Another Bijou

Yesterday's trip down memory lane made me think of another Bijou I've visited in the past: Chicago's Bijou Theater, a dirty movie house/cruisy gloryhole maze/clothes-on bathhouse where I've had more than a few good times.

In 2002 I wrote the following entry about it, when I visited the place with my friend Matt. Enjoy it, while I'm on the road in Toronto!

At the intersection of Wells and Goethe--the latter seems appropriate somehow--is an old one-story garage built, I'm guessing, sometime around 1925. The outside is all white polished stone, while heraldic emblems and Notre Dame-like gargoyles thickly cluster around the top of the facade. There are some tame birds staring blankly away from each other, and some unremarkable lions roaring from shields. The real stars of the garage's architecture, however, are the animals sitting at the bottom of the pillars at eye level: rabbits and monkeys, their eyes wide and plainly terrified of something. But of what? Horseless carriages? The humans walking by? Both species have their paws stuffed in their mouths, as if gnawing on their fingernails. I love those monkeys.

Jutting down over the centers of the garage door openings are gargoyles of a store. With their long necks and their dog-like faces, they remind me an awful lot of the sock puppet that used to be the spokesman for pets.com.

Near the garage is a bar we occasionally visit when we're in town. The last time I was there I got picked up by a guy I've talked about for the three years since; he looked like Bob Villa of This Old House save that he's twenty years younger, leaner, and pretty basically all muscle and fur. "What do you think the chances are you'll see your Bob Villa guy again?" Matt asked as we walked past the sock puppet gargoyles.

"Probably about the same as being struck twice by lightning," I told him.

Remind me not to go out in thunderstorms. Scarcely did I get there when I saw a fellow with salt and pepper hair and a matching beard and eyes that skewered me when I walked in. I took a swig of my Pepsi and he yanked his head back to motion me into a back room. "That's Bob Villa guy," I told Matt.

"No way!"

I followed and saw him standing in the furthest back corner, hips jutted out to the side and his hands in his pockets.

I didn't think he'd remember me, but the first thing he growled was "Fucker, it's been too long since I saw you last."

The only thing I could really say was "Uh-huh," because scarcely were the words out of his mouth than he proceeded to strip out of all his clothes. Then he pulled off my belt and yanked down my jeans. I wasn't wearing anything underneath. On my own I pulled the front of my henley shirt over my head. So there he was, beautiful body displayed for everyone in the back room to see, wearing nothing but his boots, while I was mostly naked save for the shirt hiked back around my neck and my Doc Martens.

Did we ever put on a show. Sexually it was pretty mild--mostly we made out, chewed on each other's nipples, and sucked while barking out orders and appreciative comments to each other. But it was sweatin', growlin', swearin', pullin', chewin', gropin', butt-slappin' stuff. The scene could've been filmed for porn. Convincingly aggressive though it was, it was obvious to both of us that neither of us took it too seriously. I think we're both pretty much hams.

We did a lot of it, though, and we did it in front of a highly appreciative crowd of about fifteen or eighteen guys crowding around to watch at any given time. I emerged about forty-five minutes later, a sheepish grin on my face. "Jeez," Matt said, shaking his head and pretending not to grin. "Are you like that all the time?"

"I couldn't help it," I told him. "I just like that Bob Villa guy."

The funniest part of the evening came after several members of my audience helped me get dressed again. I was crossing the room when I passed a guy on his knees kneeling between the legs of another guy. He was holding his cell phone to his ear with one hand and working on his trick's cock with the other. Despite all the juggling he was doing, he beckoned me over and began playing with my dick, too.

"Listen, honey," he was saying into the phone with an impatient voice. "I'll be home in a few minutes." A pause. "I'm out, that's where I am." Another pause. "None of your fucking business. I'm just out." Another pause. "God damn, woman, I'll get home when I get home. Jesus Christ, can't a guy just come home a little late from work?" Still he pumped away with his other hand. When he wasn't speaking, his mouth was slurping on my dick. "Fuck, stop calling me. I'm hanging up now. I'll get home when I get home."

Immediately after the wayward husband ended the call, the other guy shot all over him. The guy cleaned it off of himself with a hand and shook it onto the floor so he could suck me off as well. He'd just hit the base of my dick when the phone chimed again. "God damn it!" he yelled into the receiver after punching the button savagely. "Just go ahead and eat without me!"