[quote]I wonder if anyone here had ever encountered Crispo at any gay bars in NYC?
I brought him home with me one night in 1975 from Barefoot Boy and Uncle Charlie's, R322, several years before he got into S&M, or at least into murder. He was exceptionally good-looking and totally my type (dark hair, about my height, regular body type for those non-gym-obsessed times). Also, he had the biggest dick I'd ever encountered, one that remains in my top five all these years later. His physical attributes had a lot to do with his financial success at such a young age.
He was definitely a top. He laid me down on my back in my bed, then mounted me, his hands holding my arms down. He wanted to fuck me. I hadn't been fucked yet. I had only recently come to realize it was something two men could do, fuck each other. We started kissing. He was so beautiful, I could have simply kissed him all night, so that I could keep looking at his face.
But we started to suck each other's dicks. I reached into underwear of a type I'd never seen, something like today's boxer briefs. He said he needed special underwear, for support. It really was enormous. I kept going down on him as far as I could go, but I couldn't eat it all, no matter how much I wanted it.
He got back up on his knees, on top of me such that we were face to face, and he started spitting on my face. I asked him to stop. He said this was his lube, what he was going to use when he flipped me over and fucked me.
I said, "How are you going to fuck me? Aren't you too big?"
He said, "Let's see."
I figured, what the fuck. Everyone I meet wants to fuck me. Let's start at the top.
It was painful. But I let him keep going until he came (it would be several months, and several partners, before someone made me cum while he was fucking me). Eventually we fell asleep. I woke up again with his dick in my ass. I couldn't take it this time. He wasn't very gracious about it, but he stopped.
He went home in the morning. I jerked off with the vision of him stuffing himself into his "special" underwear playing in my mind. He called me that night and invited me to visit him at his gallery that week. I did, a number of times.
A mutual friend clued me in to the fact that a lot of Andrew's supposed background was fictitious, and it frightened me a little, and I started fucking the friend instead. I wish I'd stayed in touch with the friend. He was a wonderful guy, but those days I wasn't really taking the time to fall in love. He was so shy, yet so into me, but 1976 was one of the big "So many men. So little time." years.
I got back in touch with Andrew early in the 1980s. I wanted to get back together with him. I'd never completely stopped thinking of how beautiful he was, nor, of course, his amazing penis. He called me back and told me he couldn't see me because he was "into things now that you wouldn't like." I guess it was the S&M and the drugs. He never acted around me the way I've read about. There were no whippings. No murder. He never offered me drugs (nor paintings, unfortunately).
A new friend of mine started talking about him one day in another city...it was about the Dag Vesti murders and other things the new friend had personally experienced and witnessed.
I felt fortunate Andrew had pushed me away in 1981.