Ugly Man, page 9
When I was sixteen, my parents’ ugly and prolonged divorce turned my mother into an extreme alcoholic for a couple of years. Every day held some unpredictable, terrifying behavior. Like she would come into the room where my siblings and I were watching TV, and, having drawn our attention, she’d put a handful of sleeping pills in her mouth. We would have to grab and wrestle her to the floor and force her to spit them out. She would stand at the top of the staircase in our house for hours begging one of us to come push her down the stairs and kill her. She’d gather us into the family car, start driving down the street at top speed, and aim at a wall or streetlight yelling, “I’m going to kill us all,” and we’d have to grab the steering wheel from her and slam on the brakes. When she was really angry at us, she’d turn off all the electricity in the house, lock the fuse box so we couldn’t turn the power back on, and start smashing furniture and things with an axe. Etc. Etc.
When I was seventeen, I went to a party where a bunch of my friends were hanging out. A few of them, including a guy named Dave, were getting high by shooting aerosol from altered paint cans into a paper bag and inhaling. They asked if I wanted to take a hit, and I said no. After I left the party, there was an accident. Somehow when Dave was shooting the aerosol into the bag, he filled the bag with paint instead. He inhaled the paint, which coated his lungs and suffocated him to death on the spot. My friends who were with him later told me it was the most horrible death you could imagine.
When I was eighteen, I was hanging out with my boyfriend Julian in Hollywood one afternoon while he worked as a street hustler. He was off turning a trick and I was talking to one of the other hustlers when this young hustler Julian and I knew pretty well, and with whom we’d had a three-way a couple of weeks previous, staggered up the sidewalk. We just thought he was really high so we started laughing and yelling jokey things at him, but when he got close to us he fell down and didn’t move. We went over to him, and only realized then that he’d been stabbed numerous times in the back and was dead. We ran away in horror, and I later found out from another hustler that his body had lain there on the sidewalk for over three hours before anyone cared enough to call the police.
When I was eighteen, a friend of mine named David and I drove to the cool local record store. While we were shopping, this guy about our age came up to me and asked where I was going after leaving the store, then asked if he could catch a ride. He seemed okay, so I said sure. When we’d driven a few blocks, the guy pulled out a gun and put it to my head, telling me to pull over to the curb and that he was going to drive. As soon as we pulled over, my friend jumped out of the car and ran away. I gave the guy the wheel, and for next ten hours he drove all over the city with me as his hostage, picking up friends of his until the car was full of guys. It was basically a joyride. The guy would smash my car into parked cars for kicks, and they were all drinking heavily. At one point, I tried to escape, but they ran after me and dragged me back into the car. Finally, the guy stopped the car at a friend’s house to buy drugs, and while he was out of the car, the other guys told me they’d let me go if I gave them all rides back to their respective houses. So I did, and the last guy I dropped off told me that if I told the police or if he ever saw me again, he’d kill me.
When I was eighteen, my uncle, who’d been a painter and therefore my hero when I was a little kid, but who’d later turned into an alcoholic womanizing leech who referred to me as “the pig,” blew his brains out with a shotgun.
ONE NIGHT IN 1979 I DID TOO MUCH COKE AND COULDN’T SLEEP AND HAD WHAT I THOUGHT WAS A MILLION-DOLLAR IDEA TO WRITE THE DEFINITIVE TELL-ALL BOOK ABOUT GLAM ROCK BASED ON MY OWN PERSONAL EXPERIENCE BUT THIS IS AS FAR AS I GOT
It was 1972–73. There used to be this nightclub on Sunset Boulevard called Rodney Bingenheimer’s English Disco where every star who was remotely Glam Rock—Bowie, Sparks, Roxy Music, T. Rex, Slade, Suzi Quatro, Jobriath, the Sweet, et al.—hung around when they were performing in town. I was just out of high school, and very “glammed” up—platforms, shag haircut, shimmery outfits, etc.—so I gravitated to the club, like wannabe cool people did. We danced, did a lot of quaaludes and downers, talked to Rodney, who was sweet but a moron, and waited for Glam celebs to show up. Then we’d schmooze them for whatever—jobs, drugs, ego boosts—and/or try to get in their pants. It was a serious contest. We even drew up this graph with a point system indicating which stars were the most trophy-like—Bowie, Bryan Ferry, Marc Bolan, Todd Rundgren, and I forget who else—all the way down to the “only when desperate” types—say Lou Reed, or the drummer from Silverhead, or any local band member, no matter how foxy and unknown, or how famous but unbelievably disgusting like Flo and Eddie, or how great but too old and insane like Arthur Lee. I wasn’t that cute, obviously, but I was smarter than most of those overdressed airheads, so I was a top notch schmoozer, if a total loser as a groupie. Everyone who mattered dropped by Rodney’s at some point. All the names: Paul Lynde, Andy Warhol, Erik Estrada, Debbie fucking Reynolds, Raymond fucking Burr. Even enemies of music like Jackson Browne and the Eagles. And since Glam was all about sex as rebellion and bisexual cool, stars treated the club like a brothel. Like I remember Bowie picked up one cute Glam boy whose name escapes me, tied him up, fucked him, then pissed all over him in a bathtub. Actually, his name was Karl. He played bass for a really well-known band of the time, and you can easily figure out his identity if you care. Fuck him. Several boys and girls did Iggy Pop, who was such a total junkie back then that he wasn’t the trophy you would think. After a while, Iggy would stagger into the club yet again, and we’d just go, “Puh-lease.” Anyway, one of the regulars was this very cute, pimply boy a little younger than me. Everyone was into him. His energy level was just adorable—I can’t begin to do it justice—although a few years afterward when he became extremely famous, that same energy fueled one of the creepiest, most backstabbing personalities in the history of showbiz, if you ask me. Anyway, he’s a joke dinner theater actor now, so ha ha. Point is, the energetic boy had a rock band, a kind of Tinkertoy Iggy and the Stooges meets something really horrible like, say, when the Bay City Rollers went heavy metal, if you remember that phase. One night they played at the club. They were so pathetic it was almost sublime. Here’s this sixteen-year-old rich kid screaming suicidal threats, pretending to shoot up, and acting all wasted and animalesque. We were all just like, “Yum.” After the show, he joined us at our table, which was extremely unusual. I guess he was tired. For a while in its history, Rodney’s had these big round tables where regulars sat around strategizing and saying, like, “Look…yawn…it’s the guitarist from Zolar X…yawn.” So I was sitting at a table with Chuckie Starr—that’s two r’s—who was sort of famous at the time for wearing seven-foot platform shoes on The Mike Douglas Show, and this girl named Michelle, who was fucking Rod Stewart—in fact he wrote this famous song about her—I forget its title—that goes, “Red lips, hair, and fingernails / I hear you’re a mean old Jezebel,” and some other bullshit. She was there. And Sable Starr—again two r’s—who ended up snagging Johnny Thunders, and even lived with him, which impressed us at the time, although, really, it can’t have been all that much fun. There were all these other people too—nice, creepy, cute, not cute. Anyway, I was pontificating, like I tended to do, about how, say, the Raspberries’ songs were so hermetic they were holy or something, and the energetic boy seemed impressed, but then he wasn’t, like, brilliant. So our eyes started flashing back and forth. You know, that way. Lust. No one could believe it, because he seemed so unavailable. After a while, he said, “You should, um, come home with me.” And I was, like, “Done. Say the word.” So I drove him to his house—this big white mansion a block or two south of Sunset—and we snuck inside—it was about five in the morning—so as not to wake up his parents. But his mom was awake for some reason, I don’t know why. I think she was a diet-pill head. Her eyes were really weird. She stopped us in the hallway. That’s when I thought, “Oh my God.” Because she was the star of this hugely famous TV series, which meant she was also the mother of this hugely famous teen idol/actor/singer of the period, which meant that the energetic boy was, like, royalty. I was thinking, “I fucking scored.” Because he’d never exactly let on that he was you-know-who’s little brother. Anyway, his mother, who’s a Republican scumbag in real life, was actually nice. She didn’t give a shit that we were completely ’luded out. She was just, like, “Have fun, you two.” It must have been the diet pills talking. Then he and I went to his bedroom. We took some more quaaludes, and smoked some pot, and I forget what else, frankly—probably talked about his famous mother and brother—and I was beginning to see what a superficial little narcissist he was underneath all that cuteness. But at that point, who cared? And I think he eventually said, “Let’s, you know, do it.” Not an exact quote. And we took off our clothes, and then…it’s all sort of hazy, I guess because of the drugs. But we did all the obvious stuff, and I remember that at one particular point I had been rimming him for, like, an hour, as I tended to do, especially when I was on downers, and thinking, “Wow, he must really love to be rimmed,” and “We were made for each other,” etc. I looked up, because I needed another hit of his face to stay interested, and that’s when I realized that the look on his face, which I’d been reading as slack-faced delirium, as, “Oh, I have found the sublime,” or “Oh Dennis, how could I have lived so long without…etc.,” or whatever, had nothing to do with me. He’d been asleep the whole time, the self-involved little piece of shit. Yeah, like that stopped me.
THE NOLL DYNASTY
Kip Noll (late ’70s to early ’80s)
Patriarch of the Noll clan. Arguably the most famous gay porn star of his era. His popularity paved the way for the “twink” performers who dominate gay porn today. Displayed reasonable, Steve McQueen–like acting skills. Versatile top, occasional bottom.
Plusses: Surfer/skateboarder image, finger-snap erections, tough but laid-back demeanor, dick.
Minuses: Receding hairline, emotionally detached, clock-puncher, too often miscast as a top.
Jeff Noll (late ’70s)
The first porn star to milk Kip’s fame by adopting his surname. Billed as Kip’s younger brother. His oeuvre consists of a single scene in one film misleadingly titled Jeff Noll’s Buddies. Nonetheless, he has a cult following to this day. Bottom.
Plusses: The technically cutest Noll, unique facial expressions when fucked, ass, nipples, legs.
Minuses: Bent dick, emotionally detached, too brief career.
Bob Noll (late ’70s)
Billed as Kip’s hunky older brother. Didn’t manage to parlay the Noll name into much of a career. Appeared in one feature film, Street Boys, and several solo jack-off shorts. Top.
Plusses: Genuinely hunky if you like that type, eyes, dick, inexplicably sympathetic.
Minuses: Too obviously a straight guy paid to do a gay guy’s job, emotionally detached, sluggish.
Marc Noll (late ’70s)
Billed as Kip’s cousin. Like Jeff and Bob, he had a brief career, appearing in one film, The Adventures of Marc Noll. While the fates and/or current whereabouts of the other early Nolls are unknown, Marc is known to have drowned in his bathtub in the mid-’80s. Bottom.
Plusses: Slightly less emotionally detached, slutty, stoner jock image, lips.
Minuses: Performed visibly drunk, an okay but not remarkable body, only cute from certain angles.
Scott Noll (late ’70s to early ’80s)
Billed as Kip’s other younger brother. The first Noll to bear absolutely no physical resemblance to Kip. Appeared in three films: The Summer of Scott Noll, Cuming of Age, and Flashback, costarring with Kip in the latter two titles. Appeared to be the last of the Noll lineage until Chip’s arrival fifteen years later.
Plusses: The sexiest and best performer of the bunch, ballet dancer posture, piggy bottom, ass, eyes, eager to please.
Minuses: Seemed very dumb, emotionally detached, visible discomfort when kissing.
Chip Noll (late ’90s to?)
Initially billed as Kip’s nephew. The most prolific and arguably successful Noll. Has appeared in roughly two dozen feature length videos. Mysteriously disappeared from the business for three years in the early ’00s, then made a mysterious comeback to star in a dozen plus more videos. Bottom.
Plusses: Piggy bottom, flirt, nose, eyes, Superman logo tattoo, varied roles (from army private to queeny skater to S&M slave).
Minuses: Occasional anal wart, emotionally detached, snooty attitude, post-comeback body thickness.
THE FIFTEEN WORST RUSSIAN GAY PORN WEB SITES
Spankingforest.com
Apparently there’s a Russian forest where teens hang out, but unfortunately there’s an ugly fat old guy who hangs out there too and for some reason when they see him they let him spank them.
Justmarriedgays.com
To believe this site, when Russian gay couples get married, one of them dresses in drag, then they have an orgy with a few of their ugliest friends.
Gayschief.com
Even though Gay’s Chief’s office is just a desk in the middle of an empty room, the job he’s offering pays so well that boys will swallow his cum to get it.
Gay-lessons.com
The twinks starring on this site don’t know how to have sex, so a much older, unattractive guy shows them how to do it, and we get to watch.
Boyknights.com
This magical Russian site has a time machine that whisks its photographer back to the medieval period, when gay sex was as common as the housefly.
Studsfun.com
Two of Russian porn’s most ubiquitous models run a cross-dressing site where they lure straight studs back to their pad and shock the studs gay with their permanently flaccid penises.
Drunkengay.com
This site is unique because its models are actual burnt-out, overweight young alcoholics who have listless, sluggish sex the way real hopeless drunks probably do.
Daddysonfuck.com
Like every other intergenerational site, this one promises real incest, and even though simple logic is enough to scotch that claim, its forbidden lovers do look like products of the same unpleasant gene pool, so, on that level only, thumbs-up.
Theyyoung.com
Notable for heavily employing buzz magnet model du jour Rostik, aka “Justlike Timberlake,” and for hosting a nice-try Rocky Balboa–like comeback by the disturbingly catatonic, glassy-eyed, leathery former superstar Ton.
Madonboys.com
To what lengths would you have to go to suck in members when your site is the thousandth one showing cute-ish lateteen boys sucking cock and fucking in an abysmally furnished Russian living room?
Popupboys.com
This site get points from me for the fact that one of its models looks like the guy who would stand in front of Mann’s Chinese Theater pretending to Vincent Kartheiser if Vincent Kartheiser were a big star.
Badcowboys.com
Clues that this is not an American-owned site: (1) They don’t care if there weren’t cars with Ukrainian license plates in the 1800s. (2) They use the word “cute” the way we use the word “the.” (3) Their membership costs $39.95 a month, and it cannot be canceled.
Strokemycock.com
Do you remember that scene in The Basketball Diaries where Leonardo DiCaprio’s character gets a blow job in a toilet stall, and from his facial expression you’d think he was simultaneously being punched in the stomach and watching his mother’s head be cut off? Did you think maybe he was overacting just a little? Well, once you see the misery and horror these Russian twinks feel upon being masturbated, you might think differently.
Siberianboys.com
In the old Russia, Siberia was a cold, remote part of the country where criminals were sent to spend the rest of their obscure lives in ramshackle gulags. In the new Russia, it’s where gullible American and European gays pay to watch the same ten or so models do outdoors the same few things they do indoors on forty other Russian porn sites.
Guyfoot.com
Not being a foot fetishist, I can’t prove that the foot-inclined don’t show their lust and appreciation by holding ankles, toes, etc. an inch away from their faces, then scrunching their eyes shut and opening their mouths as wide as possible, but it seems like a decent guess.
THE ASH GRAY PROCLAMATION
Mackerel lives in a lower-class suburb of Pawheen, Arkansas. He’s thirteen years old and wears his dirty hair long. He wanted to be an architect when he grew up. Then he got stoned yesterday and paid a psychic to tell him the truth. According to the spirits, he’ll be dead from a drug overdose within forty-eight hours. Having been molested by half the town’s male population, Mackerel is something of a pragmatist. So he’s embraced an early death with a young teen’s impatience. At the moment, he sits on his bike finessing dope off some sixteen-year-old junkie named Josh who lifts weights and has a trendy short haircut.
