Michael Alig



If not for the woman who’d given birth to me, I’d never have stepped foot in this land of over­weight, sweat­pant-wear­ing nor­mals driv­ing SUVs and stuff­ing their faces with cheese-cov­ered ‘meat’ pat­ties, slathered in greasy may­on­naise, mak­ing me feel nau­seous. But it was my first ‘va­ca­tion’ in 20 years. Vis­it­ing my mother for the hol­i­days in dear old, pop­u­la­tion-dwin­dling, fast foodrid­dled South Bend, In­di­ana.

It was a dreary, almost spook­ily con­form­ist sec­tion of the USA, which I’d left with rea­son. But a son could seem un­grate­ful for not mak­ing an at­tempt to spend time with his mother. So I made an ef­fort to fly the ap­prox­i­mately 400 kilo­me­tres, bring­ing mom a few ex­pen­sive-look­ing baubles, show­ing her the lat­est press clip­pings ex­plain­ing what­ever new projects I was work­ing on and – with a bit of luck! – pick­ing up a hot, back­wards base­ball cap-wear­ing, truck-driv­ing, red­blooded closet case.

Oh, I didn’t men­tion I’m at­tracted to closet cases? Not ex­clu­sively. I’ve dated ‘out’ men, in­clud­ing the in­fa­mous, iras­ci­ble DJ Keoki. Mostly, though, I go for the ‘straights’, and the time we spend to­gether is mag­i­cal. I’m some­one who loves feel­ing spe­cial and, in th­ese re­la­tion­ships, I of­ten am the only per­son th­ese guys can be their true selves in front of. For me, there’s no greater aphro­disiac.

And so it was with Tyler, a 26-year-old, six-foot-two hunk of corn-fed Americana with just the right amount of seedy, I’ll-doany­thing-if-it-feels-good men­tal­ity, in­tro­duced to me by a man my own age named An­drew. It wasn’t a wise move by An­drew, but to most men of a ‘cer­tain age’, a 20-some­thing straight-act­ing sex toy is too much to keep to them­selves. They must be shown off! Pa­raded! Just ask Madonna – what good are they kept locked away in their lav­ish, paid­for apart­ments?

‘Just don’t take him back to NYC,’ An­drew joked ner­vously. Tyler had been all over me that night, cud­dling in the back­seat, rub­bing my knees and thighs as An­drew chauf­feured us around look­ing for a spot that served al­co­hol at 2am on a Mon­day morn­ing. Nat­u­rally, I’d been con­sid­er­ing it. Tyler had no ties to In­di­ana. No job, no place to live, ex­cept with An­drew. I glanced at Tyler, the soft blonde of his barely-there mous­tache and goa­tee just beg­ging to be licked. Es­pe­cially after that sexy-ass grin and mis­chievous wink when An­drew asked, ‘What do y’all wanna do tonight?’

I got this, I thought, mak­ing a men­tal note of the dif­fer­ences be­tween me and An­drew. Me, an in­fa­mous, still-youth­ful-look­ing tempter and sen­sa­tion-seeker from New York City with a movie made of my life. And An­drew, look­ing at least three times older than me, with his Wal­mart job and in­abil­ity to even find a bar for his boy-toy. What a dummy, I thought. I could take this boy any­where tonight, with­out so much as lifting a pinkie.

And yet, I didn’t. I don’t know who was more sur­prised when I asked An­drew to drive me home. ‘I’m not into it tonight,’ I said as Tyler’s thigh-rub­bing stopped sud­denly, a look of con­fu­sion mar­ring his lean, un­lined face.

Even a year ago such a thing would have seemed un­heard of. Back then I’d have had the boy giv­ing me a blow job in the back­seat of An­drew’s car. What was hap­pen­ing? Why the dras­tic change? Erec­tile dys­func­tion? Or, even scarier, gain­ing a conscience? I never be­lieved I’d reach a point in my life where I’d be turn­ing down blow jobs from a boy who could’ve been the lost mem­ber of One Di­rec­tion. What would be the point of life if I couldn’t get my dick sucked by ev­ery scally boy from here to Buck­ing­ham Palace?

Driv­ing home, I re­alised grow­ing up wasn’t go­ing to be as scary as I’d feared. There re­ally was more to life than drugs and mean­ing­less sex. I’d come to South Bend a boy, but I was leav­ing a man.

I never be­lieved I’d reach a point in my life where I’d be turn­ing down blow jobs from a boy who could’ve been a lost mem­ber of One Di­rec­tion

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