My host, an Italian bear an inch shorter than I, ushered me into the dim and bitter-smelling apartment. At my request, he guided me to the bathroom. Would you like a towel? he asked politely; I declined. The bathroom was normal except for the dozens of boxes of Colgate toothpaste that were stacked above the sink. I took a picture for Bambi.
When I joined Antonio in his bedroom, he appraised me, rubbing his hands together and smiling. You’re so gorgeous, he said. I liked him, too. Bald, bearded, muscled, tight-bellied, big-cocked, and uncut, as Europeans tend to be, with an It’s-a-me, Mario-style accent. I should have been in heaven.
But then he kept talking. Though I like verbal as a rule, I was disappointed to discover that Antonio’s fantasies were scat-centric—not my cup of tea. He really got off on the idea of shitting in my pussy, or of me shitting on his face, or of him shitting in my mouth, god bless him. You dirty bitch, Antonio said, gently squeezing my arms. He talked about me fucking a dog, too, though with his rapid, uncertain English, the narrative was hard to follow.
Sweating, unfocused, Antonio kept moving his body and changing the subject, introducing a new scenario or position every other minute while struggling to stay hard. Great, I thought. Drugs, and he didn’t even offer me any. But I didn’t leave. I enjoy this kind of person, the kind that is so distracted that one is essentially alone in their presence.
Maybe it wasn’t drugs. It was hot outside, but the sweat on Antonio’s skin smelled like fear. His chest hair curled, wet and pungent, under my fingers. I love your nipples, I attempted, having given up any pretense of keeping pace with him. They were just long enough to betray themselves, a little pointed, rising from his chest hair like tree stumps from black fog. Like his apartment, his body smelled sharp and bitter, with an undercurrent of saccharine, the accord of cheap fragrance, molded walls, dusty pillows, Gun Oil, and the clean but perspirant faggot who loved pussy, he told me, loved girls like me, had had all the girls or, sorry, boys like me, but why were they all so flaky, so afraid of Antonio?
I mean, I understand, he said. It’s hard to meet people on Grindr. But they so nervous. They say they come and then they don’t come. I wondered how many t boys had picked up on the scat thing before they actually came over.
I’m complaining, but I liked Antonio, liked listening to his stories. He seemed unable to decide if he wanted to fuck or unburden himself, so we awkwardly cycled between both. He had been living in New York for 25 years, he told me. Before the pandemic, he worked in hotels—Trump hotels, actually, which he said like he was making a confession—but after lockdown, he began escorting so he wouldn’t have to go into an office every day. He hated it. Clients were flaky yet constantly calling, trying to get him to go all the way Downtown, and his friends with straight jobs judged him, not that they could ever hang out, anyway, with the hours Antonio kept.
The solution seemed obvious to me. Why don’t you just make friends with other hookers? I asked.
Eh, he said, grimacing. They’re catty! He threw his wrist in a way that reminded me of an uncle I don’t talk to anymore.
I thought about the toothpaste boxes. Bambi would have a good laugh about that, I was sure. If only they could see me now, rolling my eyes while my date rambled about Great Danes and his rent-controlled apartment. For all his talk about loving t boys, Antonio didn’t know what to do with pussy. Typical. The only way he could stay hard was by avoiding eye contact with me and talking about shit, his own hand on his cock. We fucked for a little bit—Bambi would want to know what else Antonio was hoarding, I thought, would demand that I do a tour of the apartment to take more photos of weird stuff—and then he asked to shit in my mouth.
No, I said, laughing. His cock was thick at the base, but tapered considerably at the top.
I understand, Antonio said. He was serious, almost apologetic. I never done any of the stuff I talk about. Not even taste my own cum.
I felt no need to hide my laughter from him; I don’t think he noticed. He was so lost in himself, so high or whatever. It’s strange, but thinking about it now turns me on, even though I was anything but during our date, and I knew for sure I’d never be coming back.
When it was time to leave, I wished he hadn’t escorted me down the long, shadowy entryway. With its scent of ancient summers and hard sweat, it had the air of a haunted mineshaft, and Bambi would have liked to see the creepy, homemade-seeming oil paintings.
At the door, Antonio seized my waist and kissed me. I stepped into the hall and put on my sunglasses.
Oh, you look so good. So very good, he said, laughing as he closed the door.
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David Davis