Adrian Ryan [The Gay and Homeless] nightcharm.com

We should not fantasize about answering the sad question "Spare any change?" with, "Not really, but -- how far will you go for a Cup O' Noodles?"

Adrian Ryan agonizes over the younger, fresher, mostly cleaner and negotiably nubile spare-changing angels and post-prison studs of the world.

Every fool that ever fooled knows that humpability, availability and desperation mix a mean martini. It encourages predation. It's repulsive. Vultureous. Despicable.

"Adrian, you're going to just shit," the voice on the other end of the phone promised rather scatologically, and I don't give purple pickles if you do think I am making this up, it was my best friend, not me, who was the undoubted progenitor of all this mess, in a froth, confiding a naughty adventure that he (not I, damn you, not I) had the night before.

You're not a booger-eating jackanape. I don't have to paint you a picture. You understand instinctively that exploiting the growing herds of urban gypsies (the uninspired might simply call them "homeless") for sex is just low. Worm-belly, ant-balls, scum on the gum on a ditch digger's shoe low. We should not consider weighing these poor people's unhygienic desperation against our own biological needs (or the twenty bucks in our pocket that ain't working too hard, and/or the easy access to hot water and soap back at our comfy, warm apartment). We should not fantasize about answering the sad question "Spare any change?" with, "Not really, but --how far will you go for a Cup O' Noodles?"

The balanced mind should be above all that mess; should be repulsed by the sight, sickened by the sheer horribleness of it and deeply lamenting the current state of human evolution that allows us to meander through our shallow little lives while feeling human beings idle filthy and starved at our feet. The balanced mind should, ideally, short-circuit in a reality check.

And I do feel 'off' -- but right after I'm done jacking off; most often with visions of one or more of the FPB's (fine prison bodies) in my 'hood, doing naked sugarplum bum dances in my head. But it's really just not my fault, goddammit.

As far as perversions go, mine are a sleepy box of kittens. I might admit to a odd fetish or two, maybe, once in a blue-balled moon and under laboratory conditions. My libido entertains actually very little that would upset my view of the natural order and send my self esteem crashing like a glass pelican. It's a cool fuel that sizzles my sausages.

Oh fuck. Who am I kidding? I'm a young urban fag; an equal opportunity hose-bag; a hormonal powder-puff keg lugging a buzzing ton of libido bricks and the heavy societal demand that I -- as a gay, modern, gay, urban, gay man -- fuck everything and everything with two legs and a pecker.

With all that pressure, how could I not have noticed that the wandering tribes of unwashed human flotsam have taken a sharp aesthetic left turn somewhere, and from pitiable street drunks had sprung many younger, fresher, mostly cleaner and negotiably nubile spare-changing angels and studs (or "spangels" and "spuds"), gathering like moon dust in every crannied crook and corner -- hungrily locking eyes with mine, preventing my forward transgress, striking up conversations (sort of -- mostly they just ask for shit), and opening themselves up fully (wantonly!) to libidinous scrutiny? It's almost more than one can reasonably expect from most fag bars. On good nights. On great nights.

And you can't deny that some (some!) exude a certain singular sex appeal -- and would it not, indeed, constitute a kind of reverse-discrimination thingy to automatically eschew, out of hand, the homeless as sexually untouchable? As beneath affection, fundamentally unworthy of providing screaming orgasmic release? Are they not, after all, human beings? Tickle them, do they not laugh? Jackhammer their asses, do they not bark like wounded sea lions and shoot hot showers of spooge all over their heaving homeless abs?

Let's take the tall, blond, marvelously shirtless dude who just popped up in my 'hood; the stud-fucking indigent dreamboat whose body seems to have been chiseled from hardwood by The God of Fuck Me and who asks for spare change in a -- well, let's ignore his high-pitched voice. His teste-less squeak for alms does not fool me. The gang tattoos, for starters -- flamboyant gothic letters arching across his, well -- his hard ripped fucking prison yard pecs and washfuckingboard homeless abs, for one. He was a hard-assed stud fucker. Secretly.

And this not taking into account, of course, that long (loooooong) stretch of meaty man-road snaking in his pants, running south from Just Below Beltline-berg and running at least halfway to Kneeville. There was just no missing it.

Besides, considering the amount of testosterone necessary to engender a bazooka like his should surely be indicative of a vocal range somewhere in between Orson Welles and an angry hippopotamus burp. So let's just forget about his girly damn voice -- whispering in my ear ain't what he's doing in my mind when I'm flat on my back and my right bicep's bulging. Then he's -- well, he's doing lots of dirty and curious things, like following me to the old sofa in the alley behind my apartment building, tossing his remarkably fresh bounce-a-quarter-off-this-prison-yard-piece-of-ass ass in the air and begging me to fuck, fuck, FUCK him man; that he's totally straight, dude, totally into pussy, but all that gangbang shower action you hear about in prison really got under his skin, and if I fucked him just this once, no one would ever have to know about it, dude, and he wouldn't bug me or stop me on the street, dude, he totally understands, and come on, just do it pleeeease and without even unbuttoning my pants (I'm not tacky enough to bore you with descriptions of my generous eight inch endowment) I whip that eight-inch fucker out (eight-point-five if I really like you) and slam fuck his squeaky-blond reprobate ass until the ratty old sofa is a smoldering pile of splinters and spanger spunk.

"I was walking home from Neighbours last night," my best friend's hysterical voice continued (and Neighbours is an ancient fag bar in Seattle, now please stop interrupting), "and I started talking to this adorable guy at the bus stop in front of SCCC," (SCCC? An ancient community college, now shhhhh,) "His name was Adam, and he just got out of jail for getting busted with a pound of pot in his car! He was 26, about 6'1", around 180 pounds -- and totally lean" (he leans on lean for emphatic emphasis) "not one ounce of body fat -- you would have gone nuts. He has short, kind of curly blond hair, tattoos everywhere. He was totally hot, but it was so freaky -- he had this really high-pitched voice. But FUCK! He was GORGEOUS!"