Common Sense	Common Sense Archive

I wake up around 4 to 4:30 in the morning. Almost every day, I wake up with a throbbing hard-on. I indulge in a hearty whack-off. What do I fantasize about in this pre-dawn bout of masturbation? I'd love to tell you, but my sexual fantasies keep getting more complex and there's not enough room in this column-- this entire magazine!-- to put it all down in proper detail. My morning jerk-off is always satisfying-- every once in a while the load I shoot off has a trajectory the distance of which matches when I was a horny teen.

View our poll archive

Then to the quotidian. Shit, shave, shower. What to wear? I'd love to put on one of my uniforms and just carry on. My role model is the late Boston photographer F. Holland Day; he wore sailor suits for the last 20 years of his life. And I found this cute web site for "Officer Jim," another fellow into uniforms (and leathers) and he has posted a picture of himself at work (a desk job in a cubicle) wearing his police uniform. I am not that bold. I slip into my working clothes and hope to make a visual impression somewhere between that of a postal employee and a UPS driver.

I walk to the subway station, gathering wool. Joggers and bicyclists pass me by. I pay them no attention. This span of the morning is my rage-time. I walk past the parking area for the new Mormon temple and the uglies really take over. I spit my curses on the religious and wish them every evil imaginable.

Inside the subway entrepot, there are crowds. Always someone stuck in a turnstile. The human race in motion is not a pretty sight. I take a seat on the subway-- I never stand; I'll wait for the next train rather than stand. I stare at the men. There are always some who make the cut. I'm not too picky. I remind myself of the comment by the late English author J.R. Ackerley; he observed that when he was young, he was very fussy about selecting partners, but after he turned 50, he'd take just about any man. I incline in that direction. I stare at the men, each one at a time. I check out their shoes (better yet if they are wearing boots), their butts, their necks, their ears. I imagine each nude, wonder about his cock, how big the balls. As I get older, my staring gets more blatant. And aggressive. Having gray hair and the face of a middle-aged man lets me get away-- or at least let's me think I can get away-- with this overt kind of cruising that, when I was younger, I feared I might get my a bop on the nose (and did get me the occasional assault). I continue to undress the men on the subway.

I recall a story by my friend John Scagliotti. John and his lover, Andy Kopkind, were in DC in 1971, protesting the American war in Indo-China (and covering the anti-war activities as reporters). One effort was to lobby Senators. John and his group were assigned to lobby Sen. Claiborne Pell of Rhode Island. John told me: "I went into his office and he gave me such a hard, intense look... I could feel myself being undressed." Hi, Clay!

I get off the subway and climb the stairs with the herd, like the wildebeests thundering across the Serengeti. I buy my first cup of coffee. Arrive at work. I drink the coffee, doing a crossword puzzle. This is when the better angels kick in. I open the bookstore for business. I sell books for a living. The mailman comes in. The FedEx deliveryman drops by. So does UPS man. They all drive me crazy. I think of Walt Whitman. At one point in his life, Walt worried over a condition he referred to as "amativeness," a generalized longing and desire for just about every man he met. Have I inherited Walt's amativeness? I think I have.

The day ticks by. From my store (a semi-basement unit), I look out my front window and watch the people walk by. Some stop to browse my window display. My line of sight, as I look at them, goes right to the crotch. Some of the construction workers will actually rub their crotches at me, a nice gesture.

The customers come and go. I receive new books and magazines. I will look through some of the sex mags, particularly the more hard-core type and am fascinated with the splendidly detailed depiction of sexual obsessions. And also the fact that so many men have appeared in skin rags and porno movies. I wonder: would I have ever opted to strip down in a skin rag or gang-bang in a skin flicker when younger? I don't know, but I do know it would be a major decision and I wonder if it's been a major decision for those men who decide they will.

Work ends. I close up the shop. If a friend comes by, we go for a cocktail. If not, I subway home, reading The Nation or TLS. At home, I greet my roommate, pour a glass of wine, work on dinner. Over food, I watch TV, an old movie or a public affairs show. After dinner, I may write, read my e-mail, visit my favorite porn sites. Or I may watch a new videotape and watch guys get tied up and humiliated. If I get really horny, I may whack off again.

I go to bed alone. Almost always happy.

Author Profile:  Mitzel
	Mitzel was a founding member of the Fag Rag collective, and has been a Guide columnist since 1986. He manages Calamus Books near Boston's South Station.
	Email:	mitzel@calamusbooks.com
	Website:	calamusbooks.com