I did manage to contact some guys who claimed to be tops, well that's what they claimed to be. I called one for instance who'd advertised with his phone number which was most unusual. I'd tried calling from the room soon after checking in one evening but the line was engaged. On the way out, on an impulse, I tried again and got through. A guy with a typical New York accent answered. When I said I was calling about his ad looking for bottoms his voice immediately changed. Remember Marlon Brando in the Godfather film? Well that's what he sounded like, only he was over acting!
"Oh yer...so tell me 'bout yourself..." I started by telling him that I was 5' 8' and 140 pounds, but he interrupted me. "No, no, tell me 'boutcha balls, 'boutcha cock." I was at one of half a dozen phones in a row, no partitions between them, and all in use. I didn't too much want the other people listening in to my vital statistics so I spoke quietly and close to the mouthpiece. This wasn't good enough for him, he kept telling me to speak up and address him as Sir. The Sir I could manage, but it was very difficult to tell him exactly what had been done to my cock, balls and asshole without broadcasting the information to the people on either side of in the line of telephones. At length he agreed that he would probably be willing to accept me for a beating later that evening, but that I'd have to check again about an hour later. Like a fool I did call back. He went through the same charade of answering in one voice and then switching. I should have hung up, but my balls needed a beating, needed it badly. He told me to come to his apartment at ten that evening, that the door would be open, I was to strip in the lobby and only come on in when I had a good, hard erection. Well that wasn't going to be a problem, my balls hadn't been worked on by a man for ages.
I got to his apartment, the door was open, I was already hard as I went in. However, what I found on the inside wasn't encouraging. The lobby was narrow, maybe five feet wide, two bicycles leant on the wall to my right, dirty bikes, covered in mud and oil, a lot of which had dripped on to the carpet which in any case was pretty dirty. At the far end of the lobby there was an opening in the wall on the left which presumably led into the rest of the apartment. I wasn't too thrilled by what I saw, but I'd waited all evening for ball torture and that's what I needed. I stripped naked and made my way down the lobby to the opening at the far end. The living-room wasn't large, maybe twelve by fifteen, dimly lit, "Marlon" was sitting slumped in an easy-chair at the far end. He gestured to me to come over to where he sat. As I walked across the room I became acutely aware that the carpet in this room was no cleaner than the lobby, there were stains that could have been spilt liquids and others that could have been walked-in food. I was definitely having doubts by this time.
"Here boy," he growled, "'tween my legs, right here." I stood between his wide spread knees. He was wearing only a white tee-shirt that came down no further than his belly button. His cock was soft, not impressive, nor were his balls. Now that I was close to him I could see that his tee-shirt was just as dirty as the rest of the room. "Now boy you're gonna kneel down and suck my cock 'til it's hard like yours. Then, when you'se got me good n' hard I'm gonna let you fuck your Master." This isn't what I'd come for, if he'd had the neatest, tightest ass I might have been sorely tempted, but this slob? No way.
"No," I said. "That's not the way I play, it's got to be safe or there's no sex." He looked amazed.
"So what's not safe about sucking?" he asked. The gravelly voice was gone, replaced by his regular NY nasal whine.
"Well as far as I'm concerned, safe sex is no exchange of bodily fluids. Any kind, cum, saliva, blood." With that I turned and left to get dressed. He went on whining about me wasting his time as I pulled on my clothes. Finally I'd blew it. "One other thing," I said. "Look around you... This place is filthy. Your tee-shirt is filthy. I never was in such a dirty apartment and I certainly wouldn't want to be in one again." He looked like he was in shock, but said nothing as I closed the door behind me.
Around this time there was another guy who saw my listing in the Ball Club Quarterly, the small magazine that Ken Scheinn put out. His name was George. He wrote to me from Charleston because he saw in my ad that I had been to a British boarding school and wanted to know if I had been caned in school. As it happened I had been caned on several occasions and offered to tell him about it. He apparently was fascinated by torture, seemed to know all about the methods used by the Gestapo, KGB and any other sinister organization you can think of. He wanted to know all about being caned. How was it down, how many strokes, was I bare ass at the time and on and on. So I wrote to tell him about the "ceremony" which was laid on from time to time to punish boys who'd been caught breaking various rules or other infractions of discipline. In his letters he sounded like a real hard, ball breaking man. Just what I craved, so I called him.
When he answered he sounded confused. David? David who? Once he'd got me figured out he was much more enthusiastic...until I said I had a 3-day layover in NYC coming up the following week and could come down to Charleston if he would like to meet up for a bit of ball play. Now he sounded a bit vague again, wasn't sure of his plans for that day. However, since I'd always wanted to visit the city and I could hitch a ride for free I'd already decided to fly down to have a look around. When I said I was going to be in town anyway he asked me to call him and we'd go for a meal and then see how we hit it off. That was fair enough, he didn't know me from Adam, I could be a nut case.
I tried to get a room through our hotel reservations system, but their Charleston hotel was all booked out. I tried some other chains, Hilton, Marriott, Sheraton. All full. Still I wasn't worried, there was always a room somewhere. When I arrived I went to Traveler's Aid. They told me it was folly to come to Charleston in mid summer without a booking, but then started phoning around on my behalf. After about twenty calls they found a room, told me it was an inexpensive hotel, within walking distance of everything I might want to see, and how to get there. Well the lobby certainly was modest, the reception desk no more than a hole in the wall. The room wasn't even modest. Maybe ten by twelve, and that included a cubicle with a shower, wash basin and toilet. The iron frame bed was against one wall, a faded and fraying mat by the bed covered a small part of the cracked and torn linoleum floor covering. I've traveled extensively but hadn't often seen hotel rooms that were quite as "modest." However, hopefully I wouldn't be spending much time in the shitty room. I called George, we arranged for him to pick me up at the hotel at seven that evening, then I went out to see the sights. Traveler's Aid were right about the location, everything was within five minutes on foot.
I was back in the room in plenty of time to have a thorough shower making sure that all nooks and crannies were squeaky clean. At seven I was waiting out front. At ten past I was beginning to wonder. Pilots live by the minute hand of their watches. I have often been re-routed and asked for ETA's for places a thousand miles away, and ATC expect an answer within a few minutes that is good to plus or minus three minutes. So you can see that by twenty past I was beginning to think he wasn't going to show. Then I heard a heavy, rapid, metallic, clanking sound, tang...tang...tang. Unmistakable sound of a wrecked big end bearing. The entrance to the hotel from the road came in at one side then around to the front where the lobby was. As I watched an ancient Chrysler, mid 70's I'd say, huge thing with monstrous fins, came slowly around the end of the building. 'That guy's got a problem I thought.' But looking at the car I couldn't see a driver, it was as though the thing was being steered by remote control. When it drew up at the front door I saw that the driver was a diminutive man, so small that he was looking through the top half of the vast steering wheel. He climbed out of the car and looked at me.
"David?" he asked peering at me through heavy duty prescription glasses.
"Yes," I said tentatively, I assumed that he was looking for some other David.
"Okay, hop in, let's get something to eat."
Well I truly was surprised. Thinking back on it his ad hadn't given anything in the way of physical details, not his height, weight, the number of inches, nor the size of his balls. But when you get letters from a guy who relishes tales of torture and beatings you sort of think of him looking macho, a skinhead maybe, a lot of black leather and body piercings. George wasn't like my image, not in any way. However, you don't have to be a weightlifter to break balls.
"You had a bit of a problem with the car?" I asked rhetorically.
"The car?" He seemed surprised. "No, not with the car, the traffic was much worse than I expected." Now I was surprised. He drove slowly down the road peering through the steering wheel looking for a sign to a freeway, which one I couldn't say. Eventually we saw the sign and as he pulled over he muttered, "I just hope I get it right this time."
'Get it right?' I thought. 'This time? That implies that he sometimes, or usually, gets it wrong. What does he get wrong? Driving the wrong way?' I wasn't happy about being on a freeway with a clanking engine, but now I was really worried. As it happened he did seem to get it right, and as he drove at no more than forty in the right-hand lane at least there as always the shoulder to pull on to. We didn't go far before he pulled off the freeway, I was greatly relieved. A few blocks later he pulled up to a building that might once have been a restaurant but was now obviously disused. The wooden front door was closed, the windows boarded up. I assumed that the place we were looking for was just around the corner, maybe it had only a small car park. George climbed out of the car, I did too. Then to my surprise he walked right up to the front door and tried to open it. It didn't budge. He stepped back looking puzzled, peering at the door through those massive glasses as though that might reveal some hidden detail. Then he tried the door again.
"I guess it's closed," I said. "The windows are boarded up."
He stepped back again and then a startled look came over his face as he noticed the sheets of plywood which covered the windows. These were big sheets, eight by four, there were two of them, one either side of the door, How could he not have seen them? And I'd been on a freeway with this guy! Finally he seemed to grasp the situation. "Well I guess we'll have to try some place else," he muttered. 'Not back on the freeway,' I hoped.
The second place was open, a ribs joint, nothing fancy. As soon as we'd been seated George started asking about the caning in school. He was avid for all the details even though I'd written a pretty full account of the punishment in the letter I'd sent. Sometime later when he'd satiated himself on boys being caned bare-assed he switched to Nazis and other torturers and their methods. At one point he said to me, "You know one of the things they did to guys? They'd string them up by their wrists, then tie a cord around their scrotums and stick needles into their balls! Can you believe that?" Well after those sessions with Paul I could believe that they did it, but I couldn't believe that anyone was broken by the pain.
"Yes, I can believe that" I said, "As a matter of fact I've had my balls pierced with needles." For a moment he didn't react, then briefly looked puzzled, then as the realization of what I'd said he did a real theatrical double-take. The look on his face was priceless. "You have? Your balls? You mean right into the testicles?" "Yes, right into the testicles, through them and out the other side as a matter of fact." For the rest of the meal he wanted to know all about piercing, how, when, how many, how long, I'm sure his cock was leaking steadily under the table. By the time we finished I'd given up any hope of sexual games with George. He was a reader, he knew the theory, but he was not someone who'd actually do anything, so I was surprised when he asked if I'd like to go back to his place for a night-cap. I accepted without expectations.
Fortunately we didn't need to go back on the freeway. His house was a modest one not too far from the restaurant. The drink I was offered was Green Chartreuse! Can you believe it? If I was going to have only one drink to offer visitors it wouldn't be Green Chartreuse. I don't like the stuff but I accepted to be polite. George clearly liked it, knocked back two large glasses in quick succession. I made a mental note to take a taxi back to the hotel. After the second glass he seemed to relax. He brought out some of his collection of photographs taken during torture sessions, I mean real torture, Nazis and their ilk. The quality of these pictures, the lighting, focus etc. was so good that the torturers clearly had had professional photographers on hand to record their expertise. I wasn't turned on by the images, although if they'd been taken of guys who had voluntarily submitted themselves to this treatment I would have found them extremely arousing.
"I've got a little torture implement which I've been wanting to try out," he said after showing me a lot of photos. He went over to a closet. "Maybe you'd find this a turn on..." 'Oh,' I thought, 'maybe I've misjudged him.' What he produced was a cattle prod, a big one! It looked like an over-sized flashlight, about two feet long, three inches in diameter, with two wicked looking electrodes sticking out at one end. "I believe they give quite a jolt," George said. "I've always wanted to try it on a man's testicles. What do you think?" I knew exactly what I thought. I was just glad I wasn't tied to his bed. "No George," I said, "I don't really think I'm able for that yet. But tell you what, I could try it on yours so that you'd know what it feels like?" George too declined. I wasn't surprised, I wonder if he ever met a guy who was man enough to try his cattle prod? I didn't find sex in Charleston, in fact next day I hitched a ride on an early flight up to Washington, DC. I spent most of the day in the Aeronautical Museum, for me it's a magical place. Then there was the Sierra Club, and I did the tour through the White House, not something that tourists will be doing again any time soon! Back in NYC sometime later I did break the losing streak.