My eating disorder started rather innocently. A co-work was reading “South Beach Diet” and boasted about how quickly he was shedding the pounds by simply avoiding carbohydrates.
I licked the sour cream with little pieces of scallions from atop my bagel and threw the rest in the waste paper basket next to my desk. I wanted to give it a try. I wasn’t fat. I worked out four days a week, but no matter what, those flabby patches of skin still clung to my body like scabs on wound that slowly heals.
At 29, life in the fast lane slows down for most queers, but I still had a cute face and with a little help from Miss Clairol, the few specks of salty hair could be wiped from my scalp in less than ten minutes.
Willis, my co-worker looked good for a middle-aged Black queen. I have to give him credit for that. I’d never fuck him, but I did take his advice regarding South Beach eating habits. He and his lover were onNew York City’s A-List of powerful and influential homosexuals. The pair were adored in the Big Apple’s gay community because they were the first homosexuals in town to legally adopt a child. They took a needy kid under the roof in the early 1980s when the concept still seemed ungodly.
By the close of the 1990s, Willis and his lover were practically gay celebrities and the authority on the gay adoption process. With the help of the South Beach Diet, Willis shined like a porn star in my eyes and was everything I wanted to be as a gay man when I grew up and turned into an aged fag.
Obviously, even with the charming child who by now had grown into a well behaved, intelligent young my, the long-term adoptive gay relationship between Willis and his long term partner was on shaky ground.
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Willis was a sugar daddy to many young lads, other than his own adopted child, and he did very little to hide his infidelity in the office.
I sat in the secretarial pool and watched as hot, young Latin men made their way into his huge office overlooking the Queensboro Bridge to do lunch with him almost every day. On Monday’s Cesar came by with his phat juicy ass and they closed the door for at least two hours while Willis ate his bean sprouts and tofu. A mixed lad of oriental and black roots was his Friday fix and Willis often left the office to eat with him.
It infuriated me—how he could get away with such inappropriate behavior and still be asked to guest speak at social gatherings in Chelsea and Soho?
Willis was a total bitch to work with, and absolute horror in staff meetings, especially when he offered his financial reports at Board meetings regarding how AIDS funding from the city was being spent to support the disenfranchised of Queens. I suspected that many of the young papi chulos who came by to enjoy South Beach lunches with Willis were being paid with those HIV dollars. After all, Willis was the controller of the charity.
The controlling queen offered some sound advice to my chunky ass though and I remain grateful for his inspiration, as I too took a stroll into the world of the slender and sexy and got a taste of what life is like when the masses worship every ounce of one’s skinny soul.
My disorder began with just a little bit of pain, as one may experience while fasting in religious observance. Coffee was my clutch and I drank it non-stop as the caffeine seemed to curb my desire to have that pastry for breakfast, a slice of pizza at lunch and lots of macaroni and spaghetti dishes for dinner.
I was also saving a ton of money by skipping all those meals.
It never occurred to me that there is a true spiritual side to fasting and a purpose behind punishing our tummies in observance of the all mighty. I never dreamed the ritual would push me over the edge and lead me eventually into the arms of a straight jacket and show me the face of God.
The body is truly a temple designed for worship and I wanted men to fall on their knees in front of me and pray for forgiveness, so I made a decision to stop feeling sorry for myself and my many failed relationships and simply become a hot male slut.
I increased my time at the gym by an hour a day and spent at least 30 minutes on the tread mill running at a significant incline and somehow managed to run three miles in just over twenty minutes.
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I felt so light and free as I would leave the gym after stretching on a yoga mat for over a half hour each day. I’d stop by the deli on my way home to pick up dinner—a pack of salted peanuts for just $. 99.
For the first several weeks I had no sex drive and could care less that I wasn’t getting any. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have any offers at the gym or from men who seemed to salivate for my well toned body with an ass that remained juicy despite the lack of proper nourishment.
I stopped going to gay bars to pick up dudes. I never drank anyway and I hated the smell of smoke in those gay watering holes, despite the fact that I was a pack-a-day puffing Newport queen. The sissies were boring to me in all their desperation. Men in those places are not the marrying type anyway. They’ll buy a cute slender guy as many cocktails as they wish when the promise of a quickie is on the horizon, but after being “had” those free cordials are rarely offered on second dates.
I had a new obsession, my own body, and my seemingly insatiable obsession for finding a wealthy man to settle down with and marry was quenched thanks to the South Beach Diet.
The less I ate the more socially isolated I became. The more I withdrew with my new look and cocky attitude the more offers I had for fast love. I kept running into one night stands and old lovers from my past who took a second look at me and suddenly fell back in love, despite all the heartbreak they had given me back in the days when I was chunky and not so desirable.
“Wow, you look great.
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Have you been working out?”
“As a matter of fact I have, thank you,” I replied while walking on by, refusing to stop and catch up on gossip and offer them a second chance.
The skinner I became, the less sleep I needed. I tossed and turned in my apartment at night, desiring to be noticed by strangers who would long for me as if I were their savior. Working the streets was more fun than a good solid eight hours of shut-eye each night.
I’d jump out of bed at 1 a. m. , lather my body down with Nivea skin firming lotion, throw on a wife-beater tank top and walk the streets searching for more affirmation.
Rather than hang out and absorb the depressed energy of those who frequent bars, I’d found more intriguing and alluring gay places to hang out in.
The bright lights of Time Square called to me like neon lights and crystal balls in the store windows of tarot card readers and clairvoyants. There was something waiting for me there, I just knew it.
All the exercise and my new look had to have a purpose.
I was tired of playing housewife with lovers in the past who had all run off with other men who promised them more. I believed what the Bible had to say about man-on-man relationships and decided that if I couldn’t shake being gay and had to live with the sinful scar of being queer, I may as well go out with a big bang. Afterall, Mary Magdalene was a hooker and Jesus loved her.
I found a bar near Times Square that is widely known as a pick-up spot for wealthy gay John’s eager to drop a few dollars in the pockets of needy gay men.
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Watching the young men who made a living there thrilled me and almost made me hungry again. I loved the fact that patrons of the bar seemed more willing to spend their cash on me than young Latin and Black men at least 18 years younger than I was. Perhaps the fact that I was white, hung and sexy had something to do with it, but I attribute the attention to the energy in the aura of my sleek, toned, ivory body.
It felt godly as I played pool at Stellas night after night, refusing to go home with just anyone. I soaked up the attention like a sponge as wealthy, well read gay men were ready to offer me the world and I declined their forever increasing lucrative offers night after night.
My favorite hustler and the best pool player in the joint was a dude named Lance. His dark black eyebrows touched and formed a single line of hair across his forehead. He stood out from the other available meat for sale at the butcher shop and had a certain sophistication to his approach in dealing with the dirty old men.
He called me ‘Papito’ and single handedly lured me into the dark, underworld of male prostitute with a pick-up line that I found almost irresistible:
“Let me show you da ropes in this joint papito. I cost $300 a load. I don’t get fucked but will shoot as many wads as any ass wants and can afford,” he explained while grabbing his crotch with his big dark hands.
For the first time in months I got an erection when he said that. It seemed as if at that moment, I had turned into a superhero of sorts—a power bottom with the charm of angel and an ego as deviant as Satan. I felt his sexy energy pass right through me, as if he were pounding me with his hot Latin tool right there in public while we still had our clothing on.
That is when I first understood the power of fasting and the reason why we cleanse our body for the spirit to flow comfortably through us.
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Cesear sat on a bar stool and stared me down for at least an hour. His subconscious mind was so powerful. It undressed me as I hid in the corner at a round table and slowly rubbed my crotch wanting him desperately but could not afford it.
Like an adolescent who had not yet discovered the joy of masturbation, I had my first orgasm with my clothes still on, right next to the jukebox inside Stella’s bar.
I smiled at him and his sexy ways and declined the offer to pay him for some fun, although deep inside I wanted to go out with one of the older guys at the bar, make some cash and spend it on the hustler who I was falling madly in love with.
I did just that one evening as the bar was closing at 4 a. m. and Lance and I were the only two young men left in the place. Perhaps Lance was already had by the gentleman who offered me $500 just for a tickling session, but I made the connection that night and left Lance standing out in the cold.
We went to a hotel room at the Milford Plaza. I took of my clothing and my slender body fell upon the soft bed and I waited for the transaction to take place.
“I’m not ticklish,” I advised the stranger.
“That’s okay,” he said. “Just lay there and let me touch you. ”
So I did.
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I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what life had been like for Mary in the Bible as she sold her soul to strangers for coins.
It wasn’t bad at all. I even pretended that I was ticklish a few times and the John rubbed my body over and over again with hands that had held so much sin in their time.
He was a man of his word. He handed me $500 in cash and promised $500 if I would only hold him while he slept.
I thought of Lance and felt dirty for a moment and excused myself from what had just taken place in my life.
.
