u/z9vown

How many of us started sucking cock at gloryholes before HIV was a thing? I started a few years before the first reported case and always sucked bare.

My Life as a Dallas Porn Shop Service Boy in 1977.

The first thing I learned about the taste of salt was that it doesn't just come from the ocean; it comes from the skin of a man who has been working in the Texas sun all afternoon.

 

That was the lesson of 1977. I was barely more than a sketch of a man, malleable and eager, standing in the dim, neon-streaked humidity of a Dallas storefront that smelled of industrial cleaner and cheap vinyl. My Master didn't just own the shops; he owned the air I breathed and the space between my knees.

 

He taught me that my value wasn't in my voice, my intellect, or my ambition, but in my utility. I was a tool living, breathing extension of his hospitality. To him, I was the centerpiece of the room, a silent invitation for any man who walked through those doors with enough cash or enough influence. I remember the feeling of the linoleum cold against my back and the heat of a stranger's breath on my neck, the silent command in Master’s eyes telling me that my only purpose was to be filled and emptied, over and over.

 

For five years, I lived in that rhythm. I was the secret kept in plain sight, serving the board members and the blue-collar regulars alike. There was a profound, crushing peace in that erasure. To be nothing is to have no burdens. To be a hole is to be a destination.

 

Then came the crash. The raids, the legal fallout, the sudden vacuum where a kingdom once stood. I remember the day he was led away in handcuffs, not with a goodbye, but with a final, dismissive wave of his hand. He had "saved" me from the wreckage of his empire by packing me into a car and shipping me toward the coast, a final act of generosity that was actually a disposal.

 

I arrived in New York City with a suitcase of clothes that didn't fit the climate and a psychological imprint that wouldn't fade.

 

The streets of Manhattan in the seventies were a predatory kind of paradise. I was broke, homeless, and utterly stripped of my identity, but I carried the training like a holy relic. I didn't know how to navigate the subway or find a shelter, but I knew exactly how to look at a man in a dark alley or a dim bar to let him know that I was available for use.

 

At first, it was survival. A few dollars for a night in a warm bed, a sandwich in exchange for a few minutes of service. But as the years bled into decades, the survival instinct merged with the craving. The poverty wasn't just a circumstance; it became a costume. The humiliation wasn't a burden; it was the only thing that made me feel anchored to the earth.

 

Fifty years have passed since that Dallas shop. My skin has lost its elasticity, and the city has traded its grit for glass and steel, but the hunger remains. I have spent half a century chasing the ghost of a man who viewed me as an object, realizing that the most honest version of myself is the one that belongs to someone else.

My Life as a Dallas Porn Shop Service Boy in 1977.

The first thing I learned about the taste of salt was that it doesn't just come from the ocean; it comes from the skin of a man who has been working in the Texas sun all afternoon.

 

That was the lesson of 1977. I was barely more than a sketch of a man, malleable and eager, standing in the dim, neon-streaked humidity of a Dallas storefront that smelled of industrial cleaner and cheap vinyl. My Master didn't just own the shops; he owned the air I breathed and the space between my knees.

 

He taught me that my value wasn't in my voice, my intellect, or my ambition, but in my utility. I was a tool living, breathing extension of his hospitality. To him, I was the centerpiece of the room, a silent invitation for any man who walked through those doors with enough cash or enough influence. I remember the feeling of the linoleum cold against my back and the heat of a stranger's breath on my neck, the silent command in Master’s eyes telling me that my only purpose was to be filled and emptied, over and over.

 

For five years, I lived in that rhythm. I was the secret kept in plain sight, serving the board members and the blue-collar regulars alike. There was a profound, crushing peace in that erasure. To be nothing is to have no burdens. To be a hole is to be a destination.

 

Then came the crash. The raids, the legal fallout, the sudden vacuum where a kingdom once stood. I remember the day he was led away in handcuffs, not with a goodbye, but with a final, dismissive wave of his hand. He had "saved" me from the wreckage of his empire by packing me into a car and shipping me toward the coast, a final act of generosity that was actually a disposal.

 

I arrived in New York City with a suitcase of clothes that didn't fit the climate and a psychological imprint that wouldn't fade.

 

The streets of Manhattan in the seventies were a predatory kind of paradise. I was broke, homeless, and utterly stripped of my identity, but I carried the training like a holy relic. I didn't know how to navigate the subway or find a shelter, but I knew exactly how to look at a man in a dark alley or a dim bar to let him know that I was available for use.

 

At first, it was survival. A few dollars for a night in a warm bed, a sandwich in exchange for a few minutes of service. But as the years bled into decades, the survival instinct merged with the craving. The poverty wasn't just a circumstance; it became a costume. The humiliation wasn't a burden; it was the only thing that made me feel anchored to the earth.

 

Fifty years have passed since that Dallas shop. My skin has lost its elasticity, and the city has traded its grit for glass and steel, but the hunger remains. I have spent half a century chasing the ghost of a man who viewed me as an object, realizing that the most honest version of myself is the one that belongs to someone else.

I perfer old school anonymous wood glory holes at adult venues and other places and will suck any cock presented.

Where do you find old school adult theater gloryholes these days. Here in the Fascist State of Texas the gay hating pedo red hat cult has closed all the ones where we use to suck their cocks so now we have to do it in their churches but some of us still like the old nasty cum covered gloryholes of the old days.

Where do you find old school adult theater gloryholes these days. Here in the Fascist State of Texas the gay hating pedo red hat cult has closed all the ones where we use to suck their cocks so now we have to do it in their churches but some of us still like the old nasty cum covered gloryholes of the old days.

Where do you find old school adult theater gloryholes these days. Here in the Fascist State of Texas the gay hating pedo red hat cult has closed all the ones where we use to suck their cocks so now we have to do it in their churches but some of us still like the old nasty cum covered gloryholes of the old days.

Where do you find old school adult theater gloryholes these days. Here in the Fascist State of Texas the gay hating pedo red hat cult has closed all the gloryholes where we use to suck their cocks so now we have to do it in their churches. Some of us old timers still like the old nasty cum covered gloryholes of the old days.