Sex Histories	Sex Histories Archive

New York City-- It was a treat to speak with you yesterday. I've enclosed two articles for your consideration. The shorter one is by far the raunchiest. It may be, in fact, too gross. Gross as it is, it is true. My friend Rusty and I have cut through most all of the hurdles and there's very little we haven't done. And we keep coming up with ways to make it even dirtier. I offer these accounts without apology.

I don't know why I had not thought to do a write up on my hotel experiences long before this. In that paper I refer to but don't describe some of my bisexual experiences. I have had some really interesting ones.

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During my second semester of college I went to work nights and weekends for a modest middle-class hotel in downtown San Diego. I was bellhop and elevator operator. I was there for three and a half years. During that time being at the start only 19 years old and fairly fetching, I had many sexual adventures in the hotel.

Some of the regulars were traveling salesmen. I both gave and received many a blow job with them.

I seldom could risk being out of earshot of the elevator, but between the second floor and the lobby there was a stretch of shaft where I could stop the elevator with reasonable privacy. While most of these encounters were forgotten almost at once, a few stand out.

There was a lively transient class of hotel guests, including a great many sailors on weekend shore leave. On a Saturday night, they would straggle back to the hotel after a night on the town drinking. They'd get on the elevator hot, horny, and uninhibited, and over the years, I swallowed enough sailor sperm between the floors to float a battleship.

Oddly, one of the sailors that I best remember was one with whom I didn't actually have sex, but whose load I got. This guy was a very handsome young man, about my own age, and he came to the hotel at least once a month. He was always courteous but definitely disinterested in anything I might be able to offer him.

His usual pattern after checking in would be to change at once to civilian clothes and leave for the evening. After he had left the hotel on one such occasion-- I don't know what second sense guided me-- I went into his room, using my pass key. I had never done that before.

Almost immediately, I spotted a wadded-up handkerchief on the bedside table. Unfolding it, I found that it contained an extraordinarily copious load of sperm, gob after gob of white cream, too thick to be soaked up immediately by the linen. I made short shrift of it, absolutely thrilled to have something that had come from his beautiful young body (young as I was; I was already sufficiently eroticized that I would have eaten anything that came out of him).

There was a special pleasure in having had that intimacy with him without his knowledge. At least I suppose he didn't now. Before leaving his room, I carefully re-wadded the hanky and I doubt that on his return he would have noticed anything different. Yet the next time I saw him, I fancied that there was a subtle difference in the way he looked at me.

Another episode of that peculiar ilk involved a civilian guest, a man in his late 30s. He was a drug addict (I don't know what he was on) and he was almost always stoned when he rang for the elevator. He was a nice looking man and was so obviously in big trouble with his addiction that I had a lot of compassion for him.

On several occasions when he seemed too zonked out even to function I would coax him back to his room and put him to bed. He seemed genuinely grateful to me, for, drugged as he was, he knew that I was trying to help him. But my help seldom had any efficacy, for most of the time he would either reappear at the elevator or walk down the stairs to avoid me. So I soon gave up trying.

One evening, very late he appeared at the hotel entrance but didn't enter. Instead he leaned against the building and stood there in a kind of trance. He was so out of it, it's a wonder that he had been able to find his way back to the hotel from wherever he had been.

I went outside and led him into the building and up to his room. The minute we entered, he fell back across the bed totally unconscious, more dead to the world than I'd ever seen him. I pulled off his shoes as I'd done several times before, but this time, realizing that in his condition I could have my way with him and he would never know, I pulled down his trousers and shorts. Drug addict or no, his person was clean and reasonably fresh. He had a big dick, big balls, and a thick, dark pubic bush.

I sucked on him for a couple of minutes but no sign of an erection was forthcoming, so I proceeded on to other things that interested me, namely his asshole and its environs. There was no gross evidence that it had been shitted through since his last shower, but there was something in the general ambience that suggested that it had been so used, perhaps recently. And, as it is just that condition that I most enjoy, my tongue was soon happily lodged deep within him.

There was never the slightest response on his part (fortunately, for there was no reason to believe that he was other than heterosexual and it could have been quite embarrassing if he had become aware of my attentions), so, fearing to be too long away from my post, I adjusted his clothes, swung his legs up on the bed, and left him.

That scene was repeated once in the days that followed, but it all came to an end very abruptly, and when it did, I was as close to being in real trouble as I had ever been. It seems that the police had been watching him during the whole of his stay at the hotel. In fact, my efforts to keep the guy off the streets had been frustrating their surveillance, so they had their eye on me as well.

One weekend a squad car pulled up in front of the hotel and three cops got out. Two of them went up to his room and the other one descended on me. He questioned me and searched me, saying that they couldn't understand my "intense" interest in the man, putting him to bed and all. They knew about that!

As the one cop was questioning me, the other two dragged the poor guy, barely conscious, down the stairs without his shoes.

Thank god, this was before the day of video spying or they would have known a whole lot more than they did. There is no doubt that they suspected the sex angle, but even worse, they suspected a drug connection as well.

But there was none and, thank god, they didn't really have a thing on me. I told them that I thought the guy was "a very sad man" and that I had just been trying to help him, and that was true.

So they let me off the hook, and considering that the San Diego police, as throughout all of hyper-conservative Southern California, have a decidedly fascist inclination, I got off easy.

A couple of months later, the guy reappeared to collect his luggage. He was still very sad looking and obviously embarrassed, but, at least, he was straight. He came down to the basement with me where we had stored his luggage, and as we were gathering it, he said, "I understand that you tried to help me when I was sick." It surprised me that the cops had told him that. He insisted on giving me a $10 tip (which I'm certain he couldn't afford). I couldn't dissuade him, so I accepted it. He never came back.

Another one-time guest who didn't interest me at all at first-- in fact he rather put me off-- was "onto" me from the first time he saw me and talked to me with an assumption that I was homosexual. He was an odd duck not unattractive (he had a good body), but during the few weeks he was there he always had some sort of inflamed pimple on his nose, the latter being rather large anyway, and the result was definitely a sexual turn-off.

He was eager to have me blow him. He'd come on to the elevator, grope himself, and ask if I was in the mood to "gobble the goop." But I kept putting him off.

Finally, however, he caught me at a moment when my own libido Was even more active than usual so I stopped the elevator between the floors and pulled down his pants.

I've never regretted it for out flopped the most succulent and magisterial prick I'd ever seen, and I instantly forgot about his pimple.

Hell, I sucked on him front and back; his asshole was as luscious and tasty as his dick.

He was in heaven and even asked me if I wanted to eat his shit. Under other circumstances, I might have; but certainly not there.

But I did get a princely load of "goop" then and daily loads thereafter until he left.

I don't know why I didn't suggest that he come home with me, where we could indulge ourselves in things more arcane. Although I was still living at home with my family, my room had a private entrance and my mother had no objection to my bringing boy friends home.

I can recall taking only one guy home with me from the hotel. He was a young (about 18), immensely charming sailor, with fine legs, a well-defined torso, and a really superb pair of buttocks. I had sucked him off a couple of times in the elevator and we were at it again one night when he suggested that he come home with me when I got off from work. I readily agreed.

My shift at the hotel ended at 2 A.M. and we left together. We had a perfectly wonderful time. He not only loved to have his shit hole sucked, he loved to be fucked, even though he had never seemed gay.

I remember him for one other reason. Believe it or not, he had three nipples. The extra one was positioned just under his chest about four inches below his right one. In comparison with the other two it was vestigial.

For about six months after he first came home with me, instead of checking in at the hotel he'd meet me after work and go home with me. But he abruptly stopped coming by, so I suppose he must have been transferred or shipped overseas.

My hotel conquests were not all male. In those days, as driven as I was by my homosexual pursuits, I had an active heterosexual component as well. During the first Christmas season that I worked there, I hung a piece of mistletoe from the overhead light fixture of the elevator. One evening a female guest, a prim spinster of about 36-- no great beauty, but not without appeal-- positioned herself directly under the mistletoe and looked at me expectantly. I stopped the elevator and leaned toward her to give her a polite, chaste peck. Instead, she threw her arms around my neck and gave me an intense, man/woman kiss served up with much tongue. There was no mistaking the invitation and I told her that if I could, I would knock on her door later.

At the end of my shift, I asked John, the night desk clerk, if he would mind if I stopped off at her room before going home. John was a good guy (and we had a thing going, too; more about that presently). He told me to go ahead.

When I knocked, the door was flung open; she was there waiting for me and ready to go. She was wearing a filmy night gown.

We got into bed and I fucked her to a fare-thee-well, about three orgasms' worth. And when I was finally at the end of my reserve she asked, "Is there anything else I can do for you?" Sensing what she wanted, I said, "Why don't you suck my dick?"

She was down on me quicker than the eye could see, and she was good at it. I gave her my fourth load of the evening. She really loved doing it.

That was the beginning of a two-year affair. She soon moved out of the hotel to a nearby apartment house and I often went there after work. I was fond of her, for she was very sweet natured and there was something about her that moved me. We even talked of marriage; she was more than ready for it, in spite of the difference in our ages. But I was too young (and thank god, too smart, in light of my sexual nature) to make such a commitment, and eventually the affair ran its course.

I was more than 30 when I finally gave up altogether on heterosexual affairs. They always became too complicated and too hurtful to the girl.

Now 30 years later, my "heterosexual component" has atrophied to virtual non-existence. But even now I am more than willing to share a girl with another man as long as I can have him too. I have had more than a few bisexual ménage à trois and they have been among the more stimulating experiences of my life.

I'll close this letter with more about John the night clerk. John was an older man-- about 60, in fact. He looked his age but was still a handsome, well-formed man, with beautiful silver hair. He was rather reserved, very dignified and gentlemanly, and born to the job he was doing. He'd always been a hotel desk clerk.

It took us a while to warm up to each other. I found him rather forbidding at first and he was meanwhile expecting me to be as irresponsible as my predecessors-- mine was a difficult job to keep filled. But being so much together we grew to like each other. He had been married but that had been many years before and he had little inclination to repeat "that mistake" as he called it.

It didn't take him long to acquire some insight into my sexual nature and he seemed completely non-judgmental about it.

One evening his libido apparently was at a high level, because he was unusually affable and a bit flirtatious with me. He went so far as to regale me with some dirty jokes, and more than one had a gay theme.

It was clear to me what was up, but I didn't really know how to handle the situation. He was my boss, after all, and I didn't want to make a mistake. I said nothing either to encourage or discourage him.

One of my duties on the job was to mop the tile floor of the lobby and the men's room just off the lobby. That was the last thing I would do before leaving at the end of my shift. This evening, he surprised me by following me into the men's room. He stood at the urinal but didn't piss, and he was giving me such a clear view of his tool it would have been rude not to look at it. He was standing there looking at me and waving it at me so finally I asked him if he needed some help with it. He came right over and shoved it into my mouth. After about three minutes of vigorous in-and-outing, he squirted the load of a man half his age. I suppose he'd been a long time without.

Even though he was old enough to be my grandfather, I found him very exciting. After that, when he was in the mood, he would wait until after midnight then would lock the lobby door. There was virtually no traffic after that hour and we would go into his inner office. He'd drop his pants and shorts, giving me access to all his parts, and I'd suck his cock, balls, and asshole. This happened, perhaps once every two weeks or so.

My job finally came to an end there when I picked up, one day, a bag that was far heavier than I expected and wrecked my back. I was out of commission for a whole summer.

But I kept in touch with John. I'd go by his apartment now and then and our sex became quite a valued thing for both of us. He was always strictly "trade" and never touched my dick. It was wonderful to be able to get all his clothes off, for he had a really fine body, slim, with excellent muscle tone.

I taught him some new tricks. He learned to love pissing down my throat, something he'd never done with anyone before.

It turned out that I wasn't his first male partner, but at that time, I was his only one and as it turned out, his last. One day I dropped by to see him only to find that his name was no longer next to his door bell. I rang anyway but there was no answer. I dropped by the hotel to check on him and learned that he had died suddenly of a heart attack.

That upset me a lot and it wasn't until a full 35 years later that I once more went into that hotel, this time as a guest. I had left San Diego many years before, but I was there visiting relatives who still live in the area.

The hotel was still very much the same and the elevator, ancient even when I worked there, was still going strong. I just hope that the young man who was operating it then was having as much fun as I did when I was working there.

Editor's Note: Excerpted from Lewd, Boyd McDonald's 12th volume of true sex histories.

Author Profile:  Boyd McDonald

Born in 1925 in South Dakota, Boyd McDonald entered Harvard as a high-school dropout after serving in the army in World War II. Jobs with Time, IBM, and several Wall Street firms preceded Boyd's career as a chronicler of gay sex. He was the founder and editor of Straight to Hell (alternatively the Manhattan Review of Cocksucking), and later published a number of anthologies of true sex histories. Boyd died in September 1993, two months after completing his final book, Scum.