reason why I hadn’t fallen in love with him I kept telling myself, right?

I was just about ready to leave for L.A. Fitness the following afternoon when Mitch, unannounced, showed up in my driveway.

I told you I’d pay you back,” he said, laying the twenty dollar bill on my kitchen counter.

I never did get to the gym that day.

Final chapter Wednesday …

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