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ISHMAEL HOUSTON-JONES
Specimen 4 and 4.a
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Specimen 4
It's been a long time since I've done this. This. Asked a man to come with me so that I can observe and write about him. I met this one in a club, Stella’s, in mid-town. He dances there. For tips. For money. It's his job. One of them. What I know, or what I think I know. He lives in the Bronx. He's in his mid-twenties. Until this summer's heat wave he had long dreadlocks. Now his head is shaven. He sells weed. He sometimes does construction. He'd told me that for private shows he charges $100 for dancing, $250 for jerking off. I know that I don't know his real name. And that I think he's very attractive.
I call him on his cell phone. His phone voice is quite different from his voice at the club. On the phone he's tougher, more "Black,” less friendly. Is it that I can't see the killer smile over the phone and I now hear the real attitude? Or maybe he just doesn't like talking over the phone. Anyway, I call him from my office. He says he just put some things in the dryer and he'll call back in an hour. An hour and a half later I call his cell.
"What's up Playah, I was just fixin' to call you."
I tell him again where my office is and how to get into the building. He says it'll be at least an hour to get down from the Bronx. We've not discussed why he's coming down to meet me. There must be some assumptions but they've not been voiced.
More than another hour passes. I get a call. He's on the corner. I tell him I'll be right down.
We do that macho dude embrace on the street thing. One arm each, pats on the back. I've decided this interview is going to take place at the West Side Club – my home is too chaotic for visitors, even paid visitors.
The West Side Club is a gay male sex club in Chelsea. I used to go there with Specimen One after I got to know him better. I've never been there alone, un-chaperoned. I recently renewed my membership even though I hadn't been there in over two years. I'm not quite sure why I chose this as the location for the Specimen Four interview. There must be some assumptions but they've not been voiced.
It's now rush hour. There are no free taxis on Fifth Avenue. As we walk down toward Chelsea I keep nervously looking over my shoulder to see if we can get one. We stop in a pizza place so he can buy something to drink. He asks if I want anything. He first asked for a Mountain Dew but changed his mind and got a Dr. Pepper. We continue walking down the avenue, me still looking over my shoulder, apologizing, it's driving me crazy.
He hasn't asked where we're going. I had asked that he bring a picture I.D. and that we were going to some club, I may have said some gay club, but beyond that no explanations were asked for or given.
As I said, it's been more than two years since I've come here. It's just after the evening rush on a Friday. The prices are a little higher than when I was last here. For four hours the prices are $8 for a locker, $12 for a changing room, and $16 for a room. Plus all prices are $2 more on weekends. He's going to have to get a temporary membership so that he can get a locker that he won't use. There are already guys queuing to get in. He's on guard and suspicious. He cops an attitude with the clerk in the office that I've never seen him use. More defensive and thuggish. Overall he's acting more "street" than he does when he's dancing at the club. I'm not sure if I like this change but I'm certainly intrigued by it. We get out of line, go into the office where the clerk is being concierge-like efficient, then we get back into line to get our keys; mine for a room, his for the locker he'll not use. I pay for everything.
An attendant shows us to my room. I tell him we won't need the locker He gives us two white towels and I tip him a dollar. On the way we passed guys wrapped in white towels. The man in the room next to mine is lying face down and naked on his cot. All the "rooms" are tiny. Maybe 5 by 8 feet but I'm a bad judge of dimensions. The cot is about 6 feet long and 4 feet wide and it takes up more than half the space. It's covered with a slab of foam and a sheet. There's a small nightstand and a wall mounted lamp with a dimmer switch. The walls do not go all the way to the ceiling so that there is no sound privacy. Techno music plays on the sound system. The walls are chocolate brown. There is a lot of ductwork in the ceiling. I fiddle with the dimmer switch trying to create the right atmosphere, not too dark and sexy but definitely not too bright. I get my new notebook and pen I bought today at the stationary store. I sit on the nightstand; he sits on the bed. I begin babbling about my writing project telling him that I've had some profiles and stories published.
He just asked what "published" meant. His hair is peach fuzzing back in. Nicks of baldness. Dark button eyes. Head bobbing to music. Long black lashes. Narrow head. Didn't shave. Smiles when I tell him I'm writing about him.
Long blue short sleeve T-shirt. Jeans. Timberlands.
Holds onto his cell phone and fingers the antenna.
Goatee. Smallish ears. Dark around the eyes. (Sexy.)
"What is this place?"
His shirt is "Sean Jean."
"That's my label. That's what I like."
His birthday is November 18, (Scorpio. Of course!) He's 24. Born in Philly. Doesn't remember when he came to NYC. He was a baby, "like 2."
How'd you start working at Stella’s?
He's wearing white socks.
"Started off dancing at the Magic Touch in Queens. It's closed down now."
I thought I remembered him telling me it was a straight club. "No it was gay."
How'd you wind up working a gay club? "I was broke. Didn't have no money. All my other hustles not working. I said fuck it."
He went to school in the Bronx. Got his GED in Harlem.
When I took my friend Keith to Stella’s he immediately noticed my attraction to this dancer. He pegged him as my type, saying that he reminded Keith of the lead singer from the group Arrested Development. Keith said, "Obviously he's had some college."
So you dropped out of high school then? "I dropped out after the first four months of high school, took the GED the third quarter, I was fresh 16."
Tilts head back against wall while remembering.
How long were you at the Magic Touch? "A good year, year and a half, off and on."
How did it compare to Stella’s?
"Way better." "Magic Touch catered more to the dancers. And the customers knew that that was a place to go see dancers. It was more dance orientated. At Stella’s there's always a string attached. Money was a whole lot better. They had contests there: Dance Contests, Big Dick Contests, Butt Contests. It's like if the dancers had a complaint the managers listened. Stella’s is not for your amateur dancers. They come into the game and they see the other dancers making money and 9 out of 10 times they thinking I'll start getting my dick sucked. Ain't no place for relationship, friendship with a he or she. A rookie sees that and he thinks he gotta be doing something, he thinking that's what we do. I tell somebody when I need help; not every customer's an asshole. The rookies don't see that. $50 -- they go get their dick sucked. I'm here to give people exotic pleasure, within my limits. I do 'live porn,' with girls. It's all about this; this is an exotic entertainment business. You're here to dance or masturbate, that's what I do. Yeah, I'm selling --somewhat hardcore, but with a little taste and class."
Smiles.
So what do you see yourself doing five years from now? "Just hope I'm alive. I'm not trying to be no psychic. In my lifestyle I have to take it one day at a time. Tryin' to enjoy my young 20's, my quote/unquote 'college years.' I'm tryin' to build a foundation. Hopefully five years from now I'll be buyin' a car, a house. I would like to see myself take it to the next level. Put my shit on the web. I do music. Make some movies of myself. Market myself that way."
What kind of music? "Crazy music. A little bit of everything. I just hear something that motivates me. If people want to see me, then why wouldn't they want to hear me? Maybe tour on the East Coast."
You told me before that you're straight. Could you talk about how it feels to be touched and felt up dancing in a gay club? "The first six months was like ... I don't know how I handled it. But then you know it's all part of the business I'm in. The exotic business. I keep my opinions in my back pocket 'cause they don't matter. I can't say ‘I don't like what he do.' I let him touch me and I'm getting money out of it."
When did you decide to get into this business? "It was always in me. When I read my first porno I always understood I'd get into this. Even when I was little. Like, why the fuck would you want to watch TV when you could have sex." (I cringe at that.) "I've always done a lot of crazy stuff. That shit just happens."
He's figuring out the architecture of the place. The space is a maze of corridors with doors on both sides. It's dim; the walls are dark. From our "room" we can see a tangle of heating ducts at the ceiling.
Guys having sex in the next "room."
His head is tilted back.
Where do you live? “With my stepfamily. My stepfather. Stepbrother. Everybody.”
Fingers his goatee.
Where did "your name" come from? “From PeeWee from Porky's. Everybody always said “you actin' like that dude PeeWee.” That just got shortened. Then I had my rap attitude. The second part came about 'cause I was smokin' a lot of weed. I just threw them together. It stuck. But a lot of people think I'm called Peter. They hear Pee, but they think they hear Peter. Whatever, it's all good. Forget about it, don't forget about it."
He has my "room" key on its rubber band around his wrist.
Are you going to grow your dreads back? "Don't know. I regret cuttin' them, but it doesn't fuck with me. It's just a frame to use, like "My Name" he's the guy with dreads. Sometimes I wish I could go back in time."
One Friday night last winter/spring I went up to Stella’s. I noticed that a lot of the regular dancers weren't there. After "Sex Appeal's" number I asked if “P” was dancing and "Sex" told me that all the Latin boys were dancing at Poppycock. This was the first time I got wind that there was a distinction between the Black and Latin dancers. I quickly finished my beer and ran upstairs. I got one of the gay rags to find out where this Poppycock was, but I didn't have my reading glasses and in the dim light of the bar I couldn't read the small print of the listings. I asked a young hustler if he knew where Poppycock was but he said "no" and moved suspiciously away from me. I was desperate. I spotted "Freddie" the coat check man who is about my age and was wearing his reading glasses pushed up onto his head. I asked to borrow them. I tried to look up Poppycock but was having no luck. He asked what I was looking for and I told him. He said, "Oh that's at Speed." By this time I didn't mind looking like a loser so I asked where that was. His reply was, "Oh that's over on 39th behind the Lord and Taylor's." I grabbed my coat, left a tip and ran the whole way from 47th to 39th.
When I got to Speed, a club I'd never heard of, I got into a line of people all younger than me. When I got to the young woman who was tending the door she looked me up and down and asked which party I was there for. I told her Poppycock. She said kind of dismissively, "that's that line over there." I got into the "gay" line; funny I hadn't noticed the difference, paid too much money and entered the 3 level club that was totally unknown to me. At one point I saw "James" another dancer from Stella’s and his first words to me were, "’P’ was here but they sent him home." I sort of blushed that it was that obvious why I'd shown up. "James" took me up to the 3rd floor where the VIP lounge was. I was then left to figure out how this place worked on my own. There was a line forming for what I figured out was a back room. I saw people giving someone money to get inside. I asked the person ahead of me how much and he told me $5. Once inside black theatrical curtains defined a very dimly lit room. There were couches and chairs. "We" sat around and waited. The "dancers" began to filter in dressed (or rather undressed) in skimpy underwear. They performed that male version of lap dances, more explicit than at Stella’s. In addition to "James," "Carlos," "Luis," and "Danny" were there. It suddenly dawned on me that the name of the place was Papi Cock not Poppycock. When each approached me they each gave me a version of why “P” wasn't there. I hadn’t thought that my attraction had been that obvious. I wound up having a fun time. It was the first time I felt I connected to "James" in a direct way. Bought him some Bacardis while he danced on the bar downstairs. He gave me a verbal description of what his "private show" would be like for me. I counted at most five people in this packed club who were my age or older. I wanted to dance but felt too self-conscious to do so alone so I left, losing my scarf in the crowded cloakroom.
What happened at Papi Cock? "Didn't like the way it was organized." Those VIP rooms is funny. Certain dancers fuck it up. You gotta be able to handle that. You can make more money there. But you think, I be hoin' and you fuck up your game."
(Couple going at it in the next room. I feel the thud of their bodies against the flimsy wall. Moans. "P" gets lost in the music.)
Where's your real family? "In the Bronx. My mother, my sister, we're not too tight. We have a funny relationship. When I'm there we fight. When we're apart, we love each other."
If you weren't in this business what would you be doing? "That's a fuckin' good question. Sellin' drugs, probably. What else can I do? When push comes to shove probably have a 9-to-5 and be slingin' drugs on the side. I don't like to depend on just one source of income. I'll always be doing the illegal, 'cause, why wouldn't I. I got good street credibility. I'm not stupid. Not gonna take stuff I don't need."
I've become self-conscious that the guys in the adjoining rooms can hear us talking. You're not really supposed to talk here. He lies down on the cot. Looks up at the ductwork in the ceiling. Hands behind his head. I've been sitting on the little Formica nightstand. We're in the classic shrink/patient positions. Smack of blowjob from the next room He looks more "knowing" than he does in the club. Small perfect nose. Not thick lips. Raspberry. Mocha skin. Not giving anything up.
Moans and smacks coming from the rooms on either side. We’re in a gay sex sandwich.
Do you want to ask me anything? “I don’t know…” (We're quiet for a very long time.)
The weekend before this interview there had been a bachelorette party at Stella’s of about 8-10 young women. The bride wore a veil. They sat at the stage-side table and were quite boisterous. The dancer "Dark Side" started doing a number just for them, carrying the bride up onto the stage and humping and spanking her to the delight of her friends but to the consternation of Bruce, the bouncer. After his number Bruce told him to leave.
I break the silence -- has "Dark Side" been 86ed forever?
Shrugs. "See that's what I mean. They don't cater to the dancers there. They act like it's a vice versa thing but it's not. They not looking out for you."
What's up with Bruce? "He keeps an eye out for Cathy."
Cathy is the owner of Stella’s. A butch bottle blond who likes to hang outside patrol car windows and chat up the local cops.
And Cathy? "She only comes downstairs when there's a problem. If you see her coming down the stairs, somebody's gonna get thrown out."
"People in my neighborhood crack jokes about what I do. They say I'm gonna turn gay. But I love bein' with the females. I dance for men and women. I would dance for women more but I need to dance for the men for the money. There's not enough money from the females. What I get from the females is pussy. For real. But I can get pussy on my own time. Some dancers trade dances for pussy but then they ain't talkin' about digits. If I wanted to make a lot of money I would only dance for fat girls. Yeah send me to a fat farm." Laughs.
"But I try to tell some of these dancers, 'where's your sense of the game?' Me, Carlos and James are different. We know this is a business and this is what we need to do. It's about the digits. Not about gettin' pussy."
What's the most you've gotten dancing in one night? What's normal? "Once I got $600, no $800."
I'm not sure he's not making these figures up.
"$200 is pushing it. Usually around $100 -- 150."
"You gotta please your customer, then just move on. Buy him a drink whatever. They appreciate. They tip. That shit adds up. Some of the other dancers see that and they start talkin' shit but the Motha fuckaz don't understand, when females come to the club they ain't givin' you nothin'. Now, I ain't no gay man's superhero but get real. This is who comes to see you week in and week out. These females come one night for a party and the dancers get all up in them and then the girls don't tip. And the fellaz don't tip either 'cause they get pissed."
The sound of spanking comes from another room.
"It's all good though."
He belches.
I finish his Dr. Pepper as we get ready to leave. We're both still dressed as we make our way through the towel clad men. I think how ironic that of all the times I've done this, this time I interview someone who is actually in the business and nothing sexual happened.
7 Sept 2001
Specimen 4a
Baseball cap backwards, plain white T-shirt, baggie black sweats with side patch pocket, Timberlands with white socks.
Nails lacquered – "I was due."
Hair is growing back.
It's hot in here; I'm sweating.
He has killer eyes, a goatee. He didn't shave. Hole in his ear. Eyebrows well formed. Long, long lashes.
We both sit on the cot. That is, I move from the nightstand to the cot.
His fingertips rest on his thighs.
Take your hat off.
I feel as though I should have said "please."
His hair is very black and straight at the root. It's about 1/8 of an inch long.
I can't take it when he looks directly at me.
Rubs his hair.
Cap is a "Phillies" cap ("P").
Looks at a lube packet.
Thin raspberry lips.
His hairline recedes just a bit on each side, with a peak in the middle.
Narrow face. A few scars on his forehead.
He could be from anywhere -- Middle East, Spain, Arab, Jew.
Sometimes he looks scared or intimidated. I'm calming down.
Plays with lube packet. Puts it down. I tell him I just wrote that. He smiles. I melt.
"Pass me my jacket."
I do. He gets baggie of weed and starts breaking buds on the trashcan he’s turned upside-down.
He takes off his shirt -- "It's extremely hot in this Motha Fucka."
"JAH" tattooed on his left biceps. "America's Most Blunted" on his right.
Pointy nipples, just a little darker than chest skin.
He separates weed into lines.
Begins to roll.
I think – I don't want to get kicked out of here for drugs. I don't want to ask him to stop. I don't know what will happen.
He's made a joint. I'm sweating.
I say, I've never been here in the afternoon before.
His body. Not cut. But built. Very little body hair. Some stragglers below the navel.
He focuses on rolling the second joint.
Do you shave your body? "Yeah, well, not my body, just my (pause) genitalia."
Why? I don't know, I don't know. For sex reasons I guess. It eliminates odor."
But not your underarms? "No. I need to. I sure smell down there."
We're not smoking the joints; he puts them aside on the cot.
Calm again.
Listening to the jangle of keys all around us.
Trance music.
Veiny forearms.
Have you ever been arrested? “I got called in on a warrant. First one was for selling weed. It went to trial. I skipped out. When I got caught for selling bootleg movies I got caught on the old warrant. Then I was arrested for smoking weed. I did 48 hours.”
Where? By which I meant where did he do the 48 hours but he answers where he was arrested. “Clinton High School. Fordham Road. Over Park.”
What am I doing here? I think to myself.
I sit closer.
Almost on the joints. Sorry, I think of Woody Allen blowing the cocaine in Annie Hall.
Sorry. “Don’t worry about it.”
Do you work out? “Not in two months. I need to get back on it. Keep my shit together.”
Where? “A gym on Fordham Road.”
Who are the girls you work with? (In your live porno shows.) "Nobody special -- just girls I meet in the clubs."
So, tell me about these live porno acts. "Just what I tell the customer. Instead of watching a tape he can watch us live. They get to jerk off. Or direct. Like ‘do it like this. Do it like that.’ Plus they get to touch me. I figure that if they payin' they might as well get to touch me."
Who are these customers? “Regular guys. Businessmen, bankers, lawyers, one guy owns a vineyard out in California."
Where do you do the shows? "Their place or their motel, hotel, whatever."
Do you run ads? "No ads. I find them in the clubs. They ax me if I do private shows and I give them the rundown."
Can you take your pants off?
He does. He's not wearing underwear. I'm surprised. I wasn't quite ready for that.
He puts his Timberlands back on.
He becomes aware of the music. I guess as it gets later the music gets more intense.
"What is this a health spa?" I make an obscene gesture with my middle finger and the other hand as a way of explaining.
His pubes are just growing back in. "I'm normally bald."
I tell him the only time I've ever "shaved" was when I had crabs. I'm not sure how I feel about this pube shaving thing.
He's circumcised, about five inches. He displays his big balls in his hand for me like they were some rare jewels. His dick moves on its own. The shaft is darker than the head.
Smallish hands. I think of the Hebrew word for eggs -- "BAYT-tseem" -- which is used for balls. Much more appropriate than "balls" or "nuts."
Have you ever done a show with another guy? "Just dancing, that's about it."
Not hairy legs. Skinny calves. I can't believe …
What's the wildest thing you've ever done? Professionally? "I don't know. Fuck a guy's girlfriend while he watched. I spit and pissed on some dude one time. He asked me. But I'd just smoked a blunt so I had no spit. One good lugie was it. Once a guy showed up with ropes and shit; had me nervous. But he just wanted me to tie him up and interrogate him."
I tell him I have a friend who worked as a Dom. He smiles. I am dying.
His dick keeps moving without growing. He keeps stroking the short hair on his head. Looking up at the ceiling.
I watch him breathe.
His right hand is over his left breast.
Beautiful cock.
How long were you in Puerto Rico? "Maybe two years -- 6th grade and 7th grade."
A few hairs around the nipples. Deep navel. Straight black pubes.
(Pause)
He plays his ribcage in time to the music.
Could you roll over?
Looks dreamy and far away.
Almost no tan line.
"Didn't go to the beach at all this summer. Just one day, the day of the parade. Ain't been to a tanning salon in a while either."
Cute butt, no bubble.
His left (shod) foot crosses his right leg as he lies on his belly. He plays with end of a towel. His calves are hairy. I'm too shy to ask to see his crack.
You used to wear an earring? "Used to. Took that shit off a long time ago."
Small birthmark on upper thigh.
He is the most beautiful boy in the world, I smirk to myself.
The music has been off for a while.
Sounds of bare footsteps and keys jangling in the hallway beyond the door,
Quiet.
We're quiet.
I don't want to talk while the music's off. I'm curious about his feet.
Someone's cell phone rings in another room.
No overt sex sounds.
He fingers the towel.
Hasn't looked at me for a long time.
Little movement in the hips.
Yay! The music's back on.
He's bobbing his head to the rhythm.
So you've never placed an ad in the gay magazines? "No ads. I sell weed and ecstasy and do private shows."
I thought you said you didn't do ecstasy? "I don't do it, I just sell it."
I stand to get a better overview,
He hasn't changed position in five minutes.
Carly Simon / Janet Jackson remix of "You're So Vain."
You can roll over if you want to?
He does so right away.
Shiny scrotum.
Smiles.
This is perhaps the most masochistic thing I've ever done.
Over the loud speaker -- "Room 242, please come out to the main desk." That's not us.
Do you want to jerk off? "If you want."
He puts a towel over the entire front of his body like a tablecloth.
"Pass me one of those shits," meaning packet of lube.
You're right handed?
He strokes out away from his body. Dick's about five. Now he's pumping back and forth. He holds the packet in his left hand. Slow to get hard. He watches his hand and cock. I keep watching his face. He has a bit of a scowl. Perfect nose. I'm hard -- (and fully dressed.) He pumps faster. He lets go of his dick. Spurts. Not too much. Not too far. A tablespoon's worth maybe. He wipes his hands on the towel. He never looks at me. He wipes his dick really well. Squeezes out the last drop.
"I love this song."
I ask who it is. He tells me Blue Cantrell. He sees I've written B-L-U-E.
"No, it's just B-L-U.”
11 October 2001
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