Busted in Druid Hill Park

A vintage photograph of Druid Hill Park.

A casual acquaintance “Jaleel” called me a week or so ago, all upset.

“Come get your cousin,” he said. “He is fucking up.”

Jaleel was dating”Edgar,” a dark-skinned bottom whose family comes from the same town as my Mom. He also has the same last name as my mother’s family so we jokingly call each other cousin although we have not proven the connection.

“Oh, no Jaleel, what did he do?” But deep down I already knew. Edgar. who was married to a woman but divorced several years ago, is a dick hound. I mean, that guy would fuck a tree if someone attached a dildo to it.

“Immanuel, I really tried to make this work,” Jaleel said. “I took him out on dates, cooked for him, and even paid for comedy club tickets. But he is still keeps fucking around on me. I’ve had enough.”

Jaleel explained what happened. He had planned to take Edgar on a date on Friday night but Edgar begged off, claiming he was fighting a cold and wanted to sleep in. So Jaleel went out to Club Bunns, where DJ Thommy Davidson spins house music every Friday night and people dance until the walls sweat.

“I happened to take a break from dancing and looked on Jack’d on my phone and it said Edgar was just a mile away,” Jaleel said. “That made no sense because he lives eight miles out of town.”

Jaleel guessed Edgar was nearby at Druid Hill Park, a notorious cruising spot. People are known to go there and fuck in the bushes, on park benches, damn even the pitching mound of the baseball field.

“I drove over and saw his car and walked through the trees and there he was,” Jaleel said. “So I hid in the brush and just watched and he was doing stuff you wouldn’t believe.”

That piqued my curiosity. I wanted the dirty details.

“What was he doing, Jaleel?”

“That black motherfucker was on his knees sucking three and four dude’s dicks and bending over and taking dick up his ass — raw! I couldn’t believe that shit.”

Jaleel walked back to his car. He meant to just leave a note on Edgar’s car saying he got caught. But his anger got the best of him and he went back and confronted him in the darkness of the park.

“Bitch, I see your ass out here. It’s over. Fuck you. And here is the jacket you bought me. Give it to one of these niggers you fucking in the park.”

And despite the chilly weather Jaleel stripped off his jacket, threw it at a surprised Edgar’s feet, and stalked off.

Jaleel is handsome, a stylish dresser, owns his home and his nice as can be.

“You can do better than Edgar although I know it hurts.”

“Yeah, you are right Immanuel. Thanks for listening to me. I really needed to vent.”

And I hung up the phone.

And would you believe it wasn’t two hours later before Edgar hit me up on Adam4Adam trying to get some dick.

Picking Up Trade

NY Knicks baller J.R. Smith. The guy we picked up looked somewhat like him.

He was hanging outside of the “Drinkery,” a gay bar on West Read Street, a few months ago. Just standing in the silvery glow of a street lamp.

My partner “Van” and I were parking at the Drinkery, running in to get a quick nightcap on a Friday night. He saw us and called over.

“Hey handsome. What’s up with you?”

“Hey I’m good.”

“Are you looking? I can go home with you.”

“I already have a dude,” I said. “And he is right here.”

So Van and I went inside and didn’t pay him no more mind. But when we came out about an hour later he was still there. And very insistent.

So I turned to Van and said, “Why not? Let’s take him home.”

Dude was handsome. Brown-skinned and about five feet 10. Nice chest. Nice arms. Tatted up. About 30 years old. Thuggish as hell. He might be nice to play with.

So I drove and I put him in the passenger seat and Van sat in the backseat. That way if he acted up we could grab him from two sides and whip his ass.

On the way home he bragged about how big his dick was and how good he was at sex.

And he told us a little bit of his story. He had just broke up with his girlfriend  because she found out he liked to fuck everything on two legs, including dudes. He had several kids.

I think he had even gone to prison. He might have even been on parole, living in a cheap hotel. He sounded high, or drunk or both.

We thought he wanted to play for free but he soon made it clear he was escorting.

So we negotiated the price for his services. — $80 for a threesome. I pulled over at the Royal Farms on the way home to get the money out of the ATM.

When we got him back to my spot we had to tell him to shush because he was still running his mouth like crazy. He was so loud the neighbors could hear.

I took a shower and he pulled off his clothes and hopped in with me. He wanted to get down and suck my dick or have me suck his dick under the warm water but hell we picked him off the streets — there was no way we were going to play with him without a condom.

We finally got him in bed. But he kept jabbering away, probably because he was still high.

And his dick was not as big as he claimed. And it didn’t get hard. And then he threw his muscular, brown legs up in the air and asked us to eat his ass.

The proceedings stopped. No way were we going to pay to service him. We were paying him to have good sex with us. And it was obvious he was not so good at this escorting thing.

So I got up and pulled on my gym shorts and said I would drive him back to the Drinkery.

He got mad. “I really need the money. You said $80.”

“$80 for what?”

I glanced over at Van. We could fuck this nigger up if we wanted but I was not messing up my house.

“Look, I’ll give you $40 for your time. But you gotta go. I will drive you.”

“Nah, that’s okay. I’ll walk.”

And we escorted him out the door, shut it behind him, and turned on the alarm.

Now every time I go to the Drinkery I look to see if he is hanging around outside. But I haven’t seen him since.


Jordan the Bisexual

Photo courtesy of Alternet

Photo courtesy of Alternet

I was out running errands today and ran across Jordan when I stopped at a light near the Horseshoe Casino in Baltimore.

Jordan, a slight, young black man with a pecan complexion, was pacing back and forth at the intersection of Russell Street as if he was waiting for a cab or Uber.

Several times he made eye contact with me. Then he crossed the street in front of me and I thought he moved on. But then I heard a knock on my passenger side window. It was him.

I rolled down the glass. Cold air rushed in.

“Are we near the Inner Harbor,” he asked.

“Yes, it’s about a mile away — that way,” I said, pointing to the north.

“Look I need a ride. Can I pay you $10 to take me over there.”

It was the opposite way I had to go to drop my car off at the shop for a repair. But he seemed like a nice kid and he was so small I could easily whip his ass if he got frisky.

“Okay, I’ll give you a ride but don’t come in here and try any shit. And I don’t need your $10.”

“Aww, cool,” he said, laughing.

During the ride he explained his situation. He was 25 years old and from Minneapolis and had been living in Baltimore only a year but loved it. He had been gambling at the casino and lost some money and was ready to go home.

But for some reason he didn’t have a ride (I never got a clear answer) and his girl was mad at him because she found out he was still fucking his ex-girlfriend. In fact, the ex-girlfriend had sent his current girl some compromising photos showing she had screwed him at their place.

“Jordan, man you are going to have to pick which one you want,” I said. “You can’t play two women like that.”

“Or maybe if you are open and honest with them they may be willing to share you — you know some women are doing that now,” I said jokingly.

“Well, they both mean so much to me,” he said, a frown darkening his handsome face. “I would hate to give up either one.”

He was silent awhile.

“Well you know I’m bisexual too.”

I had gotten a gay vibe from him from the way he looked me in the eye. And from the corner of my eye I think I saw him rubbing his crotch and side eyeing me.

So I didn’t miss a beat. “Well, I’m gay but I was married to a woman and I understand.”

“Oh, okay, thanks,” he said.

“How long you been doing dudes,” I ventured.

“About a year,” he said. “I just find them so much easier than dealing with women, especially them two I got.”

I didn’t say anything. I knew that wasn’t necessarily true.

“Hey can I have your number,” Jordan asked.

I wrote my number down on a piece of paper  as I dropped him off at the corner of Pratt and Light Street.

“I’m going to text you right away so I can keep up with you,” he said.

The thought of my partner “Van” and I turning out this handsome, tender  young chicken was appealing. My dick was already getting hard.

However, deep down inside I knew he wasn’t going to text — there are prostitutes and hustlers hanging around the casino and he probably thought I was an easy mark that didn’t pan out.

And he didn’t.


Broke Back Mountain Baltimore Style


Black steelworkers. Photo courtesy of ITVS.org.

Baltimore’s economy today is fueled by universities, state government, hospitals and Under Armour sportswear.

But not too long ago this Rust Belt City was heavily industrial, filled with factories and hulking smokestacks.

An acquaintance, “Kenny,” told me about how he hooked up with a long term sex partner back in the 70s when Baltimore was still a city of industry.

Kenny was married with kids and worked at a Bethlehem Steel plant in Sparrows Point. The job was hot and gritty and dirty so workers showered in the locker room before changing back into street clothes and going home.

Kenny befriended another married man on his shift named “Omar.” For some reason, although Omar worked on a different team, he always made excuses to shower the same time as Kenny.

They would banter and joke back and forth, talking about sports or whether Lola Falana was hotter than Jayne Kennedy or “Sanford and Son” was a funnier TV show than “That’s My Mama!” Omar would never rush to put on his clothes and would stand naked talking to Kenny, acting  as natural as can be.

For years Kenny knew he was attracted to woman and men. So he didn’t mind getting a chance to look at Omar’s tall, dark, lean body and his long dick, all glistening and wet from the shower.

Soon they started sharing rides with each back in the city. Omar would brag about his past sexual conquests with women, rubbing and grabbing his crotch to make his point. Kenny would be so turned on he could barely look at Omar — his palms would sweat as he tightly held the steering wheel.

Then one day it happened.

“You want to play with this dick, don’t you?” Omar asked.

“You know, yeah I do,” Kenny answered.

And he pulled over the car on a dark side street in West Baltimore, leaned over, pulled Omar’s dick out of his pants and sucked it.

Soon Omar and Kenny were hooking up every week or every other week.

“We were fucking like rabbits — I loved taking that big dick,” Kenny said.

Since they worked at the steel plant at night it was easy to hook up. Their wives worked during the day and the kids were at school so they had either house to themselves.

“It was like a relationship,” Kenny said. “Since we both worked at the same plant it was easy because we could socialize together with our families. He knew my wife and I knew his wife.”

This went on for years. They only had one close call when Omar’s wife came home from work unexpectedly during the day and almost caught them fucking.

Today the men are in their sixties. They are just friends now — they haven’t had sex in several years. Omar is still with his wife while Kenny divorced his wife and is out.

“There was a whole lot of gay sex going on back in the day,” Kenny said. “You just kept things more quiet.”





Now my whole high school class will know I’m gay

The Woodberry Kitchen in Baltimore. Constance and her husband were seated at a bar table in the center and our party was at a table to the right, right under them.

The Woodberry Kitchen in Baltimore. Constance and her husband were seated at a bar table in the center and our party was at a table to the right, right under them.

This week my partner “Van” celebrates his birthday and we rushed home from South Carolina on Sunday to get the celebration started with a  brunch with friends at Woodberry Kitchen, one of our favorite restaurants in Baltimore.

We were waiting on our table when I glanced across the room and there was “Constance,” a woman  I have known since we were in sixth grade. She was having brunch with her husband, a retired professional football player.

“Shit,” I thought. “Of all people I got to run into I have to run into Constance.”

Let me tell you why. Constance, who today is an instructor at a community college, is a busybody and bossy. She has been that way since she was a flat-chested, pre-teen wearing pigtails and saddle shoes.

Okay, this is a big, crowded restaurant, I rationalized. So the hostess will probably seat us far from Constance and they won’t even notice us.

Nope. No such luck. We got seated at a table near the bar right in front of them.

I wasn’t going to spoil Van’s birthday brunch, especially since he had hung with my mother and I like a champ last week after my stepfather’s death. Besides, God had my back. I was going to man up. And so I did.

I walked over to her. “Hey Constance!”

“Oh, Immanuel! It’s so good to see you.”

And we chatted about our kids and mutual friends and I told her I was having lunch with friends. And I sat down with Van and tried to act normal. But she kept glancing over. And leaning over and talking to her husband excitedly.

I mean, my friends and I are not flaming. But it was no mistaking we were a gay party. And her eyes were wide with curiosity. And every once in a while she would call over to me and urge me to try the dark ale or not order the bacon because it was too tough.

Constance was a big gossip from way back. An hour after brunch ended at 2 p.m. she would be on the phone with half my high school and middle school class, informing them that the same Immanuel who had married his gorgeous college sweetheart and had two beautiful kids and a big house in the suburbs, two cars in the garage and a dog was now a…faggot.

So I took the bull by the horns. Fuck it. I wasn’t going out like a bitch. I’m still a proud man. I just happen to be gay.

“Hey Constance come over and let me introduce you to my friends,” I said.

She practically knocked a waiter down getting over.

“This is Gerald and Michael and Harvey and Mitchell,” I began. “And this is my partner Van, who is celebrating his birthday.”

Baby girl didn’t miss a beat.

Constance started texting like crazy. Photo courtesy of tellyouall.com.

Constance started texting like crazy. Photo courtesy of tellyouall.com.

“Oh, Happy Birthday Van,” she gushed. “And it’s so nice to meet everybody.”

“Nice to meet you too, Constance,” everybody said.

And she chatted awhile and took her ass back to her seat. And we went about our brunch.

Still, I noticed her texting furiously on her phone.

“Yep, Facebook is going to be interesting on Monday,” I thought. “Cuz she is going to tell everybody.”

But you know. I really didn’t give a fuck. I pay my own bills. I was living my life. I’m happy. Constance can kiss my ass.

Besides, I had some dirt on her. I knew her husband, who is at least 10 years older and overweight like many retired football players, wasn’t doing his duty in bed anymore and she had taken a few lovers to get dick. But hey she was married to a rich baller so she stayed.

But deep down inside I knew I wouldn’t trade dirt for dirt if it came to that.

Eventually she and hubby got up and left. “We have to hang out soon, Immanuel,” she said, smiling sweetly.

“Yeah, right,” I thought. “Don’t try to act all phony. I know you are getting ready to put that knife in my back.”

That night I was surprised to get a text message from her.

She said I shouldn’t worry about the situation at the restaurant and she was glad I was living my true self and was happy. And she  did want to come hang out with me.

And you know. She did really seem sincere.

I smiled, turned over and went to bed.

Q: Readers, have you been outed unexpectedly? Tell us how that happened?




Young men hacking in Baltimore. Photo courtesy of Urban Fringe.

Young men hacking in Baltimore. Photo courtesy of Urban Fringe.

Long before Uber Baltimore had hacking, it’s own informal transportation system.

Stand on a busy corner, extend your arm, and dangle your index and middle fingers up and down. And a person interested in earning some extra money will pull over and offer you a ride.

“Go over westside” for $8. Or “round the corner” for $2 or $3. It beats paying more expensive cab fare or waiting on a bus in the cold or rain.

But I have heard stories that men use hacking to find sex partners. Last night I heard someone who actually got turned out that way.

My partner “Van” and I went to the Collective Minds House music festival in Druid Hill Park and decided to grab a drink at The Drinkery before heading home. And a young guy named “Torry” was sitting next to us at the bar and we struck up a conversation.

Torry, who had grown up in South Carolina and Baltimore, is a slender man about 25 years old with skin like Hershey’s Chocolate, a dazzling smile, and an easy laugh. Van and I learned he was not out to his family — only one cousin knew about his sexuality.

“How did you get into men,” I asked.

Torry was 17 and needed a ride home (some Baltimore buses are notorious for being late) so he put out his arm and hacked a ride. And an older man in his mid 30s pulled over and offered him a ride in a car with a Virginia plate.

They drove in silence for awhile and then the man started talking.

“Hey, I’m a photographer and you have a nice body. I’m always looking for models,” the man said.

“I can take some shots of you that you can use in a portfolio.”

Torry was flattered. Why not? So he agreed.

And he went to the man’s place with him but instead of flashes popping  Torry’s dick was popping — right into the man’s mouth. And it felt so good Torry started going to other men to get the same treatment and decided he preferred men.

“I never saw that man who picked me up again,” Torry said.

“Well, how did your cousin find out you were gay,” I asked.

“I was out in front of Ziascoz gay bar and somebody drove by and beeped and tried to pick me up. When I walked over I found out it was my cuz!”

I guess Torry has a special knack when it comes to picking up rides from strangers.