The usual admonitions apply. Don't attempt to do any of this at home.
A STREETCAR NAMED N JUDAH by Jerry Weiss
When I lived in San Francisco, I used to go out at night to Ocean Beach at the end of Golden Gate Park to get pissed on. I'm such a fucking romantic.
The ghost-like N Judah gliding down to the sea through the avenues and into the fog, the warm wan lights of the homes and neighborhood bars near 48th (and last) Avenue, the air of mystery of the night and the mist...it was like being in friggin' Casablanca. Bogarting my joint, I'd get chills of anticipation as I walked over to the seawall, under the Beach Highway. The arched seawall and the brightness of the streetlights above created a blind spot where the seawall disappeared into the beach below, so that you couldn't make out what was happening under the seawall from the beach or from above, a perfect place for gonzo outdoor sex.
With the Pacific lapping at the shore, the cold winds would whip on the beach as stoned hippies would make music around bonfires, and offshore you could hear the calls of the sea lions. But just under the sea wall, it was relatively warm and calm. I would kneel down and wait, sometimes taking off all my clothes.
Men, married or otherwise, from the neighborhood would walk their dogs along the beach side of the sea wall, not averse to any action they could pick up. Some of the guys from the bonfires would leave their girls for a bit and wander over occasionally. Most of them were looking for a blow job. Some I persuaded to piss on me. The best ones were the tough dudes who pissed all over me without being asked. I mean...naked guy kneeling under the sea wall? A urinal for sure. Let's whip it out and take a leak.
Some offered my favorite combination plate: grinding their big dude ass into my face while I ate out their holes like the world-class pucker licker I am; when they'd had enough of that, standing me up, turning me around and fucking the bejesus out of my ass; then after they'd come, baptizing me into their godhood by pissing on me while I jacked off.
If a particularly hot bunch of muscle seemed uninterested or coy, the $20 bill I always kept tucked in the palm of my left hand was very persuasive.
The danger, the fog, the chill air, the shadows, the sex and the smell of the sea combined to produce a thrilling sensual experience that shot your body and mind up into the stars. It'd get me so high and jacked up that sometimes, with the vibes I was putting out and my own youthful good looks at the time, I'd end up turning a trick myself on the way home. $20 out, $20 in and nobody got hurt. It was kind of like downhill speed skiing for cocksuckers.
My inner being would shout: I am a player in the Universe! Here he is world, here's Jerry!! I'd strut down the street for days afterward, long hair blowing in the wind, top 'o the world, ma, toppa the world!!
Once this young dude all in leather from UC Berkeley got rougher than I'd anticipated. A hard love-tap puncher and pincher, he took me across the highway into the trees at the end of the park, had me leave my clothes under a tree, and then we moved through the forest, him using me as a punching bag and spurting periodic streams of piss into my face while the vanilla queens in the bushes looked on bug-eyed. Fuck them, bumping pussies in the night. I had me a Man, go jack off in your panties if you can't stand it.
But I was shivering on the way home. This guy had stopped just short of exceeding my limits. Yet, who knew what darkness my provocations might incite in some other yet unmet person? Something in me was rebelling. The scenario of Tennessee Williams' "Desire and the Black Masseur" was not for me.
Still, I loved my fetish. I saved my clothes if some dude happened to piss on me while I was in them. I'd take them out of the hamper, and they'd be good for a hot beat-off 'cause their piss smelled fresh, healthy and manly. I roamed the city, danced my ass off to rock'n'roll at the Fillmore and Avalon, my long hair flying around my face, and then went into the night courting danger. Sometimes I really found it, I got robbed once or twice, occasionally I'd have to deal with a really sick freakazoid, but like Charlie Dick said about Patsy Cline in "Sweet Dreams," there ain't nothin' like makin' love to a dangerous [dude].
I lurked in the alleyways and shadows for many years pleasuring men -- my years in the labyrinth of desire. I danced with the minotaurs, many of them, and didn't let them devour me. That's how you deal with minotaurs when you're lost in a labyrinth. And the thread of my survival instinct remained intact -- stronger for the testing in the land of the Ishmaelites where Judah had sent me.
Eventually, I found my way out of the Baghdad by the Bay (leaving only a small portion of my hind parts in the form of a fistulectomy as my Theseus-like tribute to Hades), when it dawned on me that I was butcher than anyone that was presenting himself. I mean, how many engraved invitations and upturned asses begging to be fistfucked could I accommodate in a day? Moi, I just can't live in too nelly an environment. Here in New York City, city of my birth to which I've returned, there are plenty of neighborhoods where you can avoid the itsy poo. You can still sometimes find a man here who wants to play, but HIV has made abandoned freaky scenes like the above finally really too dangerous in a different sense. But there was a time...
I wonder sometimes about the young and wild ones today, those with a crazy streak like I had in my youth. What are they doing these days to get their ya-yas out? The things I did were a crap shoot, but with a high rate of return. Bareback PNP is a crapshoot with loaded dice. For adventure, better to take up skiing. Or if you're really daring, try love. But do something. Snow is general over Ireland, the latter end is the same for us all, without passion, you're already among The Dead.