Blind Items

During the last couple of weeks, I've had a famous artist in my very own field wooing me. When I say 'famous,' I'm perhaps exaggerating slightly. I could mention his name (and I won't) to five hundred people, and only perhaps one would say, "Oh yeah, isn't that the guy who did . . . ?" before pausing to supply a finish to that sentence.

Let's just say he's famous to me, and that you could find him on Wikipedia, and have done with it.

I'm more amused by the courtship than anything. He'll text me messages out of the blue, hot and heavy for a few hours at a time, like It's a great day to be backing up my ass to a big-dicked buddy, or I keep looking at your pics and I can't get any work done!, or Who's your agent? Then he'll promise he'll be taking me out to dinner when he gets back to the city, and I'll not hear from him again for several days.

My reaction to the sporadic attention is something along the lines of the owner of a precocious puppy who shamelessly does tricks to attract tummy-rubs from random strangers—only I'm the owner and the puppy, both. I'm both shameless, and I roll my eyes with amused tolerance at my own behavior. It's useless to try to claim I'm not a would-be starfucker. Apparently when the chips are down and there's a big name knocking at my door, I'm tossing it wide open, just so I can say I have. I know other friends who've bagged a lot of celebrities. Just discussing them makes me sound like a gossip columnist launching into his juicy bag of blind items. One very old close real-life friend did that double-Academy-Award-winning actor in the back of a limousine, when my friend was a Hollywood hustler. He also was involved for a hot minute with that other actor everyone knows about, who was hot back in the day. (I've seen the signed cards, people!)

Then that action-movie actor who had rumors swirling around him in the late nineteen-eighties that disappeared when he developed a professional career as a family man, both on and off the screen? I had another friend from college for whom the actor was a houseboy for a year and a half. And by 'houseboy' I mean the then-aspiring actor would go to my friends house and give him his dick. (I've seen the photos for that one, too. No, not of the dick.)

Sadly, I can only claim two celebrity fucks in my long sexual career. One of them isn't even a celebrity—he was a contestant on a competitive reality show, and although there might be a certain contingent of people who would recognize his name and exclaim, "Oh, he was so cuuuute!" when they learned I used to fuck him in when he was in high school, most of those people would also feel guilty about admitting they watch the show, afterward.

The other celebrity fuck, though—now his name you'd recognize. (And no. I won't be divulging it.) The only thing is that he only became famous a few years after I did him.

It happened in Toronto in 1998, at the old St. Marc's bathhouse. The St. Marc's was on the second floor of a commercial building on Yonge Street—I think it's changed hands and names since then. It was grungy, and run down, and in some spots had surfaces that seemed to defy antibacterials. But in the days before Toronto had its own Steamworks, the St. Marc was one of the better places to go. The action was good. The men were generally hot. And it had a couple of rooms with built-in gloryholes that opened onto a dark maze that could be rented for a few extra bucks.

I was wearing nothing but a towel and a pair of flip-flops and walking around the dark hallways, being obsessive about not touching anything made out of flesh, when I saw a versatile top guy I knew down the hall. I visited Toronto a lot, back in those days; the top and I had connected at the Bijou a couple of visits before. I'd been back to his place for a three-way at one point, and I was never surprised to see him haunting the same baths and clubs where I'd go to play. I nodded and was preparing to say hello to him when he grabbed my bicep, leaned over, and murmured a room number in my ear. "A-maaaaa-zing ass in there, taking all comers. Just go in and fuck it."

I thanked him for the tip. "Hey," he said, grabbing me again before I could take his advice. "You'll think this is funny: the kid's got a famous boyfriend." Then he named a name that just about everyone would recognize, but that would probably best have been appreciated by my dad.

I went into the room he named and found a guy flat on his back. He wore nothing but a pair of big black chunky leather boots with thick hiking socks poking out of the tops. Standard hardcore fuck gear for the late nineties. He was a bottle blond at the time, and only in his mid-twenties (an age to which he's been attempting to cling ever since). A couple of things about his face gave him the appearance of being handsome: his sweeping, thick eyebrows, and his big, broad smile. I saw a flash of the latter when I stepped into his door and opened my towel. He grinned at me, then turned over and raised his ass into the air.

His eyes were sleepy and slitted, though. When he looked over his shoulder at me and murmured an obscene invitation, I could tell immediately that he was high on something. I didn't care. The guy had a hot body that he obviously spent a lot of time taking care of, and his ass was round and firm. I didn't really give a shit who his boyfriend was. I just wanted that hole. We didn't waste much time in foreplay. This boy just wanted to be fucked. The beds of the St. Marc's were a little higher than average, and I remember I had some difficulty getting onto the narrow mattress with him in order to aim my head at his pucker. Finally, though, I started to work my spit-slick dick inside his hole. Other men's cum leaked out around my shaft when I got it all in. Knowing that this sexy little fuck—and he was little—had been taking anonymous cocks and loads all afternoon made me want to add my own sperm to him, in a big way.

With an open door, I pounded away for a few minutes while he drifted in and out of full awareness, and finally added my own juice to that which was still simmering in his hole. Two other men were lined up and waiting to take my place by the time I was done. I came back again a half-hour later and fucked the pretty boy's face while my top friend took his hole, and then dumped another load in his ass when my friend was done.

To be honest, I would've enjoyed the experience much more if the guy hadn't been so high, and if he'd been more aware of what he was doing and with whom. In those situations, though, you take what you get. Right?

I didn't think anything more about the guy after that day for another year, at least. In 1999, though, I was watching a fairly obscure cable television comedy show when I saw a pair of eyebrows and a big, toothy, gleaming white smile that I recognized. It was that guy from the bathhouse. The bottom whore. And he was substituting for the show's regular host. I was kind of surprised to discover that he had a natural talent for wisecracking affably. After that day, I had a name to associate with the face (and ass). I kept an eye out for him for a while, and wasn't too surprised when he lucked into a high-profile gig only a few years after that.

Would he remember me? Doubtful. I don't think he'd remember anyone from that afternoon. Am I better or better-connected person for having done it? Nah. Though it does make a good story with which to amuse guys in bed.

Am I glad I did it? Oh hell yes. That ass was hot.

(And a special note to any other celebrities who might be considering leaping between my sheets—I promise I'll give a similar thirteen-year moratorium on discussing our tryst in a public forum!)