Walter Reed

Cop Out

Long before Kelvin Taylor became the porn star, Felony, he was just a regular guy with dreams of becoming a police officer. He stared his high school days in the Bronx at Evander High, at the most dangerous school in the most dangerous borough, where a student was murdered and then buried in the schoolyard, only to be found a decade later. Then he moved on to Columbus High, bullying gays to hide his own homosexuality. From high school high to crash courses on becoming a police officer, he entered the brown bag, bottom-shelf life of the porn industry.

A dream deferred began a brief affair with porn at the tender age of 21, after just one homosexual tryst. He appeared opposite of 20 year veteran Slim Thug, 36. Due to size requirements that Kelvin couldn’t meet, commanding less than 10 inches—he found himself on the bottom. Sometimes you have to let someone go through the back door to get closer to your dreams. After that scene, he earned the name Felony after the underwear he wore coupled with the police scene involving a stop and frisk session. “I was nervous at first and it hurt, but the pain eventually turned to pleasure” he said, turning him into a pro overnight.

Apparently it was so good that night with Slim Thug, it turned into a three year courtship. They agreed, that both of them would be transparent whenever shooting scenes. They also had to use condoms. Unfortunately, Slim Thug was allegedly sleeping around all over the city that never sleeps with or without condoms, unbeknownst to Kelvin. Their lives in porn, inevitably put a strain on the relationship. “I wished I hadn’t done porn and just become a cop,” he said. At six feet tall, he would look amazing in the uniform.

Two years and nearly 25 movies later, he decided which movies to do. “I got tired of being a bottom and it wasn’t happy in that role.” He said. Kelvin was featured bottoms up everywhere from Breed it Raw to Dawgpound USA.

After his porn days waned, he started his nights escorting. “People who escort give us a bad name,” he said. “It wasn’t just sex; It was more like nude massages with happy endings.” Apparently, it was more like nude jerk-off sessions masquerading as massages. Each happy-meal cost $200. He gained clients through an ad placed on Adam4adam, the popular sex site.

When it comes to sex off screen he’s a bonafide top. “I like to be the man in the relationship,” he said, “but I can be flexible and be a bottom for my man sometimes.” When approaching relationships, Kelvin looks for someone, who embodies both masculine and effeminate qualities. He also likes supportive and motivating men.

Life outside of porn has him exactly where he wants to be in a relationship, “I am a relationship oriented person,” he said. “I spent more time in a relationship than being single.” Kelvin is four months into his current monogamous relationship with his live-in boyfriend, a school teacher and friend of three years. They’re in love.

He spends his days dreaming—hoping to someday work for a company like Sony or Microsoft, developing new video games, and building new technologies like the projectile t.v. or the next Playstation. He will be enrolling back in college next year to pursue his goals.

You can catch Kelvin, dancing in clubs all over the city anywhere from Secrets to El Morocco. He enjoys the combination of hanging out in the clubs and drinking while working. “It’s not always about the money,” he said. “If it’s a slow night… I just put on my clothes on and have a drink and hang out.”

Lights, Camera, and a Golden Chariot to the Bronx

by Walter Reed

The boogie down Bronx got the party started well after dark. Perhaps it was the proximity of apartment buildings that line the Grand Concourse, a street name that suffered from delusions of grandeur. However, my Grindr application kept me distracted while Tiny entertained his guests behind a closed door.

We arrived by taxi to an eclectic neighborhood. Tiny was formidable, at 7ft tall in heels. He was brought down to earth when he pulled his dress up and started peeing in the middle of the street. The inevitable pit stop concluded after a long night of binge drinking at Secrets, where I told Miss America to not let those hoes hate on her. How classy and delightful! She laughed and I bought another cocktail.

I accompanied Tiny to the Bronx, because the trek to Brooklyn was endless. So, there we were walking, until we ran into his husband, who was heading out to start his shift at some fast food institution. However, I had no idea that was license for Tiny to start his shift as well. Who had time to do hair when you can suck and go for ten minutes per session? You don’t even have to go to college to learn that. It’s a trade he picked up at night school on the corner of Teen Pregnancy and Abortion.

Four guys and four hours later, his blond mane and smeared make-up made him look exhausted. His night time drag was show time for his sex sessions. Drag is the thing when dealing with sex zombies in the neighborhood. He handled the men one at a time like a self-checkout line—CVS style. No CVS card required. One more guy probably would have gotten us free burgers and fries.

Instead he charged $20 for each joyride, whether the client got off or not. Apparently, they had 15 minutes to reach their euphoric destination. You can tell, which ones did based upon their facial expressions when they left the room.

“You going to do me like that,” he said. “I’m a good customer.”

Tiny dismissed him and brought the next one in. Survey says out of the four candidates, two smiles, a frown, and a blank expression equipped with a limp were recorded. The findings were inclusive.

As the sun soared, I began to reflect on the events that transpired, until Tiny appeared at the entrance of his doorway, naked with two hands covering his Yankee doodle. Was the gateway to $20 happy meals opening up for me? Some portals should remain closed, and luckily for me it did.

“At $20 a pop, does that make me a prostitute?” Tiny asked. “Well, I don’t care. I made my cab money back.”

I shrugged my shoulders and took another sip of wine. I couldn’t handle hard news before noon.

Malice in Wonderland

by Walter Reed

Walter having a moment. — Walter Reed, contributing writer and stylist.

A romantic journey down the rabbit hole and back, where unrequited love set the stage before the fall. I considered a life on pause, punctuated by relics of a bygone courtship, with hope of some day, pressing play and starting where we left. Why stress John’s possible return, and be chastised by the personification of the Cheshire Cat? My wanderlust took me to wonderland and around the world over the course of a year. Thinking our path could intersect on the corner of getting down on one knee and saying I do, would be like taking directions from Twiddle-Dee and Twiddle-Dum.

Heading in with your heart on your sleeve will get you beheaded by the Queen. I’m not going to be sitting around, waiting to exhale. I rather shoop, shoop down the street and shop. I’m torn like I am between two designer skirts at the same price at Barney’s while only able to afford one. Rick Owens or Givenchy? These are the times that try men’s clothes. I would rather be shopping for something white to wear down the aisle, instead of my all black regiment.

I’m jumping the broom too soon! He hasn’t proposed. He may have given a ring to my cellphone but that is not an engagement ring make. Recently, he called me at 2:30 am. A phone call that late is for a man fluent in booty. What could he possibly want so late at night? My mind takes me to sultry places I haven’t been all week.

The absence of a proposal hasn’t swayed the public opinion of my closest friends. They are convinced that he wants me back and I should be prepared. A little thing called self-respect repels me from picking up parasites. Some may want their exes to want them back. I refuse to be likened to the predicament of ghetto heterosexual relationships where the women are stuck raising the children while the men are in jail. A life like that would make me madder than the Mad-hatter. I won’t RSVP to that tea party.

I’m not interested in my past penetrating my present, especially if I’m an elevated version of myself, wearing Givenchy.

Yet, I offered him an opportunity to ask me back. I wanted my friends to be right, until I suggested that we should talk. He became apprehensive. “I need to know what this is about,” he said. “Pending on the subject, I may not want to have a discussion.”

*Scoff* We don’t have to talk. “I choose not the suffocating sedative of hope but the shocking stimulant of reality,” I said. “You don’t have to commit to a conversation, all I have left to say will remain unspoken.”

Following the white rabbit back down the hole, like he had answers to what ails my romance was tomfoolery. Relationships are tricky, I would be first to admit that I’m no expert. Killing time for the king of my heart, would not be smart since he would never measure up to a delusional fantasy. My poetic justice seep from my pursed lips. I no longer need validation from an emotionally unavailable man.

I tarry there benign like a non-cancerous cell waiting dormant, hoping to survive the agony of unrequited love, a mirage of multiple nightmares, as I lay dying for the opportunity to wake up. My transcendence tramples over the melancholic memories of my failed romance. The plight of a broken heart had me swimming through a pool of tears, and back to reality.

I awoke from what seemed to be a dream, as the season changed, marking an end to an era.

Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on the City.

by Walter Reed

I am not a transsexual! There is nothing wrong with transitioning your spare parts. Nor is there any wrongdoing in using them on married men from New Jersey at the pier. However, it’s not my thing. I just like the clothes. On a Friday night after a couple of cocktails and sample sales, someone handed me a flyer stating:

Transexual wanted! A reality show producer seeks a transvestite, transgender or transexual person. $500+ a day….

What?! At $500 a day I could be! Where am I going to find some breasts? Perhaps, I could find someone who knows someone at the pier. Wait…let’s be clear, I am nobody’s tranny.

We live in an environment where dressing like our straight male counterparts is ideal. I meet so many of these cookie-cutter macho men dressed in wife-beaters and Timbs. They are closeted queens, getting poked by trannies in the alleys behind bars all over the city.

I choose not the suffocating anesthetic of street wear, but the electric jolt of designer skirts and dresses. Men’s fashion hasn’t changed much in the past 50 years. While menswear designers and consumers are content with those complacent concoctions, masquerading as fashion, I prefer to blend my genders to create new gender-bending silhouette: a juxtaposition of soft and hard.

Living in the city that never sleeps, you’ll find that the way we dress is not as gay as you think. In terms of what we wear, it’s a lot more closeted. Take our gay-borhoods or gay bars, you’ll find most gays dressed in t-shirts, jeans and fitted caps. No skirts, dresses or even short-shorts in 100-degree weather. When did we take the homo out of homosexual, and made it a homogenous decree for fellow gays to live by?

In the height of the sexual seventies before the age of AIDS; the city was swept with so many gays, parties and party favors. Although sex is usually on the table, in the bathroom, or in the doorway. A time when gays were so out it was in again. Now we have Splash closing and countless others before it, gay bashings and fake drugs. It was like the city’s insanity was wiped away with a giant sanitation napkin. Are we too afraid of the big disease that nearly destroyed the city three decades ago?

Before Paris was burning in underground clubs all over the city; it was on fire on the streets of Manhattan. Tales of sex, drugs and discotheques is like an urban legend compared with the status quo. Who gave New York City a Xanax?

The rise of Time Square and the fall of the twin towers put a damper on the edge of the city. The ho-stroll is filled with broke homeless hoes. The bars now cards and even the oldest male clientele have to show ID. Our first gay bar in the country, Stonewall, after four decades is now a museum for single women, the lesbians who love them, and random straight men who want to have sex with them all. The after-hours is in Atlanta, and the sex shops are empty. Barney’s Co-Op shut it’s doors in Chelsea for good, leaving little viable options to shop in the gay-borhood.

Our city is in a slump. We the gay people need to put our heterosexual self on the shelf next to the porn stash and take the homosexual back out of the closet.

The Gay Way at Westway

by Walter Reed

I could of danced all night, and if I had $10 more I would have. Tuesday night is the new Friday night for gays. It started just after Cinderella ended hers. She could of spent the night with me, cleaning the gritty streets of the city with our dancing feet; if she didn’t lose her shoe and had a better fairy godmother. I knew fairy tales didn’t reflect reality. However, this fairy shook his tail all over Le Soux in the Greenwich Village.

Bottomless bottle service tested my willpower, which I failed each time, unable to resist yet another cocktail. Two sips and six hits of hookah later, I swiveled like a high-class hooker through a revolving door of a hotel searching for a senator to suck on. I danced with a brother from another country, who lacked rhythm and flavor like a Canadian on summer vacation drinking Canada Dry. Make no mistake I had no plans on pulling a move from the movie, Pretty Woman, dressed in high heels and short shorts.

We drove over to Westway, which was so gay on Tuesday; it’s called Westgay. It was so hot it was in again. It was uncomfortable at first like my new shoes I had to break in. The venue featured a live performance by Mykki Blanco, who wore a white skirt with a matching bra and a pair of white clunky heels. The look was quite clinical, save his weave that swayed from side to side, dripping with sweat and grease—sort of like a mop tangled in an oil spill. I’ve never heard his songs before, but I danced to them anyways.

After I sweated out my dress and turban, the club closed. During my walk to the station, I meandered into two strangers in front of CVS, one was tall and sexy and the other was short and average.
“Where are you going,” said the tall one.
“I’m walking to the station.”
“No, you’re going the wrong way.”
“Oh, perhaps you can show me.”
“You’re drunk. Where are you coming from?”
“Yes, I am. And I’m coming from Westway.”

Who said New Yorker’s weren’t friendly? We walked a couple of blocks towards the one train. Although, I needed the A train; I figured I was one step closer to my destination. I ditched the two strangers after getting directions. Moments later I ran into Sebastian, a freelance visual merchandiser I worked with three months ago. He exited the train station, equipped with Vicodin and a smile. He was 6ft tall and in his mid-30’s. He greeted me with a kiss on the lips. Sebastian was drunk and so was I, so I let it slide.

“I miss working with you,” he said while holding my hand. “I meant to call you but I’ve been so busy.”
His reluctance stemmed from him having a boyfriend, who was abroad in India.

“Well, your loss,” I said. “I only wanted to hangout, not have sex with you.”
He laughed and kissed me again. This time he grabbed the small of my back and held it.
“I still remember that night we hung out at Splash,” he said. “I enjoyed spanking your bare ass.”

I was drunk that night too, post break-up in a short black skirt. We could have gone as far as we wanted. I could of used a distraction. Instead we settled for a lap-dance on the bar.

“I also remember you grabbing me and flipping me over the railing.”
He laughed out loud, grabbing me again for just one more kiss. He held out a white pill in his palm.
“What is that?”
“It’s Vicodin. You take it with champagne and gets you where you need to be”
“How Upper East Side of you?”
“Save it for later and do it at home.”
And that’s exactly what I did. He kissed me good night.
“My boyfriend will be back this weekend,” he said. “So, I’ll have to be good.”

He winked at me and went down the stairs. I made it home wondering if I’ll ever see him again.

22 Minutes to Oz

by Walter Reed

After a string of dates we had sex. It was inevitable. Unfortunately, it occurred between my laundry and his laundry list. We made plans to go all the way after a candlelit dinner, instead we settled for a candle and air conditioning–our version of a candle in the wind. He arrived at my place 30 minutes late in his father’s truck. He wore black shorts and a uniform top. After three minutes he attempted to get me in bed.

Bobbie: “You want me to pull it out.”
Me: “Sure, if you want to.”

My friend Sean told me about a guy he dated for a month. They captured their first sexual experience in the AM. “It was so horrible and uncomfortable,” he said. “I think I’m going to have to break up with him.” I was neither surprised nor did I need to supervise to see the results. Sex during rush hour is like the morning commute: exhausting, awkward and to be avoided at all costs.

Morning sex should be reserved for the married, or couples who have been dating for a while. To ensure you both get off quickly, to shower, have breakfast and leave for work on time–you need a choreograph routine. However, it doesn’t always garner the best sexual experience but with practice and precision it can be pleasurable.

Bobbie craved sex just after sunset. However, to be succinct we were not in sync. His performance only pleased himself. I had a glass of wine handy to enhance the experience. He channeled Adebisi from Oz through role-play. “I’m going to fuck you like Adebisi,” he said.

I’m sure Adebisi was as endowed as the Empire State Building. I would have loved to have soared to the cusp of the stratosphere. Yet with Bobbie, I liking it to humping on him in the deep hallows of a city dump. Neither wine nor Rush could wash away the waste that plague our status quo. Not even the wizard himself could lead us to Oz. He escaped as soon as he released himself.

Bobbie: “I have to go and give my dad back his car. Next time it will be better.”
Me: “Good night.”

As he left, I realized he was a fraud just like the wizard himself: an embodiment of broken promises and unfulfilled dreams. He lied to get what he wanted from me. I closed the door and locked it tight. I haven’t seen him since.

Barback On The Train Track

by Walter Reed

One night after too much drinking, I received a random phone call from Leo. He told me that he just got finished having bareback sex with a barback. I gagged. Jamming something in raw is like stuffing another outfit in an already overstuffed suitcase. That’s too much vaseline for me. Giving today’s sexual climate is it smart to have unprotected sex?

Doing it in the butt like the song suggested, can lead to a shitty situation. It could have you running for a shower post-cordial, scrubbing off shit until the sun comes up. Perhaps, you be better off taking a rinse in the spin cycle. The mere possibility alone of encountering a sandstorm makes you want to grab a raincoat stat.

“Leo, how did you end up barebacking the bareback?” I waited in anticipation for his response: “Well, he hit me up on Jack’d and said he wanted me to fuck him raw. So I met up with him that night and gave him what he wanted.” I can’t.

I couldn’t believe what I heard. There’s something sordid about sleeping with a stranger. Thoughts of sweaty silhouettes leaving evidence on stained sheets filled my head. Oh the secrets they must keep. Some have a hefty sexual appetite fed on multiple courses of scandalous acts, consuming every concoction no matter the cost.

This is no public service announcement. However, something must be said about the physical and psychological damage one could inflict on one’s self just after one casual tryst. When your life is in the balance, is the risk worth the reward?

Some like doing it after dark in a park, where the risk of getting caught is higher than getting off. Yet, the demand for public sex is there. I know living in the city can be cramped. You often have one more roommate than you ever knew you needed. Whether it’s parent sleeping in the master bedroom; a friend in town indefinitely (you’re just unaware of it), or a Craigslist find, casually renting out a room for weekend sessions. Perhaps, you would be better off by taking your trick to the back of a train station.

Is Casual too Casual?

by Walter Reed

All around me, people are having sex: It can be great and not so great. Sex with an ex or Rex, a complete stranger, can be good and plenty. If “sexaholics” are the new “shopaholics,” then casual sex is the new black. Is casual sex something to try on or should it be left hanging in the sale section?

Some people cannot live without sex. Some need to take their potential trysts from point A to the park bench. However, who should suffer at the handcuffed hands of these shameless sex addicts? Which leads to my ultimate question: in the age of un-innocence, should we buy into things that we can’t return?

However, something should be said about the number of people hooking up at an alarming rate. With the age range being from grade school to the retirement home. It effects us more than you think. The guy I dated told me about a past sexual encounter, starring the surprising tight grandma. I gagged–literally.

“She was recently divorced, and my friend’s grandma was always nice to me,” he said. “So, I said fuck it lets do it. Shit, it was the best ass i ever had.”

I can’t. Could you imagine? That sounds like a gift that repeats. I wonder why he is now dating men. I guess I have to compete with grandma for the best ass in the city.

However, the lure of a casual encounter can be so enticing that all logic is thrown out of your bedroom window. Within a snap I could be on app. Usually that time would have been best spent taking a nap. A warm body next to mine is preferred after midnight. Why the sudden craving? It’s certainly better than Warm Bodies, that tragic movie about a Vampire and a human falling in love. Don’t get me started. The premise alone makes me want to grab an apple martini and run for the hills.

Casual sex is like a cheap champagne. A mixture of manufactured emotions and bottled up urges popped and released after shaking it too much. The next morning you wonder who’s in your bed and more importantly when are they leaving. So, you quickly tell them that you have to go to work and that he needs to go; or in the words of Sweet Brown, he needs to run for his life without no shoes on or nothing Jesus.

Thoughts turn to a situation I had when I asked a guy to leave; he had the nerve to ask me for money for his metro card. Oh no he didn’t. I knew I should have invested my time in a better bottle of champagne. In therapy, they would have called this a break-through.

When the time arrives, have a couple try-on sessions, get a second opinion, and make sure they have a generous return policy. No one wants buyer’s remorse.

The Way We Wore

by Walter Reed

Over the past few weeks, Manhattan has been overwhelmed with gay bashings, culminating to murder near the Grey’s Papaya on West 8th street and Sixth Ave in the West Village. It’s shocking to hear that these hate crimes are being committed in our gayest neighborhoods. These casual criminals were as bad as the knock-offs on Canal street, getting caught within minutes of committing their crimes. In a status quo that set us back two decades, will it be safe for gays to don there most daring fashion choices?

Marc Carson, who was murdered in the West Village, was identified as being gay because he wore shorts and boots. He was targeted based on what he wore. This news was disturbing, since I liked to strut in the shortest shorts of the season. Such violence was expected in the Himalayas of Brooklyn. There are parts of Brooklyn like East New York or Flatbush where one wouldn’t dare wear pom pom shorts past happy hour for fear of being attacked. Yet this was happening in the movie making, celebrity filled Manhattan. Why the sudden change in a post Sandy world?

Religion and fashion went together like strangers giving out candy. I came to the city that never sleeps to practice my fashion choices in peace. What we wore, shaped and defined our lives. It was as essential as breakfast in the morning. I had no intentions to revert back to the political stylings of the nation’s conservatively dressed Capitol–where I was born and raised. A gay man’s right to shoes should be protected as well as skirts, kilts, and dresses–oh my!

It’s neither always sunny on Independence Day nor is it always snowing on Christmas. However, that didn’t deter me from wanting to see the fireworks while remaining completely dry. It also did not keep me from wishing for a White Christmas ever winter. We don’t live in a perfect world. The shenanigans of these shady thugs can’t force us back into the closet. Besides our wardrobes didn’t fit in the narrow cages that imprisoned their minds.

Is there is a way for us all to co-exist in an environment as diverse as the concrete jungle? There is no such thing as a life without conflict. However, we do have our gay-borhoods. So if one isn’t pro gay then stay out our neighborhoods and take that homophobia elsewhere. We have to try as people to be better than we were the day before. I embraced my freedom to wear black as often as possible. Skirts and dresses were my preference to layer over leather pants and skinny jeans, not my sexual orientation. I have the right to define my humanity, through the way I choose to dress in any city, borough or district.

Walter Reed

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