The Photographer Who Likes Daytime Hookups in Public Bathrooms

Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Photographer Who Likes Daytime Hookups in Public Bathrooms: 47 years old, gay, Astoria, Queens.

DAY ONE
9 a.m.: My sex life is a comedy of errors. I was married what seems a lifetime ago to a woman. That clearly wasn't going to work since I have a distinct preference for dick. Most recently ended a fifteen-year LTR with a man. That didn't work because I have a distinct preference for a lot of different dicks. Now I'm single and feeling my oats.

10:30 a.m.: I get a text from an old booty call: twentysomething, "straight," white guy in a band. I met him via CL. Gay-for-pay trade. I can count on him being "hard up for cash" about every two weeks or so. The usual with him involves watching porn and him jacking off while I watch. Haven't seen him for a while.
8 p.m.: Rub one out remembering what a good time he was.

DAY TWO
6 a.m.: A text from another young one. Late 20s with a peroxide blond faux-hawk, blue eyes, and the most perfect bubble butt possible on a white boy. Met him through CL. Our usual: He comes over, gets all coked up, and talks incessantly about Britney Spears. He eventually splays himself on the bed and serves up that perfect butt. I go down on him for what seemed like hours, lovin' every minute of it. (The coke always throws a wrench in the gears of sex.) He texts how much he misses our times together.
11 a.m.: At the Met. Enjoying the usual selection of hot-bodied, dickless Greek and Roman statuary.
11:35 a.m.: A security guard, an Italian Bear type, gives me a look and quick grab of his crotch. I stand there and let him go through the whole ceremony; stopping, looking back, eye contact, another series of crotch grabs — each more suggestive than the last. I give him a nod. He walks off. I know to follow.
11:45 a.m.: He has access to the employee elevator and we try a few men's rooms he knows of that are closed to the masses. We end up at urinals right off the Modern Art wing, stroking. He finally bends over and starts blowing me, but someone comes in and we have to go. I tell him I'm off to have lunch.
12:58 p.m.: Near the cafeteria, he finds me again. Tells me he has a fifteen-minute break and knows where we can go. Through the American wing and up to a floor of all offices. We find the men's room, and go into a stall. He crawls up on the seat and gives me some awesome head until he comes in his pants. It was good, but I needed longer to get off.

DAY THREE
9 a.m.: Blast from the past. A European guy that I did some photos for a while back texts out of the blue, asking me to photograph a birthday party. Haven't heard from him in a while.
11 a.m.: Go over to talk about it, and we end up fucking. Looking forward to another one or two out of him.
1:30 p.m.: I ran a CL ad one night when I was drunk asking if any guys wanted to come over and play "porn star." Just fart around and take dirty pics. A guy that I've met before texts asking if I want to play.
3 p.m.: I answered, he came over, and that's what we did. Took tons of shots of him and we ended up screwing around.
5 p.m.: In the city for a dentist appointment. The clinic I go to is like Grey's Anatomy, but with dentists. My dentists are so hot, I can't even tell you how much I look forward to these appointments.
7 p.m.: I'm kind of fired up today. Went into the city and the hot weather is really bringing out the hot men. It's all about tight butts and nice baskets filling out jeans and shorts.

DAY FOUR
8:15 a.m.: Awake to a text on my phone from a fuck buddy wanting to hook up. We met a year ago in a midtown men's room that I used to frequent. He followed me out that day and we exchanged numbers. We meet up about once a month at the most. Seems now he wants to make it an even more regular thing.
9 a.m.: Respond. No response.
2:30 p.m.: Pop into one of the swanky department stores on Madison Avenue. Plan to use restroom for its intended purpose, but figure I might as well check out one notorious for the cruising.
2:35 p.m.: Sure enough, a beautiful pair of shoes are in the next stall tapping away, trying to get my attention. Beautifully dressed, clearly loaded, average-looking. We do some eye contact and then the crotch rubbing, which is like a cruising version of waving.
2:50 p.m.: The men's room is too busy, so we head across the street. Great men's room there with doors all the way to the floor on the stalls. It's like having an intimate private booth. He has a beautiful, huge, uncut cock that is fun to suck, and he gave me some great head, too. He shoots. I am close but don't.

DAY FIVE
2:20 p.m.: Went to my favorite spot in the park. If sex had been on my mind, it is erased immediately enough. There are two guys there getting some sun. One is a 300-pound Asian guy in a Speedo, and the other is a leathery old white guy in an old jock, all brown and wrinkly with silver hair greased back.
4 p.m.: I look up from my book and they are fondling each other's cocks — or, quite possibly, trying to find them. I almost throw up.
4:02 p.m.: Tune them out, force self to focus on book, and resign self to sexless day.
4:30 p.m.:They finally leave after 50 pages.
5 p.m.: Another guy shows up. Decent-looking. He "waves" (a good crotch rub). I've deleted the gross couple from my mind enough to take advantage of the situation. Get some great head behind a tree.
5:20 p.m.: Back to my book. The guy comes over to thank me — which is weird, and tells me that I'm "blessed." I tell him that I have nothing to do with it, and the thing just came standard.
6 p.m.:Heading home. See a text from a yoga instructor I boffed a while back, wanting some more. Probably would have taken him up on it, but have dinner plans with friends.

DAY SIX
5 p.m.: Nothing today. Kind of a nice break, really.

DAY SEVEN
10 a.m.:Another text from Britney's biggest fan. He texts that he was out partying all night with friends, and told them all about the times he spent with me. Have to laugh.
12:12 p.m.: Train into the city to pick up something before heading to brunch. During the ride this Castro clone gets on the train. An older guy. White hair and mustache, in good shape. He has the whole outfit: slim-cut jeans, T-shirt, and a black bomber jacket. Requisite sideburns and mustache. The thing that really screamed "Castro" to me was the obviousness of his cock, showing clearly through his jeans. I guess I looked interested enough that he was inclined to fondle himself while staring at me for the duration of his trip on the train. It didn't seem to bother him that he was also putting on a show for the whole car. When he got off (exited the train, I mean) he made a point of exiting pretty much right at me.
4:05 p.m.: Another text from one of those gay-for-pay "straight" guys. His M.O. is to watch MILF porn and get blown. I used to enjoy him, but the experience just got too complicated and sort of desperate-feeling. He's very hands-off. He would put his hands well away from me or behind his head, but his legs would move closer and closer to me, brushing against my hard cock, while I blew him. Don't return the text.
9 p.m.: Go to bed early, happy and alone.

TOTALS: One act of masturbation, three acts of anonymous oral sex in two public bathrooms and one public park, one act of intercourse.