My Life As A Gay Man – The Series: 1969, My Days in L.A. and Jordan, Part 3
Tommie went in drag, (frankly, he looked better as a woman), me, basic butch, tight T, worn jeans, work boots, and no underwear. We grabbed a cab and went straight into the mountains just left of that big Hollywood sign icon, on ribbony roads to Reese’s place, a modest clapboard house that just happened to have a million dollar view of the City below.
Reese was dressed up as Harpo Marx – she didn’t need a wig to pull it off – and the rest of the crowd, just about all guys, paired off, young with old, were a mixed bag of Wizard of Oz costume test rejects. Reese seemed even happier than me about Weinstein’s miracle and offered me a couple of drags on her reefer. Looking back now, I’m surprised I didn’t cough my lungs out. It was the first time I had ever tried anything stronger than Black Beauties, the speed we college kids took to get through all the work, but that first reefer was a walk in the park compared to the crystal meth I would be shooting up decades later.
While Tommie got plastered on the free liquor, Reese led a somewhat hornier me out to the deck. Jordan, dressed as Dracula, had been sitting all this time in the corner, looking out at the City. A thick mat of black chest hair stuck out of his half open ruffled shirt; my young cock stirred.
“You know, I told you I’d help you with your roommate situation,” she said, nodding over to a bald headed guy, dressed in a Roman toga. He reminded me of Ernie, the deli-man whose place was just down the street from where we lived in Jersey and who my nicotine addicted mother ordered me to buy cigs from early in the morning before I left for school.
“His house – it’s gorgeous, believe me, he even has a pool and a sauna,” she went on, “and he’s just a few minutes from the college. Plus,” as if to sweeten the pot, “You can use his second car, an Audi, any time you want.”
I tried to hide my bewildered look but it didn’t work. And to think years later I would be a rentboy, with men putting a stack of twenties on the bureau just to have sex with me.
“Look,” reading this kid’s wet-behind-the ears reaction, “all he wants is some companionship, dinner, theater, and well, anything beyond that is your call.”
I told her I’d sleep on it and took the opportunity, as she went back to my prospective “house mate” and fill him in on the status of negotiations, to grab the empty seat next to Jordan.
“So promising you the car still didn’t ace the deal?” he said in a deep guttural voice. The pain that had etched his face the same way it had at Arthur J’s or in class momentarily disappeared.
What could I say?
“She’s doing it for me, you know,” he continued, gesturing to all the April-October pair-offs in various stages of undress that littered the house and deck. “My disability check from the Military, even when they throw in money for school, doesn’t go that far, and Reese doesn’t have the patience for waitressing. Our queer uncle, he worked for one of the studios, left us this house and the Fiat and a few bucks but it’s only a matter of time before we’ll need to sell everything.”
“So Reese isn’t your girlfriend.”
Jordan laughed. “I know, people think that all the time. She’s my sister.”
“And – forgive me for being nosey …” I glanced nervously down to his legs.
Jordan laughed again.
“I’m a living example – well, an almost living example – of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He had been in Vietnam, had actually volunteered, being the all-American basketball star in high school back in Detroit. Right after graduation, he was one of the first guys from his class to enlist. Sure, it was tough, much tougher than he had ever imagined once he got there, but it was his duty, he had been brainwashed enough by his dad and school and friends to believe that.
He was at a military hospital for observation – they thought he might have malaria – when the Viet Cong bombed the place. His ward was the epicenter, the bunk next to his ground zero, only he survived – minus his legs, both legs from the above the knee down. But he vowed from the moment the doctors told him he would live that he would never settle for a wheel chair existence and would walk with prostheses and crutches if it killed him.
By now the place had cleared, Tommie fast asleep on the floor. Jordan asked me to help him to the bedroom. Reese had been working the room but watching us the whole time.
Jordan, leaning on my shoulder, led the way – I tried to fight my instant hard-on by thinking of my boarding house bitch – and was positioning Jordan into bed when Reese came in and shut the door, pushing in the lock on the knob. I stood and watched as she removed Jordan’s shirt and pants, then unstrapped his artificial legs, and began unraveling the bandages, stained with pus and blood and sweat, then re-wrapped each stump tenderly as a mother would her newborn.
But all I could focus on was the rich black hair that covered his chest and abs and thighs, and the biggest cock, hard and majestic, I had ever seen yet on a naked man.
Jordan thrust himself up onto the pillow and gestured to me to come over and suck him off.
“Remember our little symbiotic relationship?” Reese said just before she left us alone in the room, “Well, now we’re even.”
Between working on his cock, I relished in Jordan’s dark fur as he did in mine. I had had hairy guys before, but no one as luxurious as Jordan who, as a fellow furry man, knew the rare sensuality his palm slowly grazing my chest ignited throughout my body and my cock.
All the while, his bandaged stumps lay beneath my arms, but I didn’t freak out as I imagined some guys might. Nor should I have. What I never ended up telling Jordan was that I grew up in a house with a grandfather who had lost his arm from the elbow down in a factory accident. And most of the time, he walked around with what was left of his arm in full view. About the only time he wore his heavy black leather prosthetic which was just for looks was Sunday for Church and often I helped him strap it on.
Jordan asked if he could fuck me, and while I had never tried it before, I wanted so much to please this furry man. I wet his cock up with my mouth and then, gently positioning my butt on his crotch, with only his stumps to support my weight, waited as he tried to thrust those hard nine inches into my furry virgin butthole. But it was too much for me and that moment left me with fuckee-phobia that has lasted me to this day but that I often credit for saving my life in the era of AIDS.
He didn’t seem miffed though, and gladly welcomed me swallowing his load, and then beckoned me up to shove my throbbing cock in his mouth and take mine.
A week later, we decided to play at a cheap motel near campus, so Reese wouldn’t know. She never came out and said it but I could tell she was annoyed I hadn’t paired off with Toga Man.
Jordan was sprawled on the bed when I walked in, pants off and shirtless, still in his boxer shorts, his phony legs on the floor and one crutch leaning on the bed. It was his afternoon for therapy at the VA – and Reese was in class.
“Yea, she’s pissed off at you. I know you wouldn’t do it – told her, too. But Gabby – that’s the guy she was trying to pair you off with – he wasn’t too happy. You see, he likes short, cute, hairy guys.”
Then he grabbed me by the neck and pulled me down.
“Guess he’s not the only one.”
“You stink,” I laughed.
Jordan sniffed his armpits. “This is the day they give me my bath. You know, I can’t leave here without one. Otherwise…”
After I took his load down my throat – I was proud how I didn’t gag on his manmeat as I had that first night – we stumbled together, both naked, to the bathtub. I climbed in first, then carefully lowered Jordan in with me. I slowly scrubbed him down and then we just sat there, tangled and wet in the water, Jordan’s stumps cradled in my armpits, pissing over one another and into the tub just to keep it warm a little while longer.
We soon became such regulars at Star Brite Motel that the young queen behind the desk made it a point to keep our room – number 23 – open just for us.
Monday: More Jordan