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NOGM (from a novel-in-progress)

By
June 14, 2008

He asked if he could be my Nasty Old Gay Man. I paused. Only if I could be your Nasty Little Gay Boy.

Nasty Old Gay Man—that was his name. I think about him every now and then. I notice his three screen names online simultaneously, as if he were comprised of three personas. He is, I think. I don’t know; I didn’t get to know him that well. And it’s strange that I miss him.

I went through a series of shady Koreans, three of them. I wasn’t over my NOGM; I just wanted somebody like him. Three guys, three stories—one lonely boy.

1. In the parking lot of a storage facility

He responded to my Craigslist posting fairly quickly. Age, location, and phone number—he was strictly business. I was hesitant about meeting him, but he kept saying, Nothing has to happen. It doesn’t have to if you don’t want it to. We’ll go somewhere well-lit. C’mon.

It was around 9:30 P.M. on a school night. I drove to a nearby Target. Blinding lights looming over the parking lot. I call to see where he is. I see a man pick up his phone. He’s a tall gentleman, well-built, sun-crisped face. He has kind eyes, it seems.

We drive around in my car for a while, acquainting each other to avoid the silence, impenetrable silence. He keeps insisting we drive to a dark area to talk. To talk. I don’t question him. I turn where he tells me, and I park behind a truck-unloading area. An industrial part of my town. He says We should sit in the back. To talk.

He swoops for my face with his hands, his face. It’s a cold kiss, passionless. He tastes like ice. I try to enjoy, but I pull away. I don’t think I should. He wafts my head toward his crotch with a sweeping arm movement. He pulls down his pants and tells me to suck his cock. His hand tries to guide my head towards it. With force this time.

I pull back. An awkward smile—a nervous twitch. I don’t know. I don’t know about this. All of this. C’mon, you know you want to suck it. I don’t know. Do you want me to suck yours first?

I don’t know.

Look, how about we make out first?

I don’t say a word. His icy lips press upon mine. Undulating his tongue, working its way into my mouth: penetrating deeper, deeper. His hand exploring my body, unzipping my jeans, stripping me.

His hand over my cock and my balls. Stroking, kissing, tonguing, all the while keeping one eye open in the shady parking lot of this random storage facility. He goes down on me: his mouth fixed over my cock, going up and down and up again. A swift lick of the balls. Moaning in torture, in euphoria, I quiver while he tickles the head of my cock with his imposing tongue. I’m sitting there, wincing, moaning, grasping onto his thigh, about to moan louder and—

He’s stops. It’s your turn.

I hesitate to go down on my knees. In my Jeep, giving the parking lot a quick scan. Nobody there. I place my hand on his cock and go for it. I couldn’t get my mouth around it the first time—it was that thick.

We finish. A cramped, disgusting hour. He keeps smiling as I drive back to the parking lot—a victory smirk, maybe. His beady eyes shining like plastic buttons from the street lamp. Lights blinding us in interrogation. He leaves the car and says I’ll call you some time. I speed off, wondering if I should careen off the overpass into the traffic below.

2. In the parking lot of another storage facility

I liked him. We had been talking for a month. A UCLA alumnus, teacher-in-training, big brother type. He reminded me of my NOGM.

Antsy Saturday night. I come home at 2 A.M., not yet ready to rest. He’s horny. He wants me. And if he wants me, then I want him. We debate for an hour, weighing whether or not he should do this. He tells me to come outside 20 minutes later.

The conversation is mellow. No pressure, no nothing. It’s the first time we meet. But are you sure you want to do this comes up a lot. Yes, I’ll be fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry. He looks over at me occasionally, eyes as clear as water. Sincere, I think to myself. I tell him to turn into that dimly lit parking lot. He doesn’t question me.

We go to the backseat of his car. Eyes meet through the dirty mustard lights. Another, Are you sure you want to do this? Yes, I’m sure. His eyes press shut lightly, his face coming towards mine. The kiss is sweet with a slight fire behind it.

He and I unzip my jeans, his head already in position. More intimate. I feel his warm breath against my thighs, grazing me like embers. He takes his time. I tell him I want to do him now. Are you sure you want to do this for the seventh time? Yes, I’m sure.

He curls his fingers as his hand rests against my shoulder. I’ve never had a blowjob like this before. His encouragement fuels my lust. I bob, twist, circumnavigate, suckle, lick everything he has to offer. He runs his fingers through my head, rubbing it. Like a noogie. Kiddo.

He finishes; I finish soon afterwards. We drive through the street lamp stares, bending and twisting and melding. He drops me off at the curb. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. At the corner like a cheap prostitute.

I lose contact with him.

3. Behind the church

He wanted to be my big brother. That was all, though. He wasn’t really special, but he seemed nice enough. A nice, ordinary bloke.

Another antsy Saturday night. I come home from the movies with friends, looking for something to do. Or someone. He instant messages me.

He picks me up ten minutes later at the corner. He rolls his window down to say Hi. I get in the car; he tries to make conversation. Oh wow, so you must be smart then, huh. Where’s RISD again? Providence, Rhode Island. Oh right, right. I ask him, What do you do.

Gap of silence.

I’m an assistant manager. At Walgreen’s. Oh, that’s cool.

Impenetrable silence, sound not salvageable.

He finds a church with a dark parking lot. Behind the chapel, no light striking our spot. We go to his back seat. The usual: eyes meet, kiss, unzip, blow, et cetera. I finish early so I can go home faster. Feels too cheap this time, isn’t worth it. Forgot that God was watching this time, too.

He leaves a musk in the back of my throat—couldn’t get it out for a while. I taste his sweat and dirt. Marking his territory, I guess. He says I’ll call you some time. Dropped off at the corner again. Light bends and turns the other way. An endless walk to get back home.

* * * *

Korean Number 2 instant messaged me yesterday. We played a bit of catch up.

(On the subject of something more recent)
 

Me: because most guys with homoerotic feelings don’t necessarily insinuate the notion of homosexuality into their heads
Me: the recent guy is.. i dont know what he is
Me: i dont know what he wants
Him: ahh
Him: its hard to accept
Me: and it’s bad that i’m finding comfort in guys who will never find interest in me other than my body and dick or whatever
Him: i’m sorry
Him: if it’s worth anything, i really did like you
Him: i just couldn’t

 
Then why—why that night? I liked him. He liked me. He just couldn’t, I guess. It seems like no one can.

JIN YOUNG SOHN is currently a freshman at the Rhode Island School of Design studying Apparel Design. In his free time he enjoys reading, crocheting and drawing.

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