Earl made love to me on Thursday, August 16, 1977. I remember the exact date because it was the day Elvis Presley died. We found out watching TV in Earl's bed, our arms entangled together with a pink rose colored bed sheet draped over our sweaty and cum stained loins. Elvis was dead we were told.
We stared in silence at the screen filled with images of thinner rock idol in days gone by. I was no big Elvis fan, so his death seemed just another passing event. What I always remember from this day was not a dead Elvis but what Earl and I did. It was the first time a man-made love to me. It was just a month after my wedding.
I had met Earl two years before in an acting class just after I graduated from college in California with no idea of what do with myself. He was 32, I was 24. Earl had watery pale green eyes that always seemed to be on the verge of tears. With a bushy mustache and short cropped brown hair with strands that lapped over his right eyebrow, I couldn't help but think that he looked like a distant cousin of Adolph Hitler. All he needed was a swastika armband and brown shirt to complete the family resemblance.
Earl ran a dry-cleaning story and said he had always wanted to act but wasn't really good at it. He said he took acting classes to be creative. I think he did it to pick up men.
I hooked up with my then wife around the same time. She had dark hair and a buxom figure that attracted the constant stares of men Earl knew about her, but she did not know about him.
Up to this point, I was searching for an identity as well as a career. Both seemed to be vacant, empty lots. My identity, sexual or otherwise, could only be listed as unknown.
"You're like me," Earl told me one day after class as we sat in my beaten-up spruce green Toyota Corolla.
"What do you mean?"
"You're sensitive. You're kind and ...."
"And what?"
"You're like me," he said.
I would often follow Earl to his place in the Hollywood Hills, off Topanga Canyon Boulevard. It was a two-bedroom house with a row of windows in the front looking out over the downhill landscape of manicured brush and imported Eucalyptus trees. We sat and talked and drank vodka tonics and sloe gin fizzes. We talked art and acting and life. I did feel I was with someone that was... like me.
I don't know what I felt toward Earl. It wasn't love or lust even. I wasn't even attracted to his body, a simple, unadorned piece of muscle and bone that was thin and mostly shapeless. But just knowing someone wanted me kept me going to his house.
"Come on. You like men, don't you? Admit it. You like men. Men can give you more than any woman," Earl would say.
I didn't like certain men. I didn't like beer drinking males drowning in a sea of testosterone. I had nothing in common with them. I didn't call women pussy or cunts. I didn't whistle or tell them to sit on my face. I didn't count aloud how many women I fucked. I hadn't fucked that many, anyway.
I also didn't like men who listened to Judy Garland records or drooled over Liza Minnelli or collected pictures of Marilyn Monroe with her white dress air blown above a New York subway grail. I didn't call another man 'honey.' I didn't like men who stared at me too long with soft blue eyes.
I never chased men. I chased women, and some of them chased me. What I did know was that being hunted felt better than hunting. If there was anything I wanted, it was to be among the hunted.I knew Earl wanted me. I played with him like a coquettish tart plays with an incensed john. I egged him on with each long look I gave. I promised him everything with those looks. I gave him nothing.
He wanted me to leave my wife.
"Come live here with me," he said, even though we had never touched.
I was fucking my wife, but it didn't stop me from being with Earl. Each time I thought I would never go back to see Earl; I did go back. My dick would get hard as I drove away from his house, thinking about what he would do to me. What would he do to me? I didn't really know.
On the day Elvis died, I went to Earl's house. I called in sick to my job at Los Angeles record store since I was making no money as an actor and got there to his place got there around 9 am. Early as it was, he fixed me a vodka tonic. I took a few sips, and it wasn't long before my head began to spin. My blood felt hot, boiling. My arms felt heavy, immovable. My heart felt huge, ready to burst through my chest. I looked down and saw my cock. It has huge and hard through my pea-stained khaki slacks. I had pissed in my pants. As wet as my groin was and now the piss was dripping down both legs, I felt a tingling sensation with each drop of piss that flowed.
I often measured my dick when I was alone. It was always six inches; no matter how determined I was to make it longer. I thought it seemed too short to make any woman happy. Now with Earl, it looked six feet long.
At some point, I could see myself from above the room. I looked down and saw that I was naked sitting on a bed. Earl was naked. His hands pushed me down on the mattress and his mouth was on my cock.
Earl's tongue was licking my shaft like a child's lollipop. Then he took my balls between his teeth. I stared at his head lost in pleasure. I laid my head down and closed my eyes.
"Here lift up," he said.
Earl grabbed the back of my head with one hand and held a black little bottle of liquid up to my nose.
"Breathe deep."
"Okay."
