Photos Of Slim Aarons

Come-Back 101

A man was sunbathing naked at the beach. For the sake of civility, and to keep it from getting sunburned, he had a hat over his privates.

A woman walks past and says, snickering, “If you were a gentleman you’d lift your hat.”

He raised an eyebrow and replied, “If you weren’t so ugly it would lift itself.”

Ha-Dee-Ha-Ha thanks to my leisurely brother-in-law.

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HUNG by Peter Nolan Smith

The Village in New York had always attracted a kaleidoscope of radical, deviant, and perverse characters considered abhorrent by mainstream America. The Reds gave way to the beatniks. They evolved into the hippies, who surrendered the counterculture ghetto to the junkies, artists, punks and sexual revolutionaries of the 1970s.

In 1977 I lived on East 10th Street with Alice, my hillbilly girlfriend, and my faux-sister Pip rented an apartment off Bleecker Street. She called me Pud. We had met at CBGBs, which was our Lincoln Center. The owner couldn’t figure out how we got so drunk on one drink. It wasn’t magic. Pip and I smuggled bottles of vodka past Merv at the door.

One spring evening the Ghosts were opening for the Dictators. My girlfriend didn’t like either band, so I went alone. Pip was seated at a table near the stage. Our chairs were against the wall. She filled our glasses with vodka and coke. We had no ice. The Ghosts played a blistering set and closed out the show with RICHARD IS A FORKHEAD. There was no encore and the juvenile guitarist came over before heading to the dressing room.

“You mind.” Xcessive pointed to Pip’s glass. He had spotted our trick.

“Not at all.” My ‘sister’ was sweet on young punk rockers.

Xcessive drained the glass and coughed a little before wiping his mouth.


“Good show.”

“I tried.”

I watched the young guitarist thread through his admirers by the stage and said to Pip, “Isn’t he a little young for you?”

“He’s just a friend. Same as you.”

The cheery NYU coed had a crush on most of the men on the scene, but many of the girls at CBGBs suffered the same affliction. This was the 70s and not the 50s. None of us were going steady, although I struggled to be faithful to Alice. “Besides I have my eye on my new neighbor. He’s really cute. His name’s Marc Stevens.”

“Marc Stevens?”

“You know him?”

“I don’t know him personally, but he’s known as Mr. 10 1/2.” The well-hung actor was John Holmes’ rival in the XXX film industry.

“Mr. 10 ˝?”

“Yes, 10 ˝ inches.” I had seen him dancing naked covered in silver body paint at Studio 54. His penis had looked a normal size that evening.


“He was the star of THE DEVIL AND MRS. JONES.”

“I don’t know that film.” Pip was studying literature at NYU. Her professors expected their students to read MADAME BOVARY and Camus’ THE PLAGUE, not stroke books.

“And I wouldn’t expect anything else.” The francophiles intellectuals had no use for pornography other than THE STORY OF O and I gave Pip a 10-minute course in XXX films from DEEP THROAT to BEHIND THE GREEN DOOR. Her eyes shined with joy. She loved celebrities.

“He’s living with this girl, Jill Monro.”

“Jill’s no girl. She had an operation to change her penis into a vagina. She’s the first tranny movie star.”

“No.” Fame and weird was exciting to the young student from the suburbs of Greenwich. “I can’t believe I know a transvestite.”

“Transsexual.” They were two different creatures.

She kissed my cheek for explaining the birds and bees of a hidden sect.

“I love you, Pud.”

Not everyone held porno actors in esteem, but I haunted the Times Squares peepshows in search of arcane films. My hillbilly girlfriend had no idea about my research. It was a secret I kept close to my heart.

That May Pip decided to throw a party for several Geminis. An underground designer of nightclubs decorated her apartment. She had invited a hundred people. Over 200 crammed into the duplex. I knew many of them, since I was one of the birthday boys.

“I hear Mr. 10 ˝ is coming,” Klaus whispered in my ear. The German opera singer was a fiend of size and he shivered saying, “10 ˝. Divine.”

Klaus and I discussed gay prone films, as if we were voting for the Oscars. My hillbilly girlfriend didn’t drink and Alice wandered off to CBGBs. A minute later a curly-haired man came up to me and said, “I thought she would never leave. My name is Mark.”

“Pip talked about you.” I looked through the crowd. His better half wasn’t in the room.

“She talked about you too.” Marc was wearing a white jumpsuit. He was the thinnest person in the room. His hand touched my ass. “You want to do some blow?”


I was as used to gay guys hitting on me as they were accustomed to seducing straight guys.

“Not here. There are too many vultures.” His soft brown eyes darted over the crowd, as if he were looking for someone special. “Let’s go to my place.”

Two men leaving a party together was no scandal, although Pip leaned over to Klaus and pointed out my departure. The singer gave me the green light with a wink and shouted out,“Gluck.”

“I don’t need good luck.” I was straight or at least that’s what I told myself, but everyone in the Village was a little bent in one way or another.

“Your friend is cute in a strange way.”

“He likes you.”

“All size queens like Mr. 10 ˝.”

“I bet they do.”

Marc lived down the hall.

“I don’t want any of the neighbors seeing me. My wife is very jealous.” He opened the door and pushed me inside.

“My girlfriend is the same way.”

“Everyone is so hung up about sex. Sex is just sex. Nothing more.”

Marc shut the door. The one-bedroom apartment was decorated with dark brown furniture favored by gays for hiding stains from sex.

The XXX actor went into the kitchen to fetch a Pond’s cream jar from the cabinet.

It was crammed with a white powder with a pinkish glow.

“What is that?”

“Bolivian flake from one of my admirers.”

We sat on the soft sofa. The cushion sank around me like a Venus Fly Trap. The music from Pip’s party thumped the wall. I recognized the song as UP BONDAGE UP YOURS.

“You like that music?” Marc spilled out a mound of blow. The lines were thick as rope.

“I’m a punk.” I had been since seeing the Ramones play CALIFORNIA SUN. Their speedy version of the Rivieras’ hit opened my eyes to a new world and CBGBs became my second home.

“I like leather, but not that music. I’m more into disco.”

He unzipped his jumpsuit to his bellybutton and handed me a straw.


I hit the first rail with an athletic gusto. This was not street gear and the coke burst into my nasal capillaries with the intensity of an Incan sunrise, then scorched my veins with a rush of euphoria. I fell back into the sofa with my bones sizzling on a Peruvian hot plate.

“Good, huh,” Marc whispered in my ear. His lips were tender on my neck. He spooned a small pile into my other nostril. “Breathe.”

I obeyed his order.

The coca renewed its assault on my senses and the universe shimmered out of focus.

I was in no condition to resist Marc’s advances. He was a veteran of porno movies. Millions of men and women fantasized about lying in bed with him. I gripped his thick member with the tenderness of a butcher preparing to cut a steak. Millions of XXX viewers had seen him in MICHAEL, ANGELO, AND DAVID. The photographer Robert Mapplethorpe had immortalized this penis in a black-and-white shit titled MARK STEVENS MR. 10˝, 1976.

I gave it a squeeze.

“It’s not hard.”

“Rough trade gets me erect.” Marc’s admission was not a confession.

He pinched his nipple and his cock stiffened with a throb.

“I like being the queen,” murmured Marc. “You wanna be king?”

Before I could answer, keys turned the lock of the front door.

The actor sat up straight and zipped up his jumpsuit.

“It’s my wife. Do some more blow.”

I snapped out of my trance and turned my head.

The statuesque brunette entering the apartment had a couple inches on us in her stiletto heels. She regarded the coke and then the two of us.

Her smile was marred by the awkward unease of seeing her man with another man.

“Marc introduced us.

“Please to meet you.” His wife held out her hand with a tilted wrist.

I offered mine, expecting a limp handshake.

Jill crunched my knuckles in a vise.

Marc was her man.

I winced with a pained grin and ripped my fingers loose.

“I met him at the party next door. It was fun.”

“I can see that.” Jill sat down with the surrender of accepting Marc for what he was.

“Nice meeting you too. Time for me to rejoin the party.”

“So soon.” Marc was in no position to pursue his desire.

“It’s getting late.”

“Thanks for coming.” Jill smirked with the pleasure of re-establishing her dominance over my host.

“Sure, just one more thing.”

“What?” Jill straightened her posture, as if she was ready for a fight.

“A good-bye gift.” I bent over and snorted the other two lines within two seconds.

Marc laughed and Jill joined him.

“Sure you want to leave?” She spread her legs to invite a touch.

“I already have a lover.”

“Lucky girl.” Jill kissed Marc on the cheek. “Same as me.”

He spilled out more blow. She did the first line. They looked like such a nice couple.

I returned to the party.

Pip grabbed me and asked, “What happened?”

“His wife came home.”

I poured myself a vodka.

“And what were you doing?”

“Talking that’s all. I have a girlfriend.” Pip was a spy for my hillbilly girlfriend. They were good friends. “And I’m not gay.”

“And you’re not straight either.” Pip shrugged with disappointment. She had been all ears for some good dirt. I stayed for another hour. The coke ran its course. I left the party with Klaus. He lived in the East Village. We shared a taxi to St. Mark’s Place.

“So how big was it?” The German was all ears.

“Have you seen his movies?” I could tell Klaus anything. He loved secrets.

“Yes.” His eyes widened with delight.

“It was that big and thick.” I didn’t mentioned the softness of his penis. Some things were best left unsaid.


“He said you were cute.”


“Maybe you’ll get lucky one night.”

“I can only wished and hope.”

“Klaus dropped me on St. Mark’s. I walked to 10th Street.

My hillbilly girlfriend was asleep in our bed. I took off my clothes and slid next to her.

“How was it?”


“MR. 10˝.”

“Big and thick.”

“Too big for me?”


“And you?”

“I was strictly there for a look-see. I came, I saw, I went.”

“You’re a good boy.” Alice cuddled up to me with a childish tenderness.

I was surprised she believed me, but I didn’t mentioned the temptation.

She was strictly GP-13 and I fell into a wired maze of dreams. None of them were XXX and that was probably better for Alice.

Better for me too, because 10˝ inches was as a big penis in dreams as it was in real life.

Klaus and me at the party.

THE STAFF OF SCHMOSES by Peter Nolan Smith

In the summer of 1995 my cousin flew from LA to dance at ShowWorld in Times Square. Her loyal following packed the house to see Sherri’s stage acrobatics and the XXX actress earned good money selling her fans underwear and signed posters. By week’s end my cousin had cleared over $3000, but the tips came at a cost.

“I wish I could dance in bare feet,” Sherri complained in her dressing room. “These stilettos feel like spikes.”

“They make your legs look great.” I had attended two shows and each time had been amazed by Sherri’s expertise on the steel pole. “Plus your crowd loves the look.

“So I’m stuck with the heels.”

Pleasing the audience required more than taking off her clothes.

Saturday night the lithe brunette put on three extra shows and I picked her up at ShowWorld.

“That’s it. I’m done.” Sherri packed her costumes and hurried from the theater through a crush of fans hoping to get lucky with their favorite actress. She blew them kisses and we jumped into a taxi.

“Where to?”

Normally Sherri liked to chill after a show at a bar.

This evening she leaned forward and told the driver to take us to my apartment on East 10th Street.

“You don’t mind, if we call it a night.” She yanked off her heels and put on sneakers, sighing with relief. “I have a few days off before my shows in Philly. We’ve been invited to Fire Island. You want to go?”

“Of course.” I hadn’t been to the barrier island in more than ten years. The weatherman was predicting temperatures in the high 90s for the next three days. I could use a break from the city.

“We’re guests of Rachelle Fly.” Sherri rolled down the window. The night air was hot and the people on the sidewalks were melting from the breathless heat.

“I know her.” The overweight stripper was Cable TV’s famed XXX spokesperson. “Not really know her, but I watched her show. Your promos are on all the time.”

“That’s not what she says.” Sherri stared out the window.

“At least a couple of times a night.”

“Rachelle says never and that she doesn’t owe me anything. Her husband does the books. Shelley went to jail for fraud.”

“So this is a business trip?” I was being asked to come along as muscle.

“Pleasure too.” Sherri lived in LA. She loved the sea and sun. “Her husband’s a schmuck. I’ll deal with them in my own way.”

“Good.” I had retired from working nightclubs the previous year and my last fight was a long time ago. “So we have an early night and get going in the morning, because tomorrow is going to be a hot one.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Back at my place Sherri undressed and lay in bed.

“Aren’t you going to sleep with me?” She turned the big fan onto top power.

“No, it’s too hot.” There was another reason and she knew it. “I’ll sleep on the couch. See you in the morning.”

After sticking wads of paper in my ears I fell asleep with a small fan blowing hot air over my body.

Her snoring was tolerable, although one of my neighbors yelled for her to get the truck out of gear.

I woke with the dawn and showered off the night’s sweat.

My cousin got up and stood by the tub with a towel wrapped around her body.

“Hurry up. I feel like an overcooked pizza.”

“I’ll be a second.” I ducked under the lukewarm water and dreamed of swimming in the Atlantic.

“You ever think about getting AC?” Sherri wiped off her skin.

“The hot doesn’t bother me.” Heat waves in New York lasted a few days instead of the entire summer in North Hollywood. I stepped out of the bath and handed the spray nozzle to Sherri.

You want to soap my back.”

“Okay.” I got back into the bath.

“I love Splish-Splash.”

Thirty minutes later we caught a taxi to Penn Station and boarded an ACed train from Penn Central. Most of the other passengers were day-trippers seeking escape from the heat wave.

At Patchogue a shuttle bus brought us to the ferry.

The ride across the tranquil bay lasted a half-hour.

A thin line of green grew on the horizon.

“Fire Island doesn’t belong to New York or America.” Sherri stood at the prow.

“It is a little magic.”

“I hope that’s still true.”

We stepped off the ferry at Cherry Grave. Vacationeers greeted their guests. There was no sign of Rachelle.

“I know the way to her house.” Sherri slung a small bag over her shoulder. For once she was traveling light.

“It doesn’t look like it’s changed much since 1978.” I looked at the passengers on the wharf. None of them seemed gay. “Well, maybe a little.”

Back in the 70s Cherry Grove was synonymous with the decadent gay lifestyle; anonymous sex in the pine groves, one-hour stands in the hotels, and orgies in the beach houses.

“Fire Island hasn’t changed, but the people who come here have.” Sherri and I had lost scores of friends to AIDS and the seaside Sodom had been devastated by the epidemic.

“Same as the West Village.” The dying homosexuals had sold their beloved shacks to friends, family, and strangers, however the beach life remained free and open.

There were no cars. Wooden walkways connected the various communities. For longer trips residents hired a water taxi. The island was devoid of 7/11s and fast food. Most people cooked at home.

Rachelle’s cottage was on the beach.

Sherri told me to play nice, as we approached the two-story bungalow surrounded by a high wooden wall.

“Her husband is very jealous of men.”

“She was a porno actress.”

“That was back then and now she’s married to him, so she can only have affairs with women, because he likes to watch.”

“I’ll play nice then.” The ocean was a clear cool blue. Waves thundered on the shore. A few people lay on beach blankets protected from the blazing sun by umbrellas. I was glad to be wearing a hat.

Sherri pushed open the door in the wall and called out, “Anyone home?”

“Only us naked people.”

Rachelle stepped out of the house stark naked, Flabs of flesh overlapped her belly. The squat forty year-old was thirty pounds over her prime.

Two small dogs yapped at her heels.

“Excuse my state of undress, but I never wear anything on the island.” Rachelle bear-hugged my cousin.

“I might go naked myself.” I nodded to our hostess without really looking at her. She was a sore sight for my eyes.

“Be careful of the sun. It’s brutal this time of year.” Rachelle’s skin was tanned the color of a worn football. I returned to ignoring me and said, “Sherri, I’m so glad you could come out.”

“The city is hell.” Sharon dropped her bag on the deck and stripped off her tee-shirt and shorts.

“What do you think?”

She posed for Rachelle. Her trim body was the reward of endless hours at the gym.

“You still got it.” The older woman caressed Sherri’s body and then eyed me suspiciously. “So this is your cousin?”

“Yeah, on her father’s side.” Sherri and I have been calling ourselves family for years into order to save time about how we met playing pinball at an East Village after-hour bar. Even we got tired of our old stories, mostly because we were trying to outrun our pasts.

“I can’t see family resemblance.” Robin squinted to examine my face more closely.

Really?” Sherri moved beside me. She had been adopted out of Napoli and brought up in New Jersey.

“We’re almost twins.” Depending on the light my face resembled either an Irish cop or Yankee sailor.

“Almost identical.”

Rachelle didn’t like me and something about her manner said that she didn’t like men, but it was too late to disinvite me, so she said, “Come on inside.”

The house had been designed in the 70s. The gleaming mirrors of the white walls were a homage to that era of narcissism.

“I bought the house from a man who found it too sad.” Rachelle led us through the living room.

The dogs were nipping at my legs, as if they were under her command.

She showed us our rooms.

“Of course you could sleep in one bed, if you’re kissing cousins.”

“Two bedrooms will be fine.” I took the smaller room, since I was the guest of a guest and sleep was impossible with her epic snoring three inches from my ears.

“Make yourselves a home.” Rachelle was speaking to Sherri.

“When on Fire Island, do as the Fire Islanders do.”

I stripped off my clothes and joined the two women on the beach.

They were talking business. Rachelle’s husband was in the city. I didn’t need to hear this conversation and I swam in the ocean. Every minute in the cold Atlantic surf dropped my body temperature . I should have been paying more attention to the sun, but I loved the waves.

Emerging from the sea I picked up my towel and trudged across the dunes to the beach house.

I washed off the sand with a hose at the entrance to the deck and waved to Sherri and Rachelle by the pool.

“Did you shower?” Rachelle demanded with a harsh sharpness.

“Yes, with soap too.” My behind was a glowing red. I had been in the sun too long.

“Just checking.” The ex-stripper was succeeding in making me feel unwanted and she continued her ungraciousness throughout the rest of the day.

I could do no right.

The sand on the floor came from me, not her dogs.

When I nearly shattered my kneecap on a glass table, she screamed that I was clumsy.

Anytime I spoke with my cousin, she sat down with her arms folded across her flapjack breasts with her bulbous belly gracelessly hanging over her crotch.

I was her public enemy # 1.

That evening after dinner Sherri and I whispered in her bedroom.

The thin walls of the beach bungalow were not conducive to privacy.

“Rachelle’s not very nice.”

“She’s like a sleeping rattler. She doesn’t like men.”

“I figured that from the constant inquisition. I’ll stay out of the way.”

The next day I hid from our hostess on the beach, but I couldn’t take much sun and lay under towels.

Sherri came looking for me.

“You shouldn’t be out here.” Her body glowed with a LA golden tan.

“Am I red?”

“Lobster red.”

“I can’t go back to the house.”

“I know. It’ll only be another few days.”

“Where’s her husband?”

“Not here.”

“So she can’t write a check?” I refrained from calling Rachelle a name.

“I’m getting my money one way or the other.” Sherri wasn’t returning empty-handed to New York.

We built a tent from driftwood and torn sails. It was my home during the day.

That noon a grizzly naked man in his fifties roamed the high tide mark. The bearded beachcomber carried a long staff of driftwood. His tattooed body was covered with grey hair and his penis was enormous.

“Did you see that?” Sherri exclaimed with horror.

“Not easy to miss it?” A horse would have been jealous of his manhood.

“It’s Schmoses.” Sherri named the tramp.

“Carrying the staff of Schmoses.” I pointed at his unearthly shank of flesh.

That evening we joked about Schmoses at the dinner table. Rachelle found no humor in our humor.

“The man has a name.”

“What is it?” Sherri wasn’t taking any crap from the fat woman.

“I don’t know.”

“Then his name stays.” She raised her wine glass. “Here’s to Schmoses.”

This joke became funnier the next afternoon, for we discovered the two of them in coitus by the pool, which was like watching a Neanderthal have sex with a walrus. I drank a bottle of Rachelle’s best wine to obliterate the image.

The next morning Rachelle and Sherri had a fight about money. My cousin held up a camera.

“I got it all on film.” She threatened to show the photos to Rachelle’s husband. “Your old man doesn’t mind you going with girls, but I know how he feels about you going with men. Your choice. Pay me or pay the price.”

“That’s blackmail.” Rachelle took out a checkbook.

“I like to think of it more as an early trick or treat.”

That afternoon we left for New York. The ferry ride was a relief from the hot dunes.

“Did you really take pictures of Rachelle and Schmoses?” I asked on the ferry ride back to civilization.

“Not one, but I sold her, didn’t I?” Sherri smiled with feline pleasure.

“I guess even the naked have something to hide.”

I never saw Rachelle again and I almost forgot about Schmoses until reading a BBC article how the Biblical Moses had received the 10 Commandments from Yahweh while high on psychedelic drugs, since the concoctions from bark of the acacia tree were an essential ingredient for religious rites in biblical times. I now understood the mysteries of Schmoses lay entirely on his staff.

His cock was really long and not only does Schmoses live, but his schlong grows longer with each telling of the tale.

Such was the power of the staff of Schmoses.

No Guns For Me

When I first arrived in New York, a gay jazz pianist friend of James Spicer, offered me a .38 on Christopher.

“No, thanks.”

“No, thanks?” CT was small. He carried a piece for protection. New York in 1977 was very dangerous for man, woman, and in-between. “Someone like you needs a gun.”

CT thought of me as rough trade, but I was planning on being a poet.

“If I had a gun, I would shoot every skell on the street.” I lived in Park Slope. Thieves outnumbered citizens after dark. They were violent, but I came from the West of Ireland and every young thug in Boston was taught to fight. Running was never an option. “I’ve never broken the 5th Commandment and I don’t plan on doing so in this city.”

“Suit yourself.” CT slipped the pistol into his leather jacket and walked off toward the river. The bars along West Street had a bad reputation. Sex was hard-core and a .38 wouldn’t make anyone kiss and hug. I headed off to the Bowery. The Ramones were playing at CBGBs. Merv checked everyone for guns. The punk club was as safe a dive as you would get on the Lower East Side and no one shot anyone there.

And that was a good thing.