Give a Man an Inch For a gay man ...

And, of course, there's "bleeet"?sex.

Last summer I spent a lot of time over-analyzing and condemning this "destructive body culture." I spent a lot of time doing it mostly because I had a lot of time to do it. Summer is the time of year when these boys are at the height of their power?fueled by the regenerative waters of Fire Island and the reconstructive properties of spandex.

Unfortunately, I'm as susceptible as every other Tom, Tom and Tom to their mystical powers. I wanted sex, and from a Chelsea boy of my own. So, one gooey July night, I decided to bite the bullet and take a walk on the shallow side. Determined like never before to swallow as much of this body culture as my gag reflex would allow, I pranced into XL, New York's premier meat rack, where the Chelsea boys are plentiful.

Men cumbersomely float like balloons in the Thanksgiving Day Parade, strangely proportioned, impossible not to watch. Cowering in a corner, I ingest seven Diet Cokes when suddenly, a hand connects with my crotch. He introduces himself with a name that matches his body?overdeveloped, deliberate and fantastically hot?Brent Westwood.

He's everything I hate and he's talking to me. His hair and dialogue are porn-style, his questions direct and monosyllabic:

"You a top?"

"You drink?"

"You like what you see?"

I respond with ape-like grunts. Things are going well. Brent begins tracing my nipple with his thick pointer and places my right hand on his crotch. He makes me squeeze. Inside his Diesels is a world I've only talked about in therapy.

"You into toys?" he asks.

I pause. Geppetto comes to mind, but since I know this guy is either uninterested in or incapable of humor, I decide on a straightforward answer. I've had no experience with sex toys, but I've watched porn, I'm an actor, I'm good at improv, so: "I can be."

We go to Brent's triplex on Gramercy Park, where he has a marble shower with 12 nozzles and four benches. I'm hosed down like a beast at auction, and when I enter his bedroom, Brent is positioned like Mr. February on his canopy bed, wearing a black Gucci thong?tube steak smothered in underwear.

He points to an enormous antique armoire and barks for me to "pick out a few nice things."

Inside drawers that one imagines holding Great Grandma Kelly's wedding quilts are instead many, many, many dildos. Dildos of every shape and size. Dildos in black, dildos in white. Dildos that look like realistic giant throbbing cocks, dildos that resemble slick ebony sculptures. None are smaller than 18 inches, and most have the girth of a Folgers coffee can.

I stare, dumbfounded, acutely aware that I'm in over my head. Way over. "Ya look like a kid in a candy store," he says.

Minutes tick, sweat builds. I pick five. An eclectic mix. One, built like a fire hydrant, I pick for the sheer spectacle. I begin hauling them over, one by one, over my shoulder, like a rifle, a baguette, a scepter. With the booty displayed on the bed, I'm suddenly horrified to realize all the dildos are white. An inner dialogue begins questioning why I've chosen only white dildos; I went to Sarah Lawrence, so a preference for white dildos is problematic. I run to the drawer, grab a black dildo longer than my arm and get to work.

And work it was. Like being on the rock quarry. I was hoisting and thrusting and basting and slapping for three solid hours. This man's sphincter had a mind of its own. At times it seemed to speak to me, requesting certain dildos, instructing "faster" or "harder." It burped and made room for more.

At one point I lugged over the hydrant, slid it into Brent's elastic brown zero and filled in the remaining space with my own offerings. That was pretty hot, but more than anything I was bored. Brent's Adonis-like body didn't do more than lay there. Like a busy port.

Is this what I've been missing out on all these years? No wonder everyone works out.

Release is finally achieved. For Brent, not me. Like the dancing waters of the Bellagio in Vegas, he showered his stomach and face. Me, I needed some Tiger Balm and a nap.

Later in bed, I inquire whether it felt good, having the equivalent of a trashcan up his rectum.

Brent casually explains how most of his lower intestine had been surgically removed. I nod and say, "Oh, right," as if having your intestines removed were a new trendy cosmetic procedure. He continues with a story of how when he was a nine-year-old boy, a neighbor had tied him to a kitchen table and forced objects in him: among them, a rolling pin. The surgery had happened then. Brent confesses that he'd asked me to come home with him that night because I looked safe. Like someone who wouldn't hurt him.

On that hot, sticky night in July I lay next to a hot, sticky guy and felt a shift, an opening?a release. Perhaps even a pinch of affection. Occasionally I see Brent or a thousand guys who look just like him and remember our bodies are all ports. Some are just busier than others.