That my mentor was Jay, an HIV-positive hustler,
known for his big, uncut Puerto Rican dick
featured with a sense of humor in his tight Speedo’s
who looked out for me and loved me like a kid brother
That I used to get picked up regularly by a pedophile
who would drive me around in his car
sharing stories about how he fucked his daughters
Never asking me to do anything
just listen while he parked and jerked off
That I would sometimes sleep underneath these cars
at the West Side Highway piers when it rained
using a tee shirt I bought with my first hustler money
with an image of Dorothy in New York City saying,
“Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore!”
as a bundled up pillow to rest my head and dream on
That a married, closeted man with children
turned to cry and wouldn’t let me touch him
as he stood with his back to me in his underwear
making me feel disgusting about myself
That a trick once peed in my mouth
and made me swallow
before making me lick his boots
and held me tenderly in his arms all night
That an older man with a huge cock
(then again, I was sixteen so they were all older)
fucked me bareback in a tiny booth at a bookstore—
left me sore and bleeding with hemorrhoids
unable to get it up the ass and hustle for weeks
That I once picked up a trick
who thought he was a vampire
bit my cheeks, tore into the skin until they bled
and sent me back to the piers—bruised and swollen
forced to wear bandages with no health insurance
went back to visit my mother on Mother’s Day
told her I had been jumped and broke her heart
That once, in ’88, a stoned black man
stood staring at me early one morning for hours
never approaching me with the sorrow in his eyes
Days later, his picture all over newspaper covers—
he had been Jean-Michel Basquiat, a famous artist
who speed-balled to death
That sometimes I actually fell for these men
imagined them being my savior
with nothing more than a comfortable bed to sleep in,
a good breakfast in the morning, a grateful smile
and a few dead Presidents in my pocket
That these were my fucked up formative years
and these men stood in for my father figures
I propose a toast to every single one of them
because none of us ever imagined
that I would be writing about them someday
full of love, life and laughter
Copyright © 2010 by Emanuel Xavier
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