RODE TRICK TO SAN FRANCISCO, PART 2.

A few hours into the road trip from hell, I found myself with leg cramps akin to hours on one's knees sucking dick. Unfortunately for me, these cramps were due to endless hours of open road with my foot steadily on the pedal. I only wish I had been so lucky to have pain from hours of fellatio. Actually, that's a lie. I rarely suck dick by account of my being a lady. Driving in my own personal hell with the foulest of creatures - Trick - sitting shotgun to me, the organizing party of the trip - Producer Gay (PG) - was fast asleep in the backseat. As Trick replayed Rihanna, Britney Spears, and Miley Cyrus, I began to fantasize about our arrival in San Francisco. As my thoughts ran rampant, I had additional musical stylings from PG's crusty nose snores in the back seat.   

It seemed that I was under a very different impression when it came to this trip. Not only had I never signed up for babysitting or chauffeur duty, but I had been looking forward to time alone to write my days away. I was anxious for our arrival, knowing that I had planned my alone time for the days in San Francisco. My private time is sacred and I wasn't looking to be anyone's anything. As my legs were riddled with discomfort and pain, I realized that I couldn't have been more wrong. Trick began to ask me questions regarding time spent during the day, planning his own itinerary. Being an independent person, I assumed he had a plan in tact that didn't involve me. Instead, Trick began to probe me with questions. "What are WE going to do during the day, while you know who's at work?!" I sat there, having driven for several hours already, cringing at the idea of spending more time outside this car with Trick. "Well, I don't know about you, but I was planning to write during the day." Rather than an adult request for attention, I found myself with blurred boundaries. "Fuck no. Screw your writing. We're going day-drinking." Clearly he had no idea who he was talking to because that's not really my definition of a good day. Getting stoned all day in front of the TV, that's my kind of day fun. Alcohol and I aren't really friends, but more of acquaintances that spend time together on a limited basis and it's rarely during the day. When I explained that I had no interest in day-drinking, I was met with an amplified volume of Britney's 'Work Bitch'. "No, Raanan. We're going day drinking." I had no intentions of this, but didn't realize how extensive my babysitting was going to be on this journey. "I'm going to write during the day. You're welcome to come with, but I'll be face deep in editing." Trick just shook his head and I left it at that. I figured I would deal with him in the morning. As of the moment, I was still driving and just wanted to focus on getting to SF. I had been driving for over six and a half hours, at least, at this point and I was exhausted. For those of you that don't know, the drive from Los Angeles to San Francisco is generally six hours. This was not the case on this fateful trip, however. The car ride drug on for quite a while, making me more agitated with this mess, but acting polite out of respect for my friend PG and the many empty promises he had set forth for the trip. 

A few hours away from San Francisco and PG woke up. I took a huge sigh of relief similar to when the latest installment of the 'Die Hard' films ended. Thank Oprah (God) that movie ended. I'm still confused as to why anyone filmed it, but Bruce Willis will never make choices I can stand behind. As PG woke up to another rendition of Miley Cyrus's 'Wrecking Ball', he proceeded to ask us how the last few hours were. I wanted to rip his throat out just for asking the question, but instead I decided to have a little fun: "Well, Jacob (Trick) was telling me about the deep meaning 'Wrecking Ball' has had on his life..." I couldn't help myself. Trick was drinking his third oversized Sugar Water for the day at this point and seemed to have ZERO self awareness, so I figured - why not have a little fun? As expected, Trick did not pick up on my tone of conversation. Instead, he proceeded to tell us the deep and emotionally taxing story about 'Wrecking Ball'. As the story went, it seemed Trick was dating a formerly married and closeted young 24 year old man with five kids. Yes, you heard me correct: he was dating someone under the age of 25 with five kids. And, get this: He wasn't Mormon, Amish, or Catholic! Who'd have thunk it? The two were carrying on in a long distance relationship for about four months. Now while I wouldn't call that a 'Long Term Relationship', four months can easily be considered a milestone in gay relationships. Towards the end of those four "long" months, Trick flew his beau out to Los Angeles along with all five kids. I expected a mess of a story, partially by the trembling pain in Trick's voice as well as the mumbled mutter of sobs. Instead, it didn't sound like anything fishy had occurred. They had a nice time and spent some memorable moments seeing the sights throughout Los Angeles. I couldn't help but sit there confused. You would have thought Trick had been viciously raped and abused by this relationship, if for nothing else, by his trembling voice. This was not the case. We learned the trip was actually rather nice, through Trick's muffled sobs. On the last day of the trip, the closeted baby-factory boyfriend at the time had lost a pair of Trick's Ray-Ban sunglasses. This wasn't anything more than a simple turn of fate. While riding the ferris wheel at the famous Santa Monica Pier, the sunglasses had fallen from his head to a destructive concrete fall. While this may have been momentarily upsetting, I can't imagine something as trivial as sunglasses being something to cry about. I have a pair of seven dollar sunglasses from 'H&M' that don my face daily and they work just as well as the overpriced shades I wore back in the days of making money. Of all things, this did not seem to hold the weight of an hour's cry, but I was already living in an alternate reality. 

At the close of their trip, Trick was promised a replacement pair of shades from his closeted beau. Shortly after his boyfriend left California, they broke up. In my eyes, that was the end of the sunglasses, but it seemed it was not enough. Trick was still waiting for his replacement pair. And when Trick did not receive them, they had an intense falling out with angry words. Here's the best part, this story took place over four years ago. Trick had been harboring pain and resentment over a pair of hundred dollar sunglasses for years longer than their short spanned "relationship". I'm not shitting on the expense at hand, but if that's the worst thing that happens in the close of a relationship, I think it could be manageable. I've had a car stolen from me along with my dignity as a result of a breakup, so I think he got off lucky. Gifts I have received within relationships include bad credit ratings, gonorrhea, and mono. I would pay money to only have a pair of shades taken from my person. Instead, Trick went on to cry profusely about this lost pair of sunglasses. He proceeded to sob incessantly, citing the principal of the situation at hand and not the monetary value of the sunglasses. "I don't care about how much the glasses cost, but they were nice. I like nice things. And I still didn't care. He could have bought me a cheap pair like yours Raanan, and I would have been fine." Firstly, as Trick's new chauffeur, I kept thinking - Fuck You. Secondly, if it's four years later, you clearly still care. All the while, I never heard one reference to 'Wrecking Ball'. "So, what's the importance of Miley's Song?!" I shouldn't have asked such a question because clearly logic was thrown out the window the moment we set on the road. As Trick went on to answer me, it seemed that for no apparent or explained reason, he felt that Miley Cyrus's new hit best described the relationship saga of the missing sunglasses. All the while that Trick has been telling us this overly long story, I couldn't help but feel the need to unlock his door and leave him rolling down the highway. I know this will make me sound like I have no heart - which may very well be correct - but after quite a long winded story of misery based around a pair of sunglasses from years ago, I couldn't help but burst out in laughter. I began to scream with laughter, unable to control myself. Ironically for me, PG is just as sick and twisted as me and he matched my laughter with his own. While Trick cried hysterically, we burst at the seams like two ridiculous Hyenas. "Is that all you wanted out of this trip? A pair of sunglasses?! We'll get you a pair!" It was as if PG and I shared the same brain. You would have thought Kathy Griffin or Sarah Silverman were performing stand-up in the front passenger's seat. We couldn't silence the laughter. It was overwhelming. We were acting beyond silly. I hadn't laughed that hard in years. My stomach began to hurt. 

PG and I began singing 'Wrecking Ball' as tone-deaf as we both are, while laughing at Trick's expense. It may have been nasty, but he had been a skid mark on the trip up until then and here was some unbridled fun! Still stuck in hysterics, PG and I implored Trick to keep sharing stories. He was adamant we all share stories: "We're all friends now and I want to know more about both of you." I didn't know who he thought he was building a friendship with, but surely it was not me. PG may have enjoyed his gaping asshole the night before, but I didn't know if friendship was on the table there. Here we were laughing at this mess and he thought it was bonding time. Again, I may not be the kindest at times. PG and I continued to beg for further stories, but Trick was adamant we share our own experiences, so my friend and I obliged. Now, I'm pretty long winded - if you couldn't tell already - but I know my place to speak and this was not it. Without saying a word to one another, PG and I knew we were on the same page. We both told blandly funny and brief stories in an effort for further tales from Trick. If you've ever heard the age old adage "Careful what you ask for", then you know these stories were about to jump in a whole other direction. 

When it came time for Trick to share his next story, I expected a pathetic sob story that may incur laughing. Perhaps a lost pair of underpants that he's been crying over for years, but nothing like what was to come. I never anticipated the next story: "Well, a few years ago my mother was paying my rent and tuition while I was in school at the Art Institute. I started working at a fashion company and quit school, but didn't tell my parents. When my mom found out, she cut me off financially. I wasn't making enough money to pay my bills and didn't know what to do. That's when a friend suggested I try out porn." Yep, Trick had performed on camera in an adult film. There's nothing so shocking or tough here. Honest to Oprah, I've considered it over the years, but I've also considered obesity and yet I can fit through the door. But that's not where the story gets good. First, he begins to tell us how the studio he filmed with - Chi Chi LaRue - had wanted to make him into the next big porn star, putting all their money behind him. I call bullshit on this. Not to say I'm an Adonis, but I'm not bad on the eyes, and I know that the guys who rise to fame with Chi Chi are way out of my league. If I had no chance, then this homeless chic semen house was not getting to the top. As he gives us the explicit details of this porn shoot, Trick tells us the best part of his adult scene. While performing a blow-job on his co-star, everything hit him all at once. "How was this my life?! I started crying uncontrollably as my costar had his dick shoved deep into my mouth. It was one of the lowest points in my life." As I heard this, I began to feel some real empathy for the boy in passenger's seat of PG's car. Poor guy. But then he grew proud: "And they kept it in the scene because they thought I was brought to tears gagging on a big cock! Look it up online and watch me cry." With my legs cramped as bad as possible, I couldn't help but wish to walk away from this situation. Was this even happening? I couldn't believe the ridiculousness of it all. His lowest point in life was captured on film and yet he was offering up the rental eagerly. I sat there confused and sad for him, up until the moment that I realized this was not the lowest point within his life. 

After choosing to resign from further adult video shoots, Trick found himself still in need of financial assistance. His family was no longer supporting his efforts and while he had some money in his pocket by way of sucking dick and sobbing for the camera, Trick needed something better. At this point in the drive, PG and I had no need to continue with stories. Trick had unleashed his vault of stories and they continued to flow. We weren't prompted to participate, but rather lend our ears as therapy was in session. He told us about a series of attempts to make money, most of which won't find their way into this story, because they had little humor and more so painted the picture of his pathetic nature. He did share an amazing story to follow, however, on his route to financial freedom. "Well, a friend of mine had been escorting for a while and he explained how much easier it was than performing on camera." Being a self-proclaimed pornography aficionado, I can't exactly agree with that. Most guys I watch screwing on screen, while I toy with myself, are specimens of manhood that make me drool. Gay escorts are most often in place to assist gross old men and sexual deviants - no judgment, just an observation. (There's another blog down the line that will draw a deeper exploration into that...) Trick took this opportunity and made a first ever appointment - by his own admission - to perform the duties of an escort. He had been referred to a current client of his friend's. The hiring party was a dentist in the Long Beach area of Southern California. Prior to their visit, the dentist sent Trick a list of dietary restrictions for the day before they met. This list had a strong focus towards beige foods - pasta, bread, rice, etc. Before he even continued, PG and I knew where this was going. It didn't take a brain surgeon to read into this visit, but clearly it went over Trick's head because he saw nothing wrong with the list of restrictions. "I assumed he was a health nut." I didn't have the heart to tell him that a carb overload does not equal a health nut. Had his new "employer" requested he be nurtured with greens and fruits, this would be a different case, but as any fan of 'Mean Girls' can attest: Butter is not a [good] carb.

Naively walking into this situation, Trick did not have any reservations with his list of dietary restrictions. He arrived around lunch time on a Wednesday, eager to make his money and leave. This dentist was a Persian man, married with kids, spending time alone as his family was on a vacation. Whether the man was gay or not, I don't know. Was he a sexual deviant? Well, that's another story. The man made his mission clear within moments of Trick walking through the doors of his home. "I want you to shit on me." And with that, the ambiance had been set. Shortly after proclaiming his intentions (which PG and I were aware of by the list of dietary necessities alone), this dentist disappeared into another room for a few minutes. He then reappeared with a handicapped bathroom chair, more commonly used for the elderly and disabled. This was not the reason for this chair, however. Its purpose was far different than enabling the elderly to sit down on the toilet without falling over, or worse, falling in. "When you're ready, I'm going to have you sit down and poop." It was that simple. But, was it ever... Unsure of his surroundings, Trick felt somewhat uncomfortable. Rather than running for the door, though, Trick went for his belt and began to let down his drawers. "As I sat down on the seat, the dentist laid flat on the floor - on his back - with his head beneath my ass." While I don't have the stomach for scat or anything of the nature, I was intrigued by this story. I mean, I don't even poop myself. I'm a lady and ladies don't do such things.

Trick continued to elaborate on the nature of this "poop session". He began to pee slowly, directly into his new employer's mouth, unsure of what was happening. Then came the FUN part. "Now, did you eat the foods I told you to?" Trick immediately confirmed his obedience and began to produce his stool samples. As they plopped from his unkept bung-hole, the dentist began to swallow up each and every turd. "I love your Lincoln Logs. They taste amazing!" As I sat there, driving the car on the freeway, I was no longer uncomfortable with physical pain. I began to squeal with discomfort over the nature of this story. Sure, I'm an over-sexualized person with a love of the "shock factor", but I've never known anyone to shit in their partner's mouth. This was not for me. That being said, we were being held hostage to this car ride and this pandora's box of shit had been brought about by my own provocation. I just kept thinking: "When are you going to learn, Raanan?! Next time, shut the fuck up and don't ask questions." 

As the story continued, it seemed that Trick continued to push his bowels to the limits, while this respectable dentist swallowed up his feces. I couldn't help but ask: "Did he eat it all up?! He swallowed your poop?!" To which Trick responded: "Every last log." Foul. Foul. Foul. As their time was nearing an end, the dentist arose, visibly erect and disappeared into another room for a few minutes, returning with a stack of cash. According to Trick, he was handed ten-thousand dollars for their visit. All of a sudden, I was viewing the scenario differently. Having no filter, verbal diarrhea poured from my tongue: "Shit, I'll learn to poop in someone's mouth for ten grand. Where do I sign up?!" But, it seemed the story didn't end there. Before leaving, the dentist asked Trick if he was hungry. "What do you have in mind? Did you want to go somewhere nice?" It hadn't escaped PG or I where this was going, but even after pooping in this man's mouth, Trick couldn't gauge the situation. The dentist wanted more feces for his belly. "There's more money in it for you if you can make more logs for me." Trick then began to eat the beige foods offered by his hiring doctor. Within an hour or so's time, the dentist began to prepare the set up yet again. He lay himself flat on the floor, positioned underneath the handi-capable bathroom chair. "Now I want logs, firm in texture, no wet drippings." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. The age old adage 'Beggars can't be choosers' seemed apropos here, however who has a full say on what the consistency of their stool will be?! Either way, Trick sat back down after removing his pants, assuming the position. As he began to lay his logs, the dentist in attendance began to masturbate, all the while sucking down Trick's stool. We all have our own fetishes, but I never thought shit could be such a turn on, for anyone. Period. Luckily the experience was not firsthand for me, so I could stomach the atrocities being set forward by my driving companion. Shortly after the dentist's climax, Trick finished poo-ing and rose to stand. In exchange for this last "exchange", Trick was met with another ten grand. Rather than just get up and leave with his money, Trick seemed to hang around. He was prompted to eat again and explore the world of logs. On his third attempt, however, runny shit seemed to pour out. This wasn't the dentist's favorite and thus the visit came to an abrupt close. "He asked me to leave pretty quickly afterwards and handed me another two-thousand for my troubles." Basically, according to Trick, he had left this encounter with twenty-two thousand dollars in cash. I'm petty sure he didn't report this financial exchange to the I.R.S., so we're talking 22k without the government's taxation. Way to stick it to the man. Well, way to 'log' it to the man...

As he finished this explosively horrendous story, PG and I sat there in a bit of shock. It's pretty hard to surprise either one of us, but this was new level of foul. I then asked the obvious question: "So, did you do it again?!" Trick immediately responded: "I only tried it once." That was his give-in for the entirety of the trip. He had only done anything once. Porn - once; bareback smut sex - once; scat play and prostitution - only once. How convenient. "I'm really a prude, you guys..." Somehow, I find that hard to believe. Thou doth protest too much...

Almost immediately after the close of this story, PG and I grew fairly silent. What more could we add to this situation? Neither of us seemed to have stories this dirty or juicy - so to speak - so for once in my life I was speechless. For a few minutes time, the car was silent. Where do you go from there? And then Trick opened his mouth once more.

"Do you guys want to hear another story?" Well, what else were we going to do. PG and I exclaimed "Sure" in unison after the new offer. "Well, you guys are going to be the third and fourth living people to hear this story. It's not something I share with most, but I feel like we're really getting close on this drive.." I couldn't help but wonder where he was gauging our new-found BFF-dome, but we implored further storytelling. "So, I told you guys about the porn..." To which I couldn't help myself but respond: "The porn career that only happened once, right?!" This ridiculous mess had zero self awareness, while sarcasm and snarky remarks are home to my personality. Again, I couldn't help myself. Well, as the story went, shortly after his twenty-two thousand dollar shit-fest, Trick found himself out of money. He claimed to have offered much of the money to his mother in order to help her with her own bills. This didn't make sense since it seemed it was her neglect that led him down the way of prostitution, porn, and shit, but nonetheless, I wasn't fact-checking his stories. I was merely an exhausted audience member. 

As the money had run out, Trick found himself in need of new funds. As he "only does things once", Trick clearly wasn't going to go down the same route as before. Decidedly peering down the road of respectable ways to assume money, Trick decided to find himself a roommate. He still had rent to pay and was desperate for human connection, much like the car ride we were on. Shortly after assuming this new roommate, Trick shared the exploits of his life with this new friend. Similar to his over-sharing with us, I could only assume how quickly he divulged all of his exploits with his new roommate. A month or so into this new living arrangement, Trick's mother decided to end his lease. It seemed that she had been the co-signer on the lease and Trick could not continue living there if she chose to break the lease, which is what she did. When it came time to share this information with his new roommate, Trick's roommate was furious. He had signed up for at least a six-month arrangement and here he was being expelled after less than half that time. Within days of moving out, said roommate sent a care package to Trick's mother. Among the contents were a container of lubricant, condoms, and the porn DVD of Trick crying on camera. Trick had no idea this was happening, so when he received the call from his mother, it came as a shock. "I was shopping at the Topanga Mall, wondering through the checkout at 'Hot Topic' (of course!) when my mother called me. I answered the phone, placing it on speakerphone, while checking out, so I could give her all of my attention." I thought I knew where this was going, but I was wrong. I assumed there would be disapproval and sadness as most mothers would have, but Trick found a strange reaction. "What is this video I'm watching?! You're naked, having sex with a burly man..." Trick immediately silenced the speakerphone and ran out from the store, horrified by his mother's discovery. Within moments, however, everything changed: "Look at my little star! You're a celebrity." Really?! I couldn't believe this, although judging by Trick's strange relationship with the universe, none of this should have been shocking. While his mother had not taken much offense, other than forcing him to promise he wouldn't do it again, Trick was rage-filled with anger towards his former roommate. This is where the secretive part of the story came into play. 

"One night while my former roommate was out and about in the Valley, I followed him. When he ended up at a bar, I waited until he went inside for my revenge. As soon as he walked inside, I took out a crowbar from my trunk and bashed in every one of his windows and the front and back lights." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I understand revenge, but this was a step overboard on my side of the coin. Vandalism is not in my wheelhouse. Before I could ask questions, the story was continued: "I grabbed a gallon of gasoline and doused the entire car. Then I got into my car and began to drive away, not before throwing a lit cigarette at his car. I watched it flip over in flames from a block away." All of a sudden, things were taking a turn in a new direction. "And I never told anyone. It's been a few years and I've told a few friends and now you guys - my new friends." My legs grew frozen. I didn't know how to respond. I was sitting next to a confirmed arsonist who had never been convicted. Was PG's car going to go up in flames before the end of this trip? Shit just got real. 

As PG and I sat stationary, speechless in shock, Trick tried to calm the mood and bring humor. "Well, he shouldn't have ever fucked with me. Haha." I still didn't know where to go with this. Without a doubt, this was not the trip I signed up for. Exhausted and only about 30 miles outside the city of San Francisco, I didn't know what to do next. As the mood shifted and the close of the drive was upon us, everything seemed somewhat lighter. "Have you ever set anything else or anyone on fire other than that?", I asked Trick. "No, I only did it once" he replied. Of course he had only done this once. Trying to make light of the situation, I turned around to PG in the backseat and said "You better treat him well or your car's going up in flames." We both let out a strangled giggle, like one would do with their rapist after he made a joke. Where would we go from here?

Just then, approaching far too late in the evening, Trick decided to call his mother and check in. I didn't really understand their relationship as this was the woman who had pushed him into these terrible scenarios by removing her assistance from his life, yet every few hours he called her to check in. I knew I wasn't driving next to a sane individual, however, so I let it go. It wasn't my place to understand his tormented relationship with his mother. As he called her from within the car, Trick placed his mother on speakerphone and informed us of our impending arrival. He then continued by asking her if she remembered his "movie". "My little star, you were wonderful!" At that moment, I just threw logic out the fucking window. This trip was only going to continue down the path of shit show. Whether I signed up for this or not, I was here. A few moments later, they got off the phone and we came closer to our destination. 

Within no time, we approached San Francisco and entered into the city. When I say "no time", I mean we drove for over ten hours. And when I say "we", I mean "I drove" for over ten hours. As we arrived at our hotel for the night, I contemplated a red-eye bus ride back to Los Angeles. What had I gotten myself into and how had PG not seen this mess for what he was? 
As we grabbed out bags from the trunk, arriving at the valet, Trick turned to me and said: "We're going to have so much fun this trip!" I nodded along, thinking "as long as you don't set me on fire, we'll be good... And please keep your toilet time to the bathroom..."

And with that ends my 'Rode Trick to San Francisco, Part 2'. Stay tuned for the rest of this journey...

xoxo.

R.   

RODE TRICK TO SAN FRANCISCO, PART 1.

It all started with my good friend - Producer Gay. Living in Los Angeles for the last five years, I've met more than my fair share of colorful personalities. Amongst the overwhelming crazy, one of my favorites is Producer Gay (PG). He's quite a big deal in the world of TV, film, and cocaine. As is often the case with Hollywood hot-shots, drugs run in abundance when PG is in tow. A Saturday afternoon at this cherished friend's home looks like a scene shot on the reels of a Smut film. I rarely attend such parties, but when I do, I walk away with enough stories to fuel my insatiable palette for crazy.

A few weeks back, whilst in the midst of unemployment and financial demise, PG extended an invitation to San Francisco. He was a key note speaker in an entertainment and media conclave just outside the city. The plan was to drive up the coast on a Wednesday and he offered I come along for the ride. With little on my plate outside the impending welfare line, I became excited for a six hour road trip. PG had a full schedule of work for Thursday and Friday, leaving us time to hang out in the evenings and return home Saturday. Without life's usual list of daily duties and responsibilities, this trip came at just the right time. I planned my trip around PG's commitments, so I expected to be on call for heavy-handed evenings with the freedom to write all during the day. 

As typical as Los Angeles "Entertainment People" seem to be, PG is no different. There are always a ton of empty promises surrounded by a mystifying smoke and mirrors act. Prior to this trip, PG had alluded to assistance with getting my book published, so it only seemed fair that this trip would be one in which I had the opportunity to pitch my manuscript. I was also promised immediate placement with employment back in the City of Angels, so this seemed like a smart trip to take. The odds seemed more so in my favor here, rather than applying for jobs all week in Los Angeles. Truth be told, a vacation with the option to spend time alone writing was the most exciting offer I had received in quite some time. 

The trip was extended to me on a Monday with a plan set for the drive up that Wednesday; a quick decision with little time to plan. I couldn't help but think this trip may change my life. My imagination ran wild with the possibilities. I dreamed of a TV show popping up on the lineup for next season with myself as head writer and visionary. Of course this was pretty far-fetched, especially given the lack of follow-through with PG in the past. He's great at getting my hopes up and then raping my trust viciously. That being said, our relationship has evolved over the years and he has proven a great friend. Perhaps he's a bit full-of-shit, but who in LA isn't? I'm pretty sure it's a requirement when moving to the concrete jungle and assuming a place in entertainment. He had promised me immediate employment upon our return, so I went into this trip on that very assumption. The trip was amazing. It was chaotic, insane, and life-changing - all in one big swoop. All that said, I'm going to spoil one thing for you: PG did not so much as get me one single interview upon our return. As far as publishing my book or turning it into a movie, I'm still waiting to have THAT conversation... Honey Boo Boo will most likely fit into a size 2 and win Miss America before I hear delivery on those empty promises.

While I just drug PG's nose through the dirt, I do owe him thanks. He's a great friend in other ways and he accepts me for me. That's more than I can say for most. Plus he supplies me with endless hours of material. And if that wasn't enough, he took me on a trip that changed my life. 

Let's get back to the trip at hand. We were scheduled to leave around one-thirty in the afternoon that Wednesday. PG was going to pick me up promptly and off we would go. I wasn't overly anxious for six hours in his tiny muscle car, but luckily I would be riding shotgun and able to relax while he drove up. Around eleven o'clock Tuesday evening, PG texted me: "Plans changed. Be ready at 11 am." I had planned my whole morning - which included two loads of laundry on top of still needing to pack a bag - around a 1:30 departure, not 11 am. There wasn't much I could say as I was the invited guest, so I just accepted the new plan. I went to bed almost immediately and set my alarm for six am. The next morning I prepared myself around our new earlier departure time. A few minutes before 11 and I was packed, all ready for our adventure. Approaching my front door, expecting my chauffeur to arrive, I received a text: "Make it 1:30. I'm fucking hungover. You're going to have to drive some of the way. And I invited another friend for the trip, so we're going to have the best road trip!" All of a sudden, I realized this was not the trip I thought. My plan to pitch PG endlessly for hours was now squashed. We were no longer going to spend days just the two of us. Nope, now we had a third rider. And I had no time to back out without shitting on the potential promises from PG.

As I stepped back and thought about it, I realized that this could be a good thing. See, the thing with PG is that he needs constant anal stimulation. His prostate is in heat like a feral cat in Mexico. PG can best be likened to an open syphilis wound, reeking of infection. He will sleep with just about anything. Perhaps bringing a third person could make for a buffer. I was not planning to contract any STDs this trip, so sex was out of the question. PG and I do not have sex, which may be why he hasn't helped place me job-wise. (Who am I kidding?! Of course that's why.) He has more connections than most, but I'm not that hard up for a job. Perhaps I should be, but I'm not. Still, I didn't have room to complain about this new addition to our drive as I was merely an invited guest. With that, the dynamic of the trip was going to change, but I was optimistic, hoping to make the best of the situation.

After two and a half hours of twiddling my thumbs at home, PG rolled up to my door. Walking outside with my bags, my friend stepped out of his parked car looking like a casualty of a brush fire. He had a ripe scent to him and could barely hold his eyes open. "I haven't slept yet. Last night was insane and I was fucking a trick all night. I'm blown out of my mind. You're gonna drive." And with that the true nature of our trip presented itself. Sure, PG may have been attending this trip for work, but he was up to his usual antics. I had gone to bed at a decent time and woken bright and early, eager to start our journey. PG went bar hopping and snorted enough coke to rival Tony Montana (Scarface), leading to a night of dirty anonymous sex; the kind of sex that would make Larry Flynt cringe. And, high in the moment, my Tony Montana invited his trick on a trip that I thought would be work related for us both. Obviously this trip showed me a lack of foresight. 

So, in the throws of drugged out passion, my trip was scheduled to be a sex fest for PG and his new trick. "Raanan, I don't even know his name." This is what PG informed me, shortly after announcing the whereabouts of our new rider. Given his lack of sleep and cracked out nature, it became obvious that I would be driving the entirety of the ride up. Attempting to be a team player, still under the rouse that this would be a work placement trip for me, I obliged his toasted demeanor. "I'll get his name for you, love. No worries." I had already agreed to this trip, so the best I could do was to go with the flow. As I drove the tiny sports car back to my friend's Hollywood condo, I expected to pick his trick up and get on our way to San Francisco. I had no intentions of leaving during rush hour, but I had little claim to the logistics of this trip. Once we parked in the garage of PG's building, he informed me that he still had to pack. As we took the elevator up, I had no idea what to expect. I was told that he and his new trick had been doing lines of blow, all the while I was sleeping in preparation for the trip. They were preparing trick's asshole to be a gaping black hole of semen, while I got my beauty sleep. As PG began to pack, I had the opportunity to meet his trick. "I'm Raanan. What's your name?" As the trick informed me of his name - Jacob - I continued to refer to him as "Trick" in my own head. He hadn't achieved enough of my respect to deserve a true name. He hijacked my trip - at least that's how I felt. I'm sure I sound like a judgmental bitch right now - which I definitely am - but I had good reason. As Trick walked towards me while PG showered his crusty nose, I was surprised by what presented itself in front of me. Normally my friend would entertain a lair of young Adonis boys - all aspiring actors - who threw themselves at him in hopes of financial and career success. This boy was a bit different. He approached me in a stained t-shirt and a pair of ill fitted pants with more zippers than a denim factory. He had tattoos covering his hands as well as a scripture on his neck. I have a love of tattoos and a few myself, but they're all manageable from a professional standpoint. Being under 25 years, Trick only had the most ostentatious of tattoos; nothing that could be covered by articles of clothing unless wearing a ski mask and gloves. We were in Los Angeles and not Aspen, so this did not seem like the clearest thinker. He had a chinstrap of unkept hair that trickled down his neck, presenting him somewhat homeless. When PG finished packing and preparing for the trip, I assumed we would be right on our way. 

"We have to stop at his apartment first, so he can pack" PG informed me, pointing at his new friend. "To Jacob's house?" I asked inquisitively, but my intentions were also to announce Trick's name in order to remind my friend of new company's title. "It'll only take a few minutes for me to pack", Trick informed me. Again, I was not calling any shots, so I tried to go with it. As the three of us took the elevator down to the parking garage, Trick informed us both: "I still have your babies inside me." This was Trick's foul way of sharing the dirty details inside his rectum. He was carrying a few loads of semen inside himself. I guess a shower wasn't necessary to clean those out. Instinctually I responded: "You need to clean yourself up!" I can be pretty blunt and direct and dirty is as dirty does. Time for his shower. As we plugged his address into the GPS, I was informed that Trick lived deep into the San Fernando Valley. Anyone who knows LA and the horrific traffic it caters to daily, knows that a drive that far can add mucho time to any trip. I'm an aggressive driver, so we found ourselves at Trick's home quicker than expected, but not as quickly as directly from my house, like we had planned. "I'll be five minutes! Let me just jump in the shower and pack a quick bag," Trick informed us. To which I replied, "Make sure and clean out your ass. You don't want to spread cum all over the seats..." Like I said, I can be pretty direct. 

PG was on a conference call at the moment and I stepped outside the parked car to smoke a cigarette. Five minutes turned into thirty and before I knew it, we had been waiting well over an hour. Distracted and unreachable while on his conference call, PG left me to wait on my own, essentially. I had no say as to whether or not this foul boy would be coming with us, so clearly I had no claim on his time schedule. After a nice long hour and a half wait, while rain began to sprinkle down, Trick approached looking less showered than he had before he left us. As an aside, when rain approaches Los Angeles, the people cry out in pain as if the sky is falling. Driving on an LA highway during a rain spell is about as unsafe as you can be on the road in Southern California. It would have been nice if Trick had taken the drive into account, but this trip proved his lack of awareness many times. Did I mention how dirty he looked? Words can't describe the level of stank and stench that dripped from Trick's person. PG likes dirty boys, I just didn't know he liked them this dirty. That being said, I figured as long as he's occupied with sex for this trip, I would be okay.   

As we got back on the road, I realized the sheer horror of this ride up. Every few minutes, while my foot graced the pedal, Trick would announce to the car his present state of dirty. "There are babies inside me. I have your [PG] babies growing inside me." Yes, Trick was still bragging about the semen that was uncleaned from his sphincter. "Do I need to buy you a wet nap?" I asked. "You need to clean that shit up - pronto." As Trick detailed the contents of his anus, I learned more and more details from the night before. At one point, while PG was drilling Trick sans condom, it seems that friends had stopped by his Hollywood condo. Trick was uncomfortable by this, according to his own admission, yet he continued to allow PG to continue to fucking him, caught up in the throws of passion. "Raanan, since we're becoming friends... (for the record, we were not) I feel like I have to be honest with you: I've never done that before." I found this hard to believe, but I continued to probe, sitting in traffic unaware of the destination this trip would take us. "What haven't you done before? Had a one night stand while your penetrator's friends watched?" Trick went on to explain that the voyeuristic nature of the evening was very uncomfortable for him. And he continued to share that he had never had unprotected sex before. PG informed me that Trick was screaming "breed me" throughout the entirety of their encounter. For those of you that don't know - within the world of dirty gay subculture - "breeding" refers to the action of penetration without prophylactic concern or protection. It specifically refers to the act of ejaculation while still penetrating. Anyone that screams "breed me" or asks for one's "seed" most probably has been to the Rodeo before - multiple times. We weren't talking about a novice, yet Trick kept telling me it was his first time. "I don't want you to judge me." All I kept thinking was "too late buddy, too late". 

As the drive really began, I prompted we stop and grab coffee. I needed caffeine if I was going to endure an unwashed mess claiming virginal status all the while discussing the "babies" inside himself. Imagine Paris Hilton releasing a tell-all book where she claimed to be a thirty year old virgin. No one's buying your book, darling. Sorry. So we stopped at a Starbucks where I could grab some coffee, followed by sustenance for the two crackheads I was driving up to Northern Cali. PG wanted hangover food, so we settled on fast food. Jack in the Box it was, so these two could get their greasy fast food on. Approaching the drive thru window at Jack in the Box, I encountered an advertisement for a heart attack on a plate - the Brunch Burger. This burger is a hugely packed Bacon Cheeseburger on a Croissant. I jokingly asked PG if he would like one and we both laughed at the grossness level of said "meal". "I'd have it, but I'd prefer not setting my heart into an early ceasefire. I would rather live through this week." The whole while, Trick sat quietly in the back seat - for once.

When it came time to order, I declined any "food" - if you can call it that - as I had my oversized coffee. PG then ordered a Chicken Sandwich and Fries, with a large Diet Coke. I then asked from the driver's seat what I could get for Trick. "Two Brunch Burger Meals and a Large Strawberry Lemonade." At first I thought he was joking given our prior conversation, so I asked him once again. Trick immediately restated his intended meal. "Are you sure?" I asked. "Yes, of course. And I'm getting a strawberry lemonade, because soda and coffee's not very healthy." I kept thinking "but sugar water and two heart-attack platters are the definition of clean eating?!" It was obvious already that this was going to be a long trip. Upon leaving the fast food "restaurant", we then proceeded to sit in traffic for over three hours without moving as much as a mile. We were stranded in this tiny sports car, all the while still in Los Angeles, just trying to get out of the city. To top it off, the whole way Trick kept the conversation going with his butt babies. I kept wondering why he hadn't taken the time to clean his asshole when he took over an hour and a half. What was he doing? Why did we have to drive so deep into the San Fernando Valley?! Once we reached the outskirts of the city, PG decided that he was going to retire to the back seat for a long nap, while Trick and I got to know one another.

We pulled over to the shoulder to play musical chairs. As Trick jumped shotgun, I found myself in my own little personal purgatory. Firstly, he appointed himself said DJ, in full control of the radio. While I'm a major control freak, I can exercise restraint, especially when I'm merely just a casualty of a messy trip like this. I don't mind someone else playing the music, but after over three hours in a car together, it had become obvious that I was the only driver. I had no pull in anything regarding this trip other than what lane I chose to drive in. PG was cracked out of his mind, asleep in the backseat, while Trick had no license and a possible bench warrant for a number of DUI's. We couldn't risk him driving and we couldn't risk me being the least responsible in the group, so here I was behind the wheel as the only sober one with a current driver's license. While I love the musical stylings of the 'Top 40', the DJ session by way of Trick was an unsettling version of the current hits. For over four hours, I had the fine pleasure of learning the words to Rihanna's 'Unapologetic', Britney Spears's 'Work Bitch', and Miley Cyrus's 'Wrecking Ball'. While I was familiar with all three of these songs, listening to all three and only those on repeat for multiple hours brings a newfound depth of understanding to each song. PG was fast asleep in the back seat this entire time and I just continued to drive on. I hadn't woken up that morning with the intentions of being the official driver, but at least now I can add "chauffeur" to my resume. 

As Trick talked my ear off, just about everything that came out of his mouth was utter shit. He tried passing himself off as a stylist, perhaps unsure of my knowledge of said profession. The best part of this was when he informed me that he was Katy Perry's official stylist. I didn't want to break it to him, but that admission was completely false; just a string of many fishy proclamations. Johnny Wujeck, my baby daddy (in my head) styles Miss Perry. Nice try, Trick. On our third or fourth rendition of 'Wrecking Ball', Trick began to cry. Unsure of what I was sitting next to, I asked him what brought about such tears. "Well, 'Wrecking Ball' hits home for me. It reminds me of my last long term relationship." To which I instantaneously responded: "Didn't this song only come out a few weeks ago?!" He informed me this relationship was a lot of heart ache and I chose to keep the questioning restrained. I shut my mouth and ignored his mood swings. As we continued to drive, Trick continued to talk my ear off as Rihanna, Britney, and Miley played at a blasted high. He began to talk about the cracked out mess in our back seat, PG. "I'm not really into white guys normally and he's definitely not my type. I think we'll just be friends..." I was rightly confused. Well, that may just about be the understatement of the year. You don't just blow lines and cock all night, then agree to a weeklong road trip if you have no intentions of sucking that dick again. I would never agree to a trip after a one-night stand, only because it presents a non-verbal contract that my ass is yours. If you don't want that, don't follow the man that left his "babies" inside you. Trick continued, "maybe we can really get to know each other (He and PG) on this trip and see about dating." The thing is that I know PG pretty damn well and I was well aware that this was purely sexual in his head. He hadn't even remembered Trick's name less than a few hours after having the dirtiest of sex. I knew this trip may blow over not so kindly. As PG slept and I listened to the filth that came out of Trick's mouth, he continued to spew verbal diarrhea. "I told him we're just going to be going on this trip as friends. I'm happy to get my own hotel room." While this all sounded very nice, I knew full well that my friend was under a quite different impression. 

This trip had only just begun and yet I haven't even scratched the surface of Trick's dissension into a clinical liability. My Road Trip to San Francisco had only just begun and we were barely outside Los Angeles. Stay tuned for Parts 2 and 3, where arson, pornography, and Miley Cyrus are full-frontal and center.

And with this, I bid you adieu and hope you enjoyed Part 1. More more more to follow. 
xoxo.

R