the story of the cumstarved old man
I don’t know if I can actually tell the story of the cumstarved old man, but I can try.
The pretense of the meeting was that he was looking at my prints as a potential buyer. I thought I was going to show him several framed and unframed pieces; which he looked at. The meeting was created by a mutually trusted individual. Knowing him for a while, she warned me that he was basically a dirty old man and was horny for me, or thought he was. He had never met me, or seen my picture or anything, except hearing a description of my work.
I was not going to let this get in the way of selling him some art; but apparently it did, because as it turned out all he wanted to do was suck my cock; he was not vaguely interested in buying art.
This may have been related to the astonishing amount of coke he ingested, indeed to the point of bleeding. I wasn’t expecting quite that and I’ve never had to handle people on cocaine. That was not a drug of choice among any of my friends. The few times I’ve tried it it’s had no effect on me. But apparently it was having an effect on him.
I was a little stunned at how both direct and disgusting he was. Snot dripping onto his shirt, in a big gob, for instance; Tori wiped it up for him. I wondered how he could even assume that I would even vaguely be anything but repulsed; but pride is a foggy mirror. He was the owner of a highly successful vineyard; maybe that was supposed to mean something.
Eventually with some guidance from him, the conversation settled on his obsession with sucking cock for the first time in his life in a more universal sense, and experiencing an ejaculation in his mouth for the first time – desires which it occurred to me might go back to his childhood. He was now about 60 and looked like he could die on the spot. I think he survived by skimming the psychic energy off of porn, which was playing on three different widescreen monitors in different rooms.
I rarely say never, but nothing of the kind was going to happen. When he said he wanted to do it right then I laughed and said no.
Tori said, “He’s more the get to know you type,” which was even funnier. I could not contain my laughter and Tori fought off a smile with all her might.
I understood what he was going through. I was willing to contribute my Vestal ear and my understanding, knowing this is a meaningful part of the process: to accept being accepted. Part of being in the closet, particularly of a certain era, is the creation of nearly unbearable self-reproach for ‘having these feelings’. Which of course do not stop. I have known other closeted gay men from this era and it’s always extremely painful for them: the ultimate shame, combined with who they actually are.
I might have been the first man he said the words to; the first one he ever asked, after waiting for decades and having to be orbiting oblivion to get anywhere near the subject.