I met condomsRboring, the tag from adam4adam at his
immaculate, high-rise flat that featured a sweeping, panoramic view of the gas
station across the street. The building was smart wired with digital community
message boards while the washed asphalt was coated with a shiny top coat that
glistened in the soft, recessed lighting. They had torn down King’s Diner to throw this
building up like an Amish barn raising. The greasy spoon that was now gone had
been the only place you could get a milkshake at 3:00 AM. My mind snapped back to the present when I
was greeted by my host who opened the door in a towel or was that a sarong…?
Brian was a 28yo
fireplug mesomorph with a tight little ass. Based on his cautious list of
questions posed in our cat and mouse chase online, I should have realized
something may go awry. Before committing to hooking up, he wanted to know A) if
I had bathed recently, B) What drugs I did, the way I did them and if I had any
of my own. The latter questions were
posed like he was playing a chess game. One wrong answer on my part could be a
potential deal breaker so I watched what I said and tried not to sound too
snippy in my retort. He was trying to
find out if I shot or smoked crystal meth but wouldn’t come right out and ask
me directly. “Oh great, another
light-weight,” I thought to myself. I preferred to party hard core and get to
the “point” (with needles) but I was willing to overlook that and pretend I
only blew clouds in order to get freaky with him.
When he saw my tattoos, he asked about the meaning of the
number 5150 emblazoned in stencil on my bicep. “You don’t know?” I asked? He shook his head cluelessly. “It’s the CA penal code for being a danger to
yourself or others. You’ve obviously
never been institutionalized in a psych ward,” I said
“Hey, what are those,”
he said as he traced his hand over the slash and track marks on my arms. “I
used to cut… that was a phase, kind of a coping mechanism, know what I
mean?” I peeled off my t-shirt to show
him the vertical scar that runs from just under my chest to my navel. Before he could ask, I volunteered the truth
with no regard for TMI. “I used to have
this body dysmorphia issue growing up that resulted in like this…kind of an
eating disorder…see? That scar is from
the surgery I had when my intestines developed gangrene…from not eating… Anyway...yeah.”
I figured it was as good a time as any to break the news that
although I was ordinarily a versatile flip-flopper, I wouldn't be able to
bottom for him because I had just had surgery the week prior.
“There?” he
asked. Yeah, there,” I said as I
slapped my ass in exclamation.
He mercifully didn’t
ask for details this time and I refrained from elaborating. I shuddered to
imagine what he would think of me if he knew the truth. The deal was I had just undergone Anal
Dysplasia surgery to remove high-grade pre-cancerous lesions that were a result
of catching HPV aka Condyloma Acuminata
that sounds so much more glamorous than Anal Warts which is what I had caught 7
years prior. I remember how horrified I was when faced with that bit of news at
the STD clinic. They wouldn't be as easy to cure as chlamydia or gonorrhea,
both of which I had only just experienced as a result of a whirlwind
affair/fling/obsession with the first guy I met after I seroconverted to HIV.
From Easter to the 4th of July 2007, I had graduated from being smitten to
stalker to slashing his tires before falling into an old habit of slicing my
wrists up with razor blades in order to qualify the pain. To say that that
situation and subsequent wreckage was the worst emotional fuckwittage I had
ever... well… . All the lovelorn Romeos I had ever pined over couldn't hold a candle
to the one that ultimately burned me.
But all of that had happened a very long time ago and I was
more concerned at the moment with considering the prospect of getting through
the next three months without making myself available to be fucked. My walking papers
from UCSF hospital had clearly stipulated I wasn't to engage in Receptive Anal
Intercourse for at least 90 days. The news was fresh but I had already begun
resigning myself to its reality and was actually getting used to the idea of
IAI---- or strictly Insertive AI, i.e being a top. I had been a bottom longer than I had been versatile
because I didn’t start getting appreciated for my dick until I had grown out of
the chicken coop. I was used to being pigeon-holed (no pun intended) as a twinky
bottom up to then. Once I realized I had a commodity that could really work to
my advantage in the gay sexual market place, being versatile was the way to go.
My prowess for all its merits was evidently lost on my current companion
judging from that way he mechanically turned his attention right back to his
laptop that featured a home page already tuned to Adam4Adam and what looked
like a bunch of Cam4 windows..
"Well that sucks"
he said, "I wanted to fuck," "Yeah, I'll fuck you," I said,
trying to keep the exasperated "duh" tone out of my voice.
I settled back on the living room pullout and appreciated
the opportunity to jack off to his vast collection of porn all of which were
from genres and studios I had never seen. Suddenly, my meager, threadbare little
efficiency in the TL didn't seem all that special. Perhaps it was my impending
40th birthday that sat on the calendar like an anvil and hallmark of
my quarter/midlife crises. I hearkened back to all my previous life crises, all
the while stroking, stroking. "Help yourself to the cockrings," he offered
splaying out a plethora of various materials and sizes. Leather snap-ups were
aligned with an assortment of kushee-stretchies and stainless steel CBT
devices. Embarrassed, I pumped a squirt of his expensive Swiss Navy lube and
lost myself in the task at hand, so to speak. I had a full view of the back of
his head and earful of his biographical sketch. He regaled me with a story that
outlined a Mormon missionary boy from Salt Lake City. The nubile, tight-assed
little LDS devotee wasn't exhibiting his best preferred trait, in my opinion.
He adopted the alternate meaning of the descriptor "tight assed" that
had nil to do with his proclivities in the sack.
“Have you seen Book of Mormon,?” I said. My attention was only half focused on his words
until his monologue meandered into Mormon matters. “Andrew Rannells is so HOT,”
I proclaimed. My long time crush on the Broadway boy belter and co-star of the defunct
New Normal sitcom overtook me… “Hello… my
name is Elder Price…and I would like to share with you this most amazing book.” I harmonized. “I haven’t seen it,” he confessed in a flat
monotone.
“Have you Heard About
the All American Prophet? …“And God said, “Joe what people really want
to know is that the…” “I haven’t
SEEN It,” he said “bible isn’t two par...” Okay…
Oh, Elizabeth Smart...!”
I shared my recollections of the
blond, angelic harpist who was kidnapped by the freaky family handyman and
forced to amble around Salt Lake City wearing a burka with his shell-shocked
wife for 90 days. I also mentioned that I had a couple of
cousins who hailed from the Salt Lake area. This tidbit piqued his interest as
he probed me for questions about my relationship with a male cousin. He wanted
to know if I had ever gone down on him or fallen prey to his rape. "No, I
recollected,” He was too frail and wouldn't have been much fun," I
admitted.
“So, what is it you do for a living,”?” I finally
asked. He launched into a sob story
about how he was this close to walking out of Ebay until they paid him “what he
was worth,” Realizing I was laid out
in the lair of techie scum, my dick instantly went south. “Isn’t that in the
South Bay?” I asked while already knowing the answer. “And how do you get to work,” I
challenged. “My car,” what else. You think I take Caltrain?” he laughed. He
laughed? Did he think it was funny that his techie scum consumer and carbon
footprint was guzzling gas and ruining the physical environment as well as the
cultural integrity of my neighborhood and the entire city of San
Francisco?
“I gotta jet,” I said as I peeled off the kushee cock ring
and doused it with hand sanitizer. I told him to add me as a friend on Facebook
and pecked him on the lips. I could smell the minty fresh scent emanating from
his lips that smacked of Burt’s Bees. I wondered if I had ever been that high
maintenance. I knew I had always pushed the envelope to left of center into the
margins. I was decidedly un-apologetically marginalized. The only thing that
gnawed at my conscience was whether or not this warranted oppression without me
knowing it. I speed-walked back to my apartment as the sky turned from black to
beige. When I entered my ghetto 4th floor walk-up, I was greeted by my Tippi.
My three year old feline tabby erased all images of the higher economic
bracketed trick out of my immediacy. It was nice to be home amid my belongings,
my Elvis Presley doll that had been rescued from the hoard my New Jersey
grandmother had kept before her death. "Barbra
please…please Barbra,” I acknowledged to the light switch plate cover that
featured Judy and Babs from the October 6, 1963 episode of the
Judy Garland Show. I wouldn't trade my eccentric kooky taste for all of his
shellacked concrete and terrace with the simulated California wildlife even if
I had a cushy tech-centric job at Google or Twit-for-brains. “ Picking up my Ipad, I touched the Camera app
and switched the screen over to selfie so I could look at myself. “I mean, I’d rather die first. … " I said as I pulled out a tube of Burt’s Bees from
underneath a throw pillow, rolling up the wheel to allow the balm to rise.
Not too low….not too high, until it was just right. Then I started at the
corner of my bottom lip and worked my way all the way to the other lip rolling
the waxy texture along. I pressed my
upper and lower lips together, closed my eyes and ran my tongue over my teeth
and then the outside of both lips until they felt soft and smooth. Then I did
it all again with both eyes open as I stared at my reflection in the screen of
my Ipad/high-tech mirror.
Of course, I wouldn’t
mind the salary… I went to USC, for
chrys-sakes.” I muttered to
myself…
With all the alacrity I could muster, I yelled, “Techies
suck,” while rolling the mint flavored tube over my lips from the opposite
direction and finally blew myself a kiss.
