Today's uhhhhhhoverheard at Problematic Pizza:
"Yea. No. It came and shit. Yea. No, it was in packed real subtle like. I don't know. Subtle. Like anonymous or something. Yea. Yea. Anyway, I took it out of the package already. Well, get this. The instructions were in fucken Japanese or some shit. I don't know. No. Definitely Japanese. No, it's ok, though. It's ok. It's o. k. See, there's pictures. Seriously, James? How are Pictures going to be 'in Japanese'. They're pictures. Yea. Yea. Well, I know how to use it now. I can read pictures Real Good. No I Haven't Tried It, I'm eating pizza at the....yea. Oh, trust me, as soon as I get home, it's going directly up your ass."
I don't think I've smiled that broadly at a stranger in a long time.
A couple who were on a dayte (intentional portmanteau) were having a fairly typical "What do you like? Oh, me, too." conversation when the woman started talking about Gertrude Stein, and the guy didn't know who she was.
Female Identified Person: "You don't know Gertrude Stein? You need to take a woman's studies class."
Male Identified Person: "I'm in High School."
MIP: "Yea, I didn't tell you that?"
Ooof. It was like 2006 hitting me in the gut all over again. Run, lady. Run for your sanity.
Overheard by a very bearded guy in a porkpie hat at the Au Bon Pain:
"I don’t mean to be rude but I don’t want to spend Valentine’s Day with you. I barely know you. We went out once. And you gave me herpes."
2009 was a terrible year for my phone. And, frankly, 2010 doesn't look to be much better. I had three phones die, one of which I lost twice before it committed hare-kiri. It was difficult for people to get a hold of me, and difficult for me to return phone calls, as, when I don't have a phone, I don't think to call people. I'm also not terribly good at being in touch with people when I do have my phone. It's not that I'm self-absorbed, I'm environmentally-absorbed. If I'm at work, I'm thinking of comics. If I'm on the bus, I'm thinking about where I'm going. If I'm bed, I'm thinking of Sora. Rarely am I thinking, I should be on the phone with someone!
None of these reasons are why I didn't call The Slut Across The Street back, even though he'd given me his number several times.
The first time I got his number was New Year's Eve 2009. Since 1999, there has been only one New Year's Eve that I haven't been in Boston doing the family friendly Poetry Slam as part of First Night. This year was not the exception. When we were done, I was invited to a White Haus party with a bunch of poets. And Ben and I decided to split a cab and some champagne on the way there.
The party was uneventful for me, so just after midnight, I hopped in another cab, and went home alone. There were a dozen people left at my home from an epic party that I know very little about. I know the kitchen table was covered in a beer pong table. I know there were pants all over the kitchen floor. Both of my roommates were shirtless, and the guy that was leaving the party when I came in did not appear to know that he had a penis sharpied on to his face or that his pants were inside out.
My recently rescued cats, Selina Ribcage, and Yoda Louise Vader, were in my room, cringing in terror. So I picked up Yoda, and brought her out into the remains of the party. There are only two things you need to know about Yoda, she was adorable, and she was clearly not going to live very long. I named her Yoda because her head and ears were monstrously large compared to the rest of her body, and I called her Louise Vader because she had terrible respiratory problems, and wheezed uncontrollably at all times. I had only agreed to rescue her because I had already decided to rescue her mother, Selina, as very few people adopt cats when there are kittens around, and I didn't want her mother to be alone all the time while I was at work.
As I stepped out of my room, with the very tiny Yoda curled in my arm, a very intense guy walked up and started talking about Buffy The Vampire Slayer. While I'm willing to accept that not every guy with spikey hair and an intense knowledge of the work of Joss Whedon spends their Friday nights on Craigslist looking to sit on a dick, I would put the probability around 97%.
Somewhere around the middle of his "Ohmygod, I totally loved evil Willow when her eyes got all black and swimmy and her hair..." blah blah blah "and the time when Xander lost his eye and", that I realized this was the guy who had offered to help Zuzu and I carry a few boxes into the apartment when I moved in. I had noticed his crazy eyes, and his Natty Ice breath. Zuzu had noticed him noticing me.
And he was clearly noticing me now.
While we talked, the room cleared. And I went and sat in the living room. Yoda Vader sat in my lap. The Slut Across The Street was remarking how cute she was, and he started petting her, and looking at me. And petting her. And looking at me. And petting me. And looking at me. And petting me. And...wait, really? This dude just totally used my cat to feel me up. And then he just looks at me and says, "Do you wanna?"
Not really. "Sure."
I was a bit too champagned to remember that night. And he was too Natty Iced to remember his name. I just remember that it was so unspectacular that, when he briefly fell asleep next to me, I was trying to come up with the politest way to tell him to get the hell out. Not in a mean "You son of a bitch" way, but in a "OH, this was a huge mistake" way.
I took his phone number out of politeness. I didn't use it. Something he pointed out a couple of weeks later when he stopped in, twice as Natty Iced. This time, I was unchampagned, and uninterested in his "So," flirtatious smile, "you never" hiccup "called me."
And then he invited me and my roommates (who were actual friends of his) over to his house for drinks. And, it's late. And I don't have work the next day, so why not?
"We're" hiccup (really, this can't be happening) "gonna have to" hiccup (ugh) "be quiet because" hiccup (Jesus) "my shitty roommate is a" hiccup *CRASH*
With one wsipe of his sweaty, drunken paw, he'd managed to knock his coat rack not only off the wall, but halfway down the stairs into the lobby.
"Oh" hiccup (God) "God" "I'll" hiccup (why am I still here? "fix that" and he waved his hands to insinuate, I assume, later.
While I went back down the stairs to collect the fallen coat rack, my roommates disappeared into some alternate dimension. I didn't see either of them again for days.
Instead, I walked into the now empty kitchen, and heard, "I'm" hiccup (I should really go home) " in my room."
And he was in his room. And his clothes were in his room. But his clothes were not so very much on him.
"So," hiccup (ok, naked hiccups are kind of funny) "do you have any friends?"
As come-on lines go, this was lacking something. "Yes. Quite a few."
"Do they like to" hiccup (did I feed Selina before I left the house?) "cum on people?"
Ugh. "It's never come up."
"Have you" hiccup (it gets less funny every time) "come up yet?" And he, of course, reached for my crotch.
Apart from the stairs, I had not. Despite naked hiccups.
He fumbled in the general direction for my belt. But instead of focusing on that, I had noticed one of my Buffy trades sitting precariously on a pile of filthy laundry. Had I let this mostly stranger borrow my
""I'll be right" hiccup (why would I have lent him my Buffy trades?) "back"
He did not come right back. I'd begun to suspect that he'd been swallowed by whatever dimension had taken my roommates. Apparently, the Drunken hiccup Dimension.
After ten minutes or so of waiting, I wandered out to the kitchen, and notices an ass and a pair of legs sticking out of the bathroom. There was a definite smell of vomit. At no point in my life has the smell of vomit appealed to me. And having had now two lackluster experiences, I deleted his number from my phone, and walked across the street. Comfortable with the knowledge that The Slut Across The Street and I would never again have any sort of relationship aside from neighbor.
This was when my phone rang.
Sora was calling.
The first time my parents came to visit me at Torpor Heights boarding school, my dorm adviser told my parents that I had the sort of personality that adjusted well to change. "Everything that happen. It is like nothing to him. Is just. Day." And, broken English aside, she wasn't wrong.
Wherever I wake up is where I am, and there's nothing that can be done about it. Oh, I can make sure I'm somewhere else in a few minutes, an hour, a day or so. But that's the future. The present is completely beyond your control. It's like the past, but harder to ignore.
In my current present, I'm sitting in front of a fan in the living room of The Yoda Louise Vader Memorial Cafegymtorium, which is the name I've given to the house I've been living in for the last year and a half. Tomorrow,.I work in both the comic book store, and at the bar. Thursday, I interview potential new roommates: a pair of friends from Mission Hill, a poetry reviewer (no shit) who already lives in this neighborhood, a "free-spirited artist", and a 21 year old gay kid on disability for psychological problems. The last one is just like Sora, but with an income.
Any potential roommate has a lot to live up to. My most recently previoused roommates: Don, and Ms. Gibbons were roommates you're just going to have to read about to believe. Not only were all our bills paid on time but we never had any epic battles over dishes or thermostats, and Ms. Gibbons didn't even steal my TV on the way out like that awful Thai tranny drug addict, Divine, that I lived with on Mission Hill.
"Frankly," Bacchus said, as he sprawled across my chest, "I don't know how you can trust trannies anymore."
I wrinkled my eyebrows at him. "It wasn't the trannie part of him that stole my TV. It was the drug addict. Or possibly the Asian part."
It was Bacchus's turn to shoot a funny look. Unfortunately, he was not gifted with the proper genetics for facial grammar. "Then I guess you'd better keep an eye on me when I go home tomorrow."
Bacchus was the man of the moment. It was the summer of 2008. I was living in Somerville, and had spent the winter dating and then not dating and then dating and not dating Sora, among other people. Spring had much the same feel to it. And I spent July preparing for August, where I drove to Madison with Mazarine and did some poetry things, and some insafemodey things. And when I came home, I found an e-mail reply to a hardly used personal ad that sounded promising.
Like all solid relationships, ours began when Bacchus pulled his car into my driveway at 2:30 in the morning. We talked, made out, and tried, unsuccessfully to reproduce. But we had enough fun that we tried it again a couple of times for good measure.
This ritual went on for a couple of weeks. And while we confined our recreational activities to my bedroom, we often cuddled on the couch in the living room, watching American Gladiators with my roommates or just hanging out by ourselves watching the shadows charcoal the wall.
"I like him." The least combative of my roommates, Byrne, said. "He's a refreshing change of pace from Sora."
"How so?" I asked.
"I dunno. I guess it's just nice that you're dating the God Of Wine now, as opposed to the God of Whine."
The following night was the premiere of The Comedy Central Roast Of Bob Saget. The entire household: me, Mike, Byrne, and the other roommate were all going to watch it together. I invited Bacchus to join us, and about ten minutes before the show was about to start, I saw his car pull into the driveway. I tried to hide my goofy grin when the front doorbell rang. "The back door is open." I said. "I don't know why--" and I opened the door to see a Chinese man holding a paper bag. I had been hoping to see a Vietnamese man holding a bottle of vodka. "Huh." I said. "Wrong Asian."
Bacchus was in the kitchen, and he was trying his damnedest to give me a dirty look but his face was refusing to cooperate.
Byrne paid the Chinese guy n the front porch for his bag of fried food, and we all sat down for the comedy stylings of Jeff Ross, Greg Giraldo, John Stamos, Gilbert Gottfreid, and Norm Macdonald. During one of the commercial breaks, Byrne excused himself to go to the bathroom when a series of explosions went off in front of our front door.
"HEEEEEEEEEEY!!!! HEY YOU FUCKEN FUCKERS!!! OPEN THE FUCKEN DOOR!!!!" Then the crash of fists being drunk driven into our front door. "OPEN UP!!!"
The room froze. Bacchus sat up with a face that nearly expressed concern. Byrne appeared in the hallway, staring at the door. Mike let out a "What the fuck?" And I, because the moment was now, and there really wasn't anything else for me to do but be present for it, stood up, and walked over to the door.
1.) I lost my favorite shirt.
2.) In the pocket of my favorite shirt is the key to my hotel room.
3.) Because we're in the penthouse, and you need a penthouse room key just to get on to the penthouse elevator (or to access the penthouse floor via the stairway), I can't even get to the floor I am staying on, to knock on the door, to see if my hotel roommate, Mazarine, is around to let me in.
4.) I could call Mazarine, but I don't have her number memorized. I do have it in my cellphone, but...
5.) My cellphone is in the pocket of my favorite shirt.
6.) I have imbibed just enough alcohol to be cranky about it.
7.) It is nearly 5:30 in the morning.
8.) After several hours searching for my shirt, I ask the concierge to give me another key. He does. When I go upstairs and in to my room, the first thing I notice is that there, on the bed, is my favorite shirt.
9.) I'm the kind of person who makes absolutely sure that when I remove an item of clothing filled with objects, I check all my pockets and transfer anything I need. Therefore, when I removed my favorite shirt in my room, I transferred the hotel room key to my pants pocket, which means that I had the key with me THE ENTIRE TIME.
When I still lived with Ben, he took a vacation to a woody retreat, and did a lot of acid. At some point, during the trip, he borrowed his friend, Lisabelle (last referenced here)'s cell phone. He was fairly certain he returned it, but when it was nearly time for he and Lisabelle to leave, she couldn't find the phone, and knew that the last time she had seen it, Ben was using it. To call me.
According to Ben, he spent the next hours cleaning the house they were staying at. Every couch cushion was flipped, and dusted for potential cell phone remains. Every jacket in the house was emptied of pockets. Every cupboard emptied, then refilled and reorganized. Every square inch of the house was covered. At this point, Lisabelle's poor pussy-whipped boyfriend was informed that he had to hypnotize Ben, to make him remember what he did with it.
The hypnosis didn't work, but during the hypnosis, Lisabelle put her hands in her pocket, where her cellphone had been the whole time.
Upon hearing this story straight from the twink's mouth, Sir Trick said "Wait. They thought to hypnotize you? She wasn't thorough enough to check her pockets, but she thought of hypnotizing you? Why not just burn the house to the ground, and use a metal detector to find it?"
I have spent the month of August trying to burn down my past and discover where I went wrong. While, technically, July is when I lost Ryan, August is when I lost dignity, Ben, Sora, my mind (when I moved to Arifuckenzona), the list is endless.
"Your life is a fucken novel on acid." JBob says. We've seen each other once in the past decade. About a year ago we met for lunch in Boston, just after Sora disappeared. We had a good time, and some good laughs (and I stewed about him being hotter at 31, then he was when we were in high school, sleeping in the same room). And since slam nationals were in Madison, where he lives, we agreed to hang out during the competition. The highlight for JBob was when, in order to psych me up for a particular poem, he got to repeatedly shove me, and slap me in the face. It worked.
"What do you mean 'my life is a novel on acid'?"
"Well, ok, you're part of this big weird community where most people seem to know you, and, at least on the surface, like you. But you've got two nemeses. One is this Punky Brewster looking gay kid with leggings, and too much eyeshadow. And then there's the thirty-five year old Gothtard who wanders around in his lame-ass black trenchcoat all the time, leering at you."
"You've got it wrong." I say. "Ben is not my nemesis, he's just...you know, Ben. And the Gothtard isn't my nemesis, I'm his. If I chose a rival, it would be someone who had a talent for what they do, or at least someone with dignity. That dingleberry doesn't even warrant a special name in my Livejournal."
"Well, that's because he already has a special name. A Blue Light Special name. In his case, probably a flashing blue light pulsing to the rhythm of some lame ass techno band from 1994."
We are walking to JBob's house. We are both fairly drunkwasted. We also spent some time in a Madison parking lot with a Boston poetry friend smoking a non-cigarette. I am vaguely aware of the turns we take between my hotel and his house. And when we get there, we resume smoking, and talking about high school, while the Olympic Opening Ceremonies play on his TV.
"I totally had a gay crush on Fledge." JBob says.
"Everyone had a gay crush on Fledge. He was cute, funny, and hung like a...like I'm too high to come up with something funny."
"Yea, but, I used to wait outside the showers to try and see him naked."
Well, this is uncomfortable. My hot, hilarious friend and former roommate is confessing a gay crush while we're both hammered and sitting on his couch. My hot, hilarious married to a girl friend and former roommate. God, I wish she was a bitch so I could sleep with JBob and not feel guilty.
"Well, I have to work tomorrow. So I should get to sleep. Do you want to crash here, or...."
"I'll, uh, I'll just go back to the hotel. Yea. The hotel. Thanks for having me over. This was" awkward hug "fun."
And he gives me spoken directions on how to get back to the hotel. Directions which I can't concentrate on because I'm thinking stupid stupid stupid just go back there and stupid stupid back to the stupid hotel but I think he was trying to no stupid stupid stupid just go. I've been walking aimlessly for about fifteen minutes, and thinking I'm hopelessly lost, when I look up and see a crowd of mostly-dressed-in-black-people in a circle around someone performing bad hip-hop. Clearly, I'm back in the poetry zone. And, sure enough, I see the hotel.
I want to turn around and go back
I've since been told that the odds of finding a half Chinese, half Mexican in Madison Wisconsin are not just slim, but completely anorexic. And you can see the ribs of the probability of finding a gay half Chinese, half Mexican in Madison Wisconsin. And the odds of finding a gay half Chinese, half Mexican with amazingly colored hair, from Madison Wisconsin who reads my livejournal and wants me to stick my dick in his smooth, twenty year old ass are so malnourished, they'd make a Sudanese refugee puke in horror and disgust. Yet I find myself staying in the penthouse of a nice hotel in Madison, Wisconsin, face to face with just such a creature.
I've texted my hotel roommate, Mazarine, to let her know that our room will be occupied for a couple of hours, and things will be done that she might want to read about, but probably wouldn't want to experience first eye.
I am loving my first eye experience. His photograph, and LJ Icon didn't do him justice, and his photographs and LJ icons were hot. He's instantaneously half-tongue deep in my mouth, and his hands are locked on to my shoulderblades. He kisses like we've been in love since birth, but haven't seen each other in a year. And, usually, when people kiss this well, they're amazing on the bed (when someone who looks this good wants to have sex, you don't ruin the view by getting under the covers).
Sure enough, it's not long before the pants are off, my cock is in his mouth, and he's making the most spectacular guttural noises. I have not had this much fun, sexually, since I stopped seeing my sort-of-boyfriend, Sora, months ago. This guy is just...wow. And then the condom is on, and he's bent over and even wowier. And it's about twenty minutes worth of wow, where I have to completely hold back to keep from coming, because he's got great rhythm, and...and he just totally came all over the hotel room covers, but that's ok, that's why God invented hotel room washcloths. And it's a thrust thrust, twist, thrust, pull, spank, thrust thrust kind of night, and.....I'm done. I spend a minute or two post-sperminization, continuing to fuck, and then we stand up, me still inside him. And there's more great kissing, and then I pull out, and then...and then we have a problem. This thin running of red fluid starts leaking out his ass. It's not blood. It's certainly not sperm (I was wearing a condom). I don't think it's shit, because I don't think shit comes in the color of Beaker's hair.
Not even having the words to try and figure out what the hell is going on, I say "We should...shower."
And we're in the shower, and we're making out, and the leaking has stopped. And it's not long before he's on his knees, sucking me off, and then he's standing back up, ass toward me, and at no point does my brain go "remember what happened last time you pulled out of there...I know it was ten minutes ago, but dont'cha?" No. My brain only had the foresight to place condoms on the shower ledge, and here we go again, and it's equally amazing, and he's making fantastic noises. And I pull out, and this time everything appears fine. I towel off, I toss him a towel. And while he towels off, I walk into the room to make sure Mazarine hasn't texted that she's on her way back. She hasn't.
Well, as soon as I turn around, he's got his tongue back in my mouth, and his hands back on my shoulderblades, and we're right back where we started, and I have no complaints about it. I fuck, I come, he stands up and comes on the floor, which I'm not too pleased about it, but as transgressions go, it's pretty minor. Again, hotel towels. And then he says he has to go. And he turns around, and he's leaking again.
"Uhm. Hon, you're....are you okay?"
"You appear to be...leaking. From your ass."
He wipes his hand down his crack. "Huh. Weird." And then he puts his pants on over his still leaking ass. "I'm supposed to meet my friends at a restaurant downtown. Want to walk me there?"
"Sure?" But...but your...I mean your ass...I mean...you're leaking some sort of alien fluid.
And we take the elevator to the lobby, and we're barely outside when I run into a couple of friends of mine who are also in town. As soon as I say hello, the dude, who now has anal Tang juice spreading across the back of his khakis, bolts. He says goodbye, but it shoots by all Doppler Effect style as he shoots across the street and back into whatever wormhole he came from.
I shrug, and walk back into the hotel with my friends. We hang out for a few minutes, and then I go up to my room. The room smells like sex. Which makes sense. Luckily, I brought a bit of Febreeze with me, and I Febreeze the bed covers. I had wiped up his two come stains (one on the covers, one on the floor) before we left. But the floor is still a little damp, so I go into the bathroom to fetch a towel to dry it up.
The towels. The white hotel room towels. The white hotel room towels are covered in varying shades of bright red. It looked like someone had used them to crush Fraggles to death. There was clearly no saving these towels. Housekeeping was going to wonder what the hell had gone on in room 1419. I had a vivid image (complete with soundtrack) of their conversation, but as I don't speak a lick of Spanish, I couldn't tell you what they were theorizing.
And what did he tell his friends when he got to the restaurant? How do you explain a huge orange stain spreading across the back of your khakis? Gang raped by these guys?
I e-mailed him the next day to find out if he was okay, but I never heard back from him. Whether he was embarrassed by his towel-Tanging, or whether he evolved into some liquid orange state, I'll probably never know. Though, I should probably be ashamed to admit, I'd totally hit that again.
M. Froggypants left his cell phone in my room. It had fallen between my bed and the wall, and thus, I didn't even know I had it until about a half hour after he left. And, even then, I only knew I had it because it started to ring, I shit you not, La Marsellaise (the French national anthem). It was M. I- Must-Be-Gooeeeng-Now-Or-I-Weeeel-Meees-My-Trayeen checking to see where his phone was.
After our brief conversation, he hoofed it back to my place, and knocked on the door. He smiled when I answered, as though I should be glad to see him. "Waaayer eees my cellephoan?"
"Sorry. It's in my room. I didn't realize you'd be here this quick."
"Ees no problem, I weel go een and get it?" And so we walked into my room. His phone was on my bed, right on the spot he'd ejaculated on (though I'd wiped it up as soon as he was done). Also on my bed was Darth Vader, the bottle of lube I've been using. "Thees eees such a strayange-" and he dropped Darth, who must have had a bit of lube on it, to the floor, spilling a bit, but not too much. "Sorreee. Aneewayez, I shood bee goeeng." And he picked up his phone with his now slippery hand, and it, of course, fell to the floor as well. This happened twice more as he tried to pick his cell phone up off the floor with his lubey hand. Eventually, he managed to get the phone into his pocket, making a few lubey spots on the outside of his khaki pockets. "I weeel see you laytare." Which he wouldn't. No, when I keeeel heeeem, it will be from a distance, with a sniper rifle.
And as he turned to leave the room, his shoe skidded briefly in the floor lube. He quickly regained his balance, flashed a smile in my direction, and said "That was cloase." And then he took two more steps forward, and slipped halfway out of my room, falling on his overly sensitive ass. "Ow." He said. "Weel you help meee up?"
My turn to smile. "No. I don't want to get any lube on my hand, it's nearly impossible to get off. Don't worry though, it'll dry up in ten minutes or so." And I laughed quietly watching him try to get up, watching him carefully navigate out of my house, and watching him wiping his shoes on the concrete steps outside my house.
I'm not saying the no one in this city knows how to fuck properly, I'm saying that people who don't know how to fuck properly tend to move to this city. Some are Chinese, some are French, an overwhelming amount seem to be from Pittsburgh, and a metric ton of these untalented fuckers hail from Milwaukee. There must be something about people from cities with funny names. I'm looking at you Poughkeepsie.
It's been three months since I've seen any of my exes, so I've been dangling my carrot in front of every horse-brained whore this side of the Charles River. I've met four French men, a half-dozen or so men of Asian descent, and an adorable Latino guy who got really bummed out when I told him I needed to see his driver's license. Yea, I like younger guys. No, I do not have sex with anyone who still has a curfew, and gets really excited about Hannah Montana.
The first French man chatted me up in a bar, and told me he thought I was hot (which meant he had been drinking profusely even before I arrived), and wanted to take me back to his place. When I told him my place was closer, he let me know we had to go back to his place because his hot brother was home, and he couldn't have sex unless one of his brothers was in the same building.
I paid my check and went back to my house. Without him.
Froggy #2 came a courting from The Internet. His pictures were so fabulous, I knew they had to be fake. And while there is a strong possibility that the chiseled features and gorgeous smile were, once upon a time, grafted on to his face. He has obviously spent the decade or so since those pictures were taken working in a coal mine filled with radioactive waste, and no hazmat suit. Well, maybe the suit, but definitely not he visor. He was denied entrance to my domicile.
The third surrender monkey cruised me on the T. This happens frequently (cruising in general, not necessarily cruising me), and since we got off at the same spot, he started talking to me. Small talking in a hot accent. And I might have been enticed to give him my e-mail address or my phone number, if he hadn't smelled like he'd been rolling in a pile of perpetually frightened skunks for the last week and a half.
Last night was célibataire number four (or quatorze, if you're Bono). We'd been talking online for a couple of weeks. His picture was not flattering, but he looked like the sort of person who's moderately attractive, but not photogenic. I gave him my cell number and my address, and waited to see what was going to go wrong.
He missed his bus, or there was no bus at the scheduled time. It's Boston, and the shitsucking general manager of our public transportation spends his day in his office canceling buses, and jerking off to the collective aggravation of the city when none of the trains or busses arrive on time. It was totally not this French guy's fault. So he walked a mile or two to my house. And when he showed up he smelled understandably musty, but not terrible. He looked better than his photo.
"May I take a shower?" He asked.
I gave him a towel, and pointed him in the direction of the bathroom. He stripped in my room, and walked naked to the bathroom, and proceeded to shower for about five minutes.
When he came out his alarming cock was already engorged with blood (which is way better than being covered in blood). "This weel be my fairst teyum with an Amereecan." His accent seemed deliberately thicker, like a casual German playing a Nazi on the History Channel.
He pulled off his towel and laid face up on my bed. I took off my clothes, and leaned in to start sucking/fingering him.
"Weee shood talk abowt consentyill theengs wee mite want to beee doeeng."
So we did. We agreed we were open to anything that didn't involve piss, shit, or his family. And then he rolled over, and said, "My ass ees yores, due what you want to eet." Which shortly became "Reem me."
Now, as I knew he'd just come from my shower, I was willing to throw my tongue down Crackpipe Alley. But I'm no Gene Simmons (or, for that matter, Freddy Kreuger in Freddy's Revenge), and when he started moaning "Deeeperr", I was forced to tell him that was as deep as I could go with that particular organ.
I was ready to move on to the fucking he'd said he so desperately needed when he started talking to me about the last guy he had sex with, who, apparently was French and horrible (pronounced whoreeblay). I don't want to talk about bad sex when I'm trying to have good sex. And I don't want you to tell me that you love the way my cock feels inside you when my cock is not only not inside you but not touching you in any way.
"I want you to put all yore wayit on mee, and push een as deep as you cen, rite aaaaayway."
So I did. Even though it wasn't really my thing. "You are such a mannn."
Yes, I am.
And I began to slowly move back and forth, and "Ohhhhhh. I theenk I just kayim on yore bed."
And, he had.
"Do you haff papir towells?"
I did, and pulled my condomed cock out of him, reached over to the papir towells, handed him some, and waited for him to clear up. Then I turned him over, prepared to do things my way.
"What are you doeeng? I am feenished."
"I'm not. I've barely started."
"I do not meen to bee selfeesh, but once I am dun, I am dun. And I do not want to mees my train home."
"Seriously?" I mean, seriously? "You said you wanted me to fuck you for hours, that your ass was mine, and as soon as I get my dick in you, you come, and say you have to go home?"
"Okay, I weel let you try some more? But, please, make it quicklee." And he bent over. and in went my cock, and then out shot my cock as he released a long, noisy, lubricant wet fart. And another. And another. And another.
I handed him more papir towells.
He toweled off his ass, looked at his watch and said "I am sorree, but I do not want to mees my train. Maybee I stop by to-morroh?"
"No. Just go."
And he went. I texted one of my perpetually indecisive Chinese American exes (there are three, and between the three of them, they've made two decisions in their entire lives, all three of them were removed by C-section, as they couldn't decide when was a good time to get out of the womb). As expected, he thought he might want to possibly come over maybe, but in the end he was kind of tired, and it was late, and he thought his horoscope might have said there was possibly something unusual in the air, so he didn't come. Which meant I didn't come. Which means my testicles are now the size of a scale model representation of hoop earrings, as worn by a trashy woman with a face the size of the sun.
And it doesn't look like I'm getting any today, either.
Jim, my roommate Byrne, and several other people in the poetry community seem to have the mistaken impression that I hate all Gay People. "And I don't mean you're self-loathing. It's just other Gay People you hate. I mean, if I were to make a pie chart of The Gay Community where the red part was people you hated, and the black part was people you liked, it'd look like a watermelon."
"To be fair," I replied, "the chart would look exactly the same were you to divvy up the straight people I did and didn't like."
But it's Pride Week, and most of the people annoying me are Gay. Here's the thing, I don't like PDA, even when it's hot gay guys groping each other and doing the type of kiss that surrenders to Germans. I don't like the huge rainbows, the Madonna karaoke or the horrible fashion shows with clothes designed by people who should never be given scissors within a hundred yards of curtains or bathmats. When I was invited me to read for Coming Out Day, rather than Pride, at a local spoken word venue, I knew the organizer understood me.
Ryan and I had a couple of hilarious conversations about how we hated melodramatic gay people. Which made his choice to kill himself rather than come out to his parents all the funnier. Ok, I didn't find it funny at the time, but it makes me giggle now. Ben and I used to riff on hating stereotypical Gays, too. And that was funny because Ben is as stereotypically Gay as you can get without bursting into Flamer (note, I am not calling him a Flamer...he's just sort of sparky). But it was Sora that I really bonded with on the loving homosexual men, and disliking Gays.
And while I may joke about not liking Gays because of their fashion sense, their musical taste, their propensity for PDAs, their coifs, their deliberately screechy octavoices, or their gonorrhea; the truth is none of them seem to know how to kiss properly.
Trey kisses like a damp sponge being pressed against your lips and slightly squeezed into your mouth. I met him, as I'm sure you're shocked to know, over The Internet. And his kissing was the only thing I could fault him on, but I haven't called him back.
Breezy uses his tongue like a woodpecker searching for ants at the back of my throat. I wouldn't have called him back either, but the thing is, he has this great apartment. I mean, the apartment itself is average. Not furnished very well, devoid of any art, but it's on the water, meaning bay breeze, which, given the current heatwave, is good enough reason for me to continue seeing him.
"So you're dating a guy for his apartment." Asterisk said. "I've done worse. I've dated people because I've liked their dog."
And while I've never dated someone for their dog (and I do love dogs), I did threaten to break up with someone when their ex-roommate got custody of their awesome cat.
But it's not just the apartment. Despite his being the sort of Gay you can see from space even when your eyes are closed and you're facing in the opposite direction, staring into the sun, he looks really good naked, and since he has no roommates, we spend a lot of time naked in various rooms. But we're not dating. I know we're not dating because both of us had sex a few hours before we met up (with other people, natch), and then a few hours after we parted ways.
Clem was the guy a few hours earlier, and he received kisses exactly the way a closet case kisses back when they're about to freak out. Our sex didn't really last long. We'd been trying to meet for months. And by we, I mean he. I gave up on him after the first night of his utter wishy-washiness. He wanted to meet. He wanted to bottom. He had the night off, but, horrors, what if someone saw me go into his house and knew I was A Homosexual? What would the neighbors say? (I surmise they'd say "Yawn. He could do better.") Three months and eleven potential meet-ups later, he sent me his address, and I hopped on a bus that connected with another bus, and yet another bus that dropped me off in his neighborhood. We made very small talk before we went into his bedroom, where he closed his shades, turned off all the lights, and took off his clothes. When I tell you he had the tiniest penis I've ever seen, I'm not trying to insult him. As much as I can appreciate a good looking penis, it's not the part of the body I'm most looking for. His ass was assdequate. But barely had he slid his skivvies around his ankles, when he started stuttering. He had one hand on my cock, and said "Your c-c-cock is so big. I can not b-b-bottom for you." Which is flattering, but not at all true. Not even remotely true. So I started putting my clothes back on. "I can jerk you..."
"No." "You can't." "You've got a car, right?" In the movie version of my life, I'm smoking a cigarette. Perhaps two cigarettes.
"Yes. I have car." Apparently, my cock was also so big he forgot how to use articles in his sentences.
"You're giving me a ride home then."
And he did, without question. And as soon as he dropped me off at the house, I e-mailed Breezy, and he took care of my Indigo Testicles. And I took care of his. And he took care of mine. And I took care of...you get the idea.
When it was finally well past time for sleep, Breezy plopped down beside me on his bed, and grabbed my arms around him. Which is fine. I can be rather cuddly when the mood strikes, much to the chagrin of Sora, and the amusement of Zach. The latter referring to me as a Reverse Teddy Bear. "A big furry thing that never lets go." Breezy was the first guy I've ever thought of as aggressively huggable. Every time I was certain he was asleep, and I tried to move to a more comfortable position, he would wait for me to adjust, and then commandeer both my arms, roll his neck under my chin, and slide his butt up against my cock, which is a pretty surefire way to get me to not move too much for a while.
"Where are you going?" He asked when it was time for me to head home, shower, and consider going to work.
"Not yet you're not." And he was correct. Three times.
When I got the e-mail from Diego, telling me he would die without a sperm transfusion, I wondered if meeting him was a bit over the top. True, I hadn't been laid since Wednesday afternoon, but it was only Friday afternoon, and I had a show to go to Friday night. But he was insistent that he come over. he was insistent about everything. Kissing too desperate. Mashing of mouths, yanking of head. It was like kissing a fish that kept flopping around to different sides of your face. "Am I too rough?" He asked.
"No." You just suck at this.
"I am ready to be-" don't say it, don't say it, don't say it "taken by you, Big Boy."
Sora developed a sense of dirty talk sometime after the first year or so of our on/off/on/off/off/off/on/whatever dating cycle. I think this goes back to a conversation we had where I mentioned liking when a guy was vocal in bed. But what I meant was guttural, or pleasured, not loquacious and porn talky. But Sora gets away with it because I like him & he has a sexy voice. Diego...Diego doesn't fall into either category.
It's not just the bad kissing, the bad porn talk, or the everything else. Diego proved something I suspected, but didn't know for sure. I'm not into black dudes. It's not a racist thing. I cold surely fall in love with someone black, and I can damn sure realize when someone black is hot, but I'm just not into them, precisely the same way I'm not into women. They can get me hard, they can get me interested, but they can't make me come. Diego tried and tried and tried and tried, until Byrne knocked on my door to let me know it was time to go to the show. I don't think he heard what we were doing (and if he's read this far, I'm sure he now regrets it). "What do we do?" Diego asked. "You have not--"
"We've got to go." I said. "Sorry, I didn't realize this would take so" epically "long."
"I will call you later." He, I hope, lied.
"You are such a whore. Again." Dmitri said, when I relayed the stories to him. "Who killed himself this time?"
"Ouch. No one. I mean, I'm sure someone, but nobody I know. It's just..." Oh shit.
Trey kisses sponge, Breezy woodpecker, Diego cinder block, Clem like a terrified mannequin. Diego is too needy armed, Trey too non-existent. Diego too existent. Clem not enough anything. These ass shaped men trying to fit themselves in my heart slot. And, in theory, the piece should fit. Not perfectly, or even well. But they should drop into the too big space for them, and slide around like the last pretzel in a kiddie pool sized bowl. Everything about Breezy is nearly acceptable except that he isn't Sora.
The best thing about having your perfect boyfriend commit suicide a month into your relationship is that you realize pretty quickly that there's no way you can improve upon your relationship or bring things back to the way they were. He's never going to be nearly as responsive, even if you dig him up and put a tape recorder in his chest. He's never going to kiss back, or silently judge you for your horrible necrophilia jokes. Ok, he will always silently judge you for your necrophilia jokes, because silent judgment is one of the few things corpses are good at. But, I digress.
Sora is, thank everything, in no way shape or form dead. Nor is he, nor has he ever been perfect, as my friends frequently remind me. But he kisses properly, which is sometimes enough. And we've become accustomed to our cycle of whatever it is we do or don't. And Zach was right about me. I'm just this big, furry thing that never lets go.