FROM GRINDR TO THE MISSION... (PART 3/CONCLUSION)

My first night out after planting my stakes in San Francisco was anything but dull. If you haven’t, you can read in Part 1 (link here) and Part 2 (link here) of this evening’s saga. Less than three days into the Chicago of California and I had already been thrown out of my element. I was with nothing more than a suitcase, a few things, and a slowly disappearing wallet. Here I was in a stranger’s apartment, having had my dick swallowed in the back of a truck, snorted cocaine in the middle of an outdoor bar, and salaciously flirted (perhaps exchanged saliva and licked his nuts) with a boy in a relationship… Los Angeles hadn’t given me such heated nights in years, if ever.

Finding myself outside with David – my relationship stricken strange fun for the night – and a few other partygoers, chit-chatting and smoking cigarettes with our quivering jaws, it was going on four in the morning. I had an early morning planned, but it was already the dawn. While it was still dark out, this was only a momentary pass before the sun. All of a sudden, the birthday boy came outside to dismiss us for the evening (if you could call 4 am the “evening”). “It’s time for everyone to leave. I have a lot to do tomorrow. Thanks for coming. Bye.” It was that simple. He wanted everyone to leave just then and there. Not in a rude way, but rather a quickly dismissive tone. It was almost as if “Please get the fuck out and thanks for coming. Really. Now leave…”

Although I had resolved to leave without my driver – hours before, I became concerned with his location. “What about Magenta?” I asked. Would I not even say goodbye to him before leaving? The birthday boy explained that Magenta was passed out cold, fast asleep, in his guestroom. And with that, I turned to my new friend David, planning to take him up on the offer of his couch for the evening. He had offered me this an hour and a half or so ago, but I assumed it would still be on the table. Instead, I received the following response: “No, I’m sorry Raanan. I don’t think my roommate would like that. He’s weird about finding strangers on the couch in the morning.” Was this really happening? Not twenty minutes prior, he was shoving his dick into my mouth talking about what great friends we would be. What had changed?! I told him that I had no idea where I would sleep for the night. My hostel was closed for re-entry until the afternoon and Magenta was out cold in the apartment we were just evicted from. “What the fuck am I going to do?” I muttered under my breath, freaking out in my head.

All of the night’s happenings were now remorseful misdeeds in my mind now. “You’ve really gone and done it now, haven’t you, Raanan?” I kept muttering self-demeaning slanders at myself, unsure of what I would do. The entire group around us – all of whom, I really did not know – were shuffling towards the next party and I was wondering if I’d end up on the news in the morning after sleeping a night alone in the cold. Would I be pillaged on the streets of San Francisco? “Is this the moment in my life where I get tragically addicted to crack or heroin in order to keep warm from the cold of this foreign city?” Sure, I have a flare for the dramatic and some may call me a bit melodramatic, but I had no idea where I was. I knew almost nothing about San Francisco or its geographical layout. Earlier this same evening, I was convinced that Concord and Berkeley were part of the City. What did I know? All I knew then was that my driver who had been good for nothing, outside a blowjob, and the attached mess I had been kissing face with were my only options for rest that night and I was out of options.

I turned to my new “friend” David and asked him yet again what I was going to do for the night. Really, I was just projecting my frustrations and issues for the night, but David barely knew me from a common street whore. All I knew was that he found me pretty and that he spent the better part of an evening chasing my ass. Let’s be honest, guys have done plenty more for a little naked time. I can testify to that. This means it may have just been that. I felt a little sad and confused, high and unfocused. “What will I do?” I asked. “I don’t know, but good luck dude.” That was David’s final answer.

As an aside, the terms “dude” or “bro” to refer to someone that has just had your penis inside your mouth with intentions for further entry, need not be deployed (here or ever).

Looking around at this group of strangers in front of us, I could still see them shuffling for the next spot. They were stuck in chatter and it had been at least five minutes since we were asked to leave. “Should I just say goodnight and wander off on my own?” I kept thinking. Pity party for 1 was where my mind now went to. It was as if I was shooting a gun to my head; and I knew this. Decision making was not my forte this evening.

Then the group ahead of us, which now included Sheila, Cruz, Terry, and two straight guys from the party made a decision. I hadn’t really spoken to the two straight guys that evening, but the other three had at least been present (albeit incoherently) for my evening, so I felt a little more comfortable tagging along to their decision making moment on the street. Assuming I would leave the moment they figured out the rest of their night, I found an invitation instead. One of the straight guys – Jim – had a loft not too far from where we were forming congregation on the street. He offered that we all go back there and keep the party going. I really just wanted to rest my head on a bed or a sofa at this point, but any offer was better than the street corner. There was promise of additional drugs and liquor. None of this sounded great, but again, I was out of options.  

As this group of five departed the corner we were gathered at, I proceeded with them. Ironically enough, David was on board as well. For the last few minutes, I was asking him what I would do and where I would go and he was so easily resolved to my walking away; my disappearance for the evening. Now we were headed to the same spot and all of a sudden, he was curbing his attention to me. Flirtation began again on his end, while I sheepishly followed the crowd.

Two minutes into this walk and I get a call on my phone. It was Magenta. “You have got to be fucking kidding me” I spurted out loud. Clicking “ignore”, I continued to walk. Then came a second call, followed by a third. I finally accepted the third time out. You know what they say, “third time’s a charm”… He was half-awake, still intoxicated, and freaking out regarding my whereabouts. All of a sudden he needed me by his side. I had zero interest seeing Magenta ever again. He had saddled me with a messy party for the night and then bowed out hours before. I wanted to be responsible for the night and instead ended up on this crazy journey that I still seemed to be on. This was not to say that I was or am a naïve young boy, unaware of such a night’s intentions. It all became evident to me early on and I knowingly participated. That said, Magenta was not what I was looking for in a friend or bedtime buddy. Worrying about what I would do for the night, I now had a destination and Magenta wasn’t in that plan. “I’ll come get you and we’ll go back to Concord. Where are you?!” He kept asking for my whereabouts, expecting to be in bed before the sun came up. I wasn’t getting back into the car with someone in his state of intoxication, and I was over and done with him at this point. “Get some rest and we’ll chat later.” That was the easiest way to end the phone call; not to say he didn’t put up a fight. Finally, I got through to him and he agreed to hang up, with the promise of a future date. I was not following him on an adventure ever again. That was for sure.

Hanging up the phone on Magenta, I felt a certain relief and burden off my shoulders. Despite this not being the destination I hoped for, it was a place inside. Shelter for a bit. I walked the few block destination to this straight stranger Jim’s apartment. David was actively touching me and attempting to incite the flirtation of earlier. I was unamused.

Within a ten minute walk or so, we arrived at Jim’s apartment. A group of 7 altogether, I wasn’t sure whether we’d be crowded or not. The birthday boy’s apartment, while nice, did not have a lot of room for lounging. Walking into Jim’s apartment building, I didn’t know what to expect. It was an old warehouse that had been converted into industrial style lofts. The freight elevator could have been leading us into a dungeon of poverty or modern units. I didn’t know because I didn’t know Jim. Really, I didn’t know anyone on this journey. Being the Jewish neurotic princess that I often can be, I was prepared for the worst. As quickly as we arrived at Jim’s unit, I was put at ease.

This was one of the most breathtaking apartments I have ever seen in my life. It was a two story loft with exposed brick walls, hardwood floors of the highest quality, and a gorgeous assortment of furniture and home décor. Clearly this guy had money. The main floor that we had entered on had a beautiful kitchen and an open living room that would have been enough for an apartment for me. With a bathroom and dining area rounding out this floor, there were large industrial warehouse type windows filling an entire wall with views of the city. He had a spiral staircase that led downstairs to the bedroom area. I hadn’t gone down there yet, but judging by the floor I had set my eyes on, the bedroom had to be amazing. This felt as if I walked into my own personal version of the Disney castle, satisfying every need and want I’ve ever had.

I began imagining a life living here. The idea of being with Jim was none too appealing as he had the handsome good looks of a troll, but luckily he was straight. I just wanted his life. That was all. We all sat down in his living area, where a few couches and a couple nice chairs framed a square conversation space with a coffee table in the center. Conversation quickly went to cocaine and who could find more. There had been plenty all evening, but I understand the need for more. I wasn’t looking to do it in the first place that evening, so what much I had felt like enough. The rest of this group thought differently, calling and texting all of their contacts. Luckily no one was asking for my assistance, given I was so new to the city. I slouched down on my side of a couch, comfortable and tired. Feeling the cocaine start to fizzle in my system, I was overcome with exhaustion. At this point, I had been up almost twenty-four hours, having begun my day early the morning before. I could feel my body catching up with me as the group around were feverishly looking for drugs. “Who can get coke?! I want now.” This was the overwhelming question from around the coffee table. Money began being placed down on the table as the phones were being utilized aggressively.

That’s the funny thing about drugs. Fueling an entire night’s efforts, it is always amusing to see the power that drugs can have on people. Not to say I’ve never been succumbed to such times (I have more times than one could count), but I didn’t want any more for the evening. It’s not just the power of cocaine, but the feeling people believe themselves to have when they’re on it. Think Cinderella type of magic...

As the search wasn’t bringing obvious results any time too soon, Jim began hosting this impromptu party. He began passing around goblets as he procured a bottle of aged scotch from a beautifully manicured liquor closet. Pouring this expensive spirit in each of our glasses, he began singing the praise of what would soon touch our lips. He then grabbed a box from another cabinet and proceeded to offer us all Cuban cigars. Reaching for the Cuban fatty, I couldn’t help but take inventory on my evening. I was now sitting around a table with a group of strangers drinking aged scotch that cost more than I had in my wallet, as we puffed on Cubans. For the record, I have smoked many a Cuban cigar, but I’m talking about something totally different now. Tobacco cigars are another story. Perhaps this was the second or third time in my life that I was smoking a cigar and the circumstances couldn’t have been any stranger. Assuming smoking jackets had been dispersed, then the night would have come full circle. Still, it was quite the strange interaction. Quickly in, it became apparent that no more cocaine would find itself to our noses this morning. I was more than okay with this, but the rest of the group began grieving in their seats; they wanted to party.

I slumped down on my side of the couch, preparing for a nap. These people didn’t know me and were far too concerned with their lack of cocaine, so I figured I could slip into sleep without anyone noticing. I nodded off for a few minutes before David nudged me to wake. Having almost completely forgotten he was with the group, David had now moved onto the couch next to mine and wanted me to wake. “Was I snoring?!” I immediately whispered, slightly embarrassed. “No, I just thought you may want to move to Jim’s bed. You’re the only person falling asleep tonight…” Firstly, it was no longer the night as the sun was pulling up and shining in on us. Also, it was well past five thirty in the morning. We were in Saturday mode now. Friday was gone.

Unsure if it was polite for me to squeeze into a stranger’s unused bed, David assured me it would be okay. I didn’t think it was right, but I was so overwhelmed with tire that I agreed. Slinking down the spiral staircase, I found a queen sized mattress on the floor of his bedroom. This room was not anywhere as well decorated as the upstairs, but I did not care. A queen mattress on the floor was bed to me then and there. I walked over and nearly fell over, eager to sleep. Removing my pants and jacket before sliding beneath the covers, I hoped to get comfortable. I still had my underwear on and was not looking for a mess in the sheets. My jeans just couldn’t get wrinkled. I knew I would have to do some sort of “walk of shame” later that morning. The infamous “walk of shame” has referred to two different kinds of nights over my years. First, there’s the sleeping out walk of shame that comes as a result of an impromptu adult-sleepover. The second refers to a night of heavy drugs and a lack of sleep, heading home in clothes from the night before. Neither is a cute look.

And either way, people normally assume you've had sex. It's a given response to anyone's walk of shame...

Within a minute of arriving in Jim’s bedroom, David arrived. It made perfect sense now. He had asked me to go use the bed because he wanted some more action. David didn’t care how comfortable I was. He wanted naked time. Relentless as he was, I wondered what his boyfriend wasn’t doing for him that he needed it so badly from me. I was not in a sex mood, but rather excited to kiss the sheets for bed. Even if it would only be a few hours of sleep, I looked forward to it. David began stripping in front of me. Removing his clothes, he would not approach the bed until completely naked. Walking over with his large dick dangling between his legs, I couldn’t help but get annoyed. I was not in the mood to sit on a dick. Sure, I love embracing my sexuality and David was more than generously attractive, but I was not in the mood to put that much work into anything. I just wanted to snooze and snore away. David had other ideas and climbed in next to me, prompting me to remove what barriers I had on to our being naked. “I’m really tired and not looking for sex right now”, I insisted. David begged me to get nude, promising merely a “naked cuddle”.

Cuddling up to David, both of us stark naked underneath Jim’s covers, I began to pass out. I was awoken by his finger being shoved inside me. Like I said before, I was not in the mood for that. I told him no, claiming not to be in the mood. Assuming that would keep him off, perhaps he would realize he too was tired. Instead, this prompted David to grab my finger and move it towards his sphincter. He began massaging his hole with my finger in his grasp. David wanted me to “top” him. I am not completely opposed to playing “pitcher” on occasion, when it comes to sex (sports are a foreign zone of terrorism to me), but I really just wanted to sleep. David was relentless however, motivated by one thing – sex. He wanted to fuck or get fucked. There was no care as long as intercourse occurred.

I was not going to let anything go inside me at that moment, so I reluctantly agreed to play top after a few minutes of his persistence. Craving more sleep, this was not what I wanted, but David wouldn’t stop. Really, I just wanted him to stop talking, so I could get some shuteye. Anything to shut him up.

Grabbing lubricant and a condom from Jim’s night table, David proceeded to sit on my dick. He began riding me for a few minutes, but I was exhausted and he wanted to throw down, so to speak. Out of options with my new sexual deviant, I opted for sex on our sides, hoping I could get to sleep. We switched positions and I fell asleep with my lubricated Trojan condom covered dick deep inside him. A short time later, I awoke and I was still inside him. That’s how dick-starved David was acting. He didn’t even need me to be awake as long as my penis was soaring through. Half-asleep, I pulled out and threw the condom on the floor. I went back to sleep.

A short few minutes later, I was woken to David sucking my dick hard. The best way to wake up is with someone’s mouth on your member, but this was not the case. I wanted to be left alone and go to sleep. Sure he was hot and under different circumstances, I may have been gung-ho, but this was not the time. I just wanted to fucking sleep. David didn’t care, so I allowed him the pleasure of placing another condom on me and riding me into the morning glare. I snoozed off for a few more minutes and woke up to pull out and throw another used condom on the floor.

I needed to sleep. Once again, a few minutes into my slumber, I was woken to another blowjob from my new “friend” David. I didn’t understand how he hadn’t just gotten tired or wanted to leave me alone. Maybe he just had a lot more coke than I had.

I mean, if Bill Cosby endorses it, so should you. Unless he "allegedly" raped you. Then, maybe don't take his endorsements to heart. All said, David was very high and quite the horn-ball. Perhaps too-high...

I pushed him off and said: “We can do this another time, but I have to sleep.” David begged me for one more go, but I said no. He agreed to cuddle and leave the sex behind. We embraced and fell asleep, for maybe an hour or so. All of a sudden, we were both woken to a phone call on David’s phone. Waking up, we chatted for a few minutes as a girlfriend had called him and was now on her way to pick him up. At this point, the entire party had calmed itself down. There was a couch across from the mattress in this bed space where Sheila, Cruz, and Terry (my new friends from earlier in the evening) were all cascaded across one another like a stacked puzzle half-undressed and passed out. I couldn’t hear any movement above me and felt like I would be able to sleep alone, comfortably for a few hours once David left.

David and I began discussing future plans as “friends” as he packed his stuff up to leave. He left on good circumstances, so I assumed. As quickly as he left, I passed back out on the mattress on the floor. Despite everything that occurred, I really thought this sexual experience would just be something to laugh about later. I assumed he was just going to be a friend. And he was way more slut than I could understand (at least at that time)…

Perhaps an hour or two into that final slumber, Jim came down the spiral staircase. As I said before, Jim was a confirmed straight guy from the initial birthday party who owned this magnanimous loft space. At one point during the cigar and scotch party from earlier, I remembered Jim ranting on about his girlfriend that he was “in love” with. Here I lay, naked, under the sheets of this straight guy’s bed and here he was, coming down the stairs approaching me. I hid my body up until my neck under the covers, unsure of his reaction. “Mind if I slide in with you?” That was probably the only real interaction I had had with Jim all night. He barely said two words to me, but now he’s asking to share his bed with a stranger? I was confused, but indebted to him, lying in his bed. Also, I didn’t know if he would appreciate me exiting the bed fully naked, so I remained in the sheets.

Jim climbed in – still clothed – and found a resting spot. I felt like I had escaped undiscovered. “Maybe he doesn’t know I’m naked” I kept thinking. Then, Jim began shifting his body. He moved closer to me, outstretching his arm for my body. Cradling me in his arms, I began to feel like I was in a David Lynch movie. All I needed to see was one gunshot and Isabella Rosellini singing ‘Blue Velvet’ and my fears would be real.

I knew I needed to leave as quickly as I could. Within a minute or two of Jim’s embrace, I felt his erection through his pants, pressed against my naked body. This had gone into way-too-weird territory for me. I didn’t know what to do, but I chose to stay and wait until he fell asleep, Lucky for me, Jim passed out within ten to fifteen minutes from the time I felt his wood against my back. As soon as I was sure he had fallen asleep, I slid out from under him. I grabbed my clothes and proceeded to the bathroom in his room.

Walking into the bathroom, I nearly fell to the floor. This room was like the locker room of a fancy country club. Gorgeous walk-in shower, multiple vanities and sinks, a separate toilet area, and a laundry area with a beautiful unit for washing clothes. “Should I climb back into bed with Jim? Is it worth it?!” I was having a major dilemma, like the Duggar family wondering whether or not to use condoms. As an aside, please do so.

I decided to leave, but considered washing my clothes first. Getting dressed, I packed myself together and squeaked out of the house. Sheila, Cruz, and Terry had all three rolled to the floor at some point and now lay half-naked there. Jim was asleep in his bed and I left. The other “straight guy” was passed out upstairs and I passed him on my way to the front door. I left that house and never went back, signing off on my evening of craziness.

From a seemingly harmless conversation on ‘Grindr’ to a mess of events in the Mission, I found myself fondled, molested, played with, offered drinks, drugs, and a slew of men. Even the straight guy. And as messy as this all was, it was a perfect introduction to San Francisco – this amazing place that has been my home for the last year. It’s bitter sweet as I will be moving back to Los Angeles in the upcoming weeks, but San Francisco has given me more stories than I could imagine and this was one of the first of many.

     

FROM GRINDR TO THE MISSION... (PART 2.)

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FROM 'GRINDR' TO THE MISSION... (PART 1)

And She’s Back…

It’s been quite a while since I’ve posted a blog, but I’m back. Four, five, nine months or so ago, I became succumbed to my experiences in this crazy city that I now call home. This is not to say I haven’t been writing, but I’ve been at an impasse with this blog specifically, unsure of how I could get back into the swing of things. It’s not exactly like riding a bike, because it’s been hard to get back on. To say it’s like riding a man, well, it’s not that easy either. My predilection for abnormally over-sized tree trunks for sexual partners should paint a picture of the difficulty it is getting back into the sex swing for me, so to speak. As an aside, swings aren’t really my thing, but props have never been much excitement for me. Pull at my hair and spit on me and maybe we’re talking, but I digress. The last series of months have really been a whirlwind for me in a million different ways. Writing always seems to calm my nerves; writing, cigarettes, and marijuana, that is. Three things that haven’t hit much of an impasse in the past series of months; but again, I digress. Although I’ve been writing away, editing my first book – which never seems to be finished, I haven’t felt comfortable getting back into the blog. However, I’m here now, and I’m making a promise to post at least a blog a week for the next few months. Given how long winded I am, prepare for a book’s worth within this time.  

Moving on to this first blog in a while, I feel a resurgence for sharing my chaotic experiences with the masses. Since moving to San Francisco, or the ‘Windy City’ of Chicago, Illinois as I like to call this horribly cold climate change from Southern California, this life has shifted into much of an anomaly for me. I have been homeless for the better part of a year, by all things on paper. The best part of this, is that it’s been by my own sadistic choice. I’ve never done anything like this; I’ve never been so spontaneous in my life choices. Over the course of the last year, I’ve lived in a trailer park, fell in love a number of times, and have experienced a level of crazy that puts Los Angeles to shame. Who would have known that this place I now call home would present West Hollywood as a town filled with Stepford Wives?! This is the town for your freak flag and I live for it. I have found a community of family and friends here to rival the last thirty years of my life. Living outside the box and experiencing crazy at every turn, this last year has changed my perspective in every way possible. For someone that shies away from very little – outside of watersports (never say never…) – this has been the journey made for me. But, first things first: Let’s backtrack almost a year ago…

While many of you may have read ‘AHoarder’s Paradise’ (link here….), that was just Night #1 for me. (If youhaven’t read it, take a gander) By night #2, I was shacked up in a hostel in downtown San Francisco’s financial district. Europeans surrounded me along with visiting travelers, while I was fresh to a city I intended to make my new home. This wasn’t exactly a vacation for me, yet it was a departure from my normal routine. Knowing no one in this city and having less than a week or two’s stay filling my wallet, I wasn’t sure what the next step would be. I needed an apartment, a job, and desperately needed money. Trolling around on ‘Grindr’ – my favorite gay networking application for anal connections – I began chatting with as many locals as possible. I had specific goals and expectations for anyone I would chat with. Either they should have a job opportunity, living accommodations, or be someone with whom I could tango in the bedroom. Due to my insatiable need for monster-sized cock, this goal sat highest on my priorities list to start. I make priority lists and I know my essentials.

Among my Northern California Grindr conversations, I was finding dicks of all shapes, colors, and sizes. While this should have been great, two days in, there seemed little in the way of job opportunities or a place to rest my head. The peen is great and all, but I didn’t feel homeless really suited me. I’m sure there are people out there who look great in “homeless”, but it’s not really my color. More often than not, my placement as an uptight East Coast little Jewish queen seems to seethe through the atmosphere. People sense it. Despite all of the joyous cocks in the land, I needed to figure out some long-term scenarios. My priorities seemed to change within 48 hours. As my best friends will tell you, I have more moods than Rosie O’Donnell, so a 48-hour shift is nothing new.

Scouring my social app – Grindr – for everything, I found Magenta: the magic unicorn. Jose was his name, but he went by Magenta. It was a childhood nickname that stuck. While I found it an odd name to have, my name isn’t your run-of-the-mill ‘Joe’ or ‘Larry’, so it didn't make me ponder much. Magenta was visibly not my type. He posted his height as 5’7” on his Grindr profile, which most often insinuates 5’5” or 5’6”. I’m a giant chaser with body issues, so anyone smaller than me is enough for a Tracey Gold Lifetime Movie special. The second he contacted me via the social application, I knew this was going to fall under the job opportunities/living arrangement side of my networking attempts on Grindr, assuming he had something to offer. Magenta was twenty-five years old and short, like I mentioned above. I prefer six-foot-one or above. Similar to Disneyland, I too have height requirements. Especially if I’m going to ride your ride… I am attracted to certain aspects of a man that relate to masculinity for me. This may be critical and ridiculous, but short men do not fly my boat. Anyone my height (five-foot-eleven) or shorter deserves a lollipop and a feature on a TLC network program, but rarely a place in my pants (not to say there are never exceptions). I find tall men to be the epitome of attraction and masculinity to me, so go figure. We all have our kinks, but I’m pretty vanilla. All I ask for is a tall man with a big uncut cock and maybe the slightest choke hold. Nothing too crazy, but if you slap my ass while we’re at it, I probably won’t complain. And that’s about where it ends. The rest should be boring with lots of kissing like we’re in the sixth grade and I’m set. Pass me a note at study hall. Five foot six Magenta could not deliver such things.

As our conversation began, Magenta was friendly and sweet, but I wasn’t looking at him in anything but a platonic way. My Grindr profile specifically stated my intentions in finding a place to live and leads towards a sufficient form of income (sex work excluded). For anyone outside my sphere of interest, this made for the perfect alibi to qualify my disinterest in sex. Magenta only received friendly and non-sexual conversation talking points from me. We discussed my move to the Chicago of the West Coast, my need to find a job, and my housing predicament. Magenta told me he was an optometrist and lived in Concord, deep in the East Bay. Seeing as I knew close to nothing about the Bay Area prior to moving, I just assumed that was another neighborhood in the city of San Francisco. I was familiar with the Castro, the luxurious Tenderloin district, Union Square, and now Concord? As I was chatting with people while located in the city, I just assumed that anyone I spoke to occupied residence in town. Today, the East Bay is still a confusing cluster-fuck for me (and I lived here for almost a year), but at that time I knew even less about it then. I thought the Bay Area referred to San Francisco and different parts of the city. Berkeley was just a neighborhood in SF, right? Clearly I couldn’t pass a first-grade geography test, but how many people really can? (Outside of first-graders, that is…)

So, as the story went, we discussed his occupation and living arrangement. As he presented it, Magenta was a certified eye-doctor with a lavish pad. He explained how he understood my predicament and that several friends had stayed with him, a few weeks at a time, upon moving to the area. I began to wonder if I had found the jackpot. Would this be a friend who could help get me on my feet? Could it be so?! He seemed like a giving heart, given the short-lived online conversation, but I couldn’t help but get excited. To clarify: excited by the potential of a place to stay, not excited in the pants. My erection turned inward at the sight of Magenta. Not to be a bitch, although I fear it may be far too late for that, but he was not my hot and spicy cup of tea. Magenta was five-foot-too short and just didn’t have the look I normally go for. He was half-Mexican, half-Filipino, and while there is nothing wrong with that (it can often be a very sexy mix), the combination on him wasn’t to my taste buds. As the online conversation continued, Magenta suggested he might have a few friends that could help me find employment. I felt indebted to this kid and I hadn’t even met him yet.

Then, without warning, the conversation flipped. All of a sudden, Magenta started talking about sex. He just jumped right into it, asking me what I liked and what I didn’t. I hadn’t the heart to tell him “Anything but you”, so instead I used my alibi. “Sorry, but I’m new to the city and looking for a job and a place to live. Sex isn’t really on the table.” To which he responded: “What if I can help you get a place and find a job, then you’ll have no reason but to have sex with me, right?” I couldn’t be direct and honest because if I were, I’d have shied away from a potential opportunity. At times, I try to keep my bitchiness to a minimum; just sometimes. While I couldn’t flat out tell this kid that he wasn’t my type due to genetic cruelty, I decided to throw out some discerning objections to his courting me. The first being: “You’re cute and all, Magenta, but I only go for guys with big uncut cocks. Sorry." I thought this would end the conversation altogether. I hadn't even planned my second objection. For the record – however – I am not completely opposed to a circumcised dick, but I am opposed to a man that rests his face in my crotch. Not that that’s a bad place for a man to rest his head, but I’d rather him have to bend down versus getting on a step stool to do the deed.

                As quickly as I sent my obvious objection, Magenta responded with a picture. From the look of it, I had been proven wrong by my assumptions. The “dick pic” – as Elliot Spitzer made famous – I had received had shown a rather large penis with a handful of foreskin wrapped around the head. My objections weren’t going to save me from this. Additionally, I had the potential promise of a place to stay and work opportunities. I began to entertain the idea of letting Magenta put it in me. After all, I’m nothing if not a gracious person. Pity fucks are not outside my realm of possibilities. Following the explicit photograph I received, an extensive assortment of pictures rolled in. The remnants of many photo shoots all came in at once and I couldn’t help but change my demeanor. Maybe it was time for me to date a shortie. Who knows?! Your taste buds change every seven years or so, perhaps this could be part of my evolution…

                Entertaining the possibility of this vertically challenged man getting a piece of me, we made plans to hang out the following night. It would be my third night in San Francisco and the city was still new to me in every possible way. Throughout the day, Magenta sent me multiple shots of his dick all taken for my viewing pleasure. I appreciated the persistence and began to look forward to hanging out. We made plans to grab a drink or two. Magenta offered to introduce me to a few of his friends that may have employment opportunities for me. In my mind, we would be grabbing a drink close to my hostel, just Magenta and I. Should his friends show up, I didn’t think they would have any part in the evening. I thought this would be a one-on-one encounter, given it would be our first time meeting. Additionally, he hadn’t introduced his friends as anything more than people we just may see out. I can be very pragmatic at times and that was certainly the case here. Every element of the night was planned out in my head. I was very clear with Magenta that I had morning plans on Saturday and an interview that afternoon. There were no plans for a crazy night. I relayed the need for an early morning and my intentions for a calm evening. Magenta agreed and I took that as firm. He offered to pick me up in one of his cars (yes, he relayed his possession of multiple cars.), we would then go out for a drink or two, and he would take me back to Concord to spend the night. After all, when two gays discuss their sexual quirks, exchange pictures, and make plans, something’s bound to go down. To piggyback that, I had newly curbed intentions of “going down” on that big uncut cock.

               

                Magenta had voiced his concerns with my smoking cigarettes, something I was open and honest about early, mostly in an effort to repel him. This did not make him any less aggressive, but he did tell me it wasn’t his favorite. “Just don’t blow smoke in my face” was his main sentiment. I agreed to oblige, but knew if things went sour, he was getting a mouthful of my tobacco.  

                We made plans for that evening when Magenta finished work. I spent some time getting pretty at the hostel all afternoon, ready to meet my SF “Daddy”. By the time Magenta was nearby, I had over exhausted myself with the day’s stress and started contemplating cancelling my evening. It had been a depleting week already, managing my lack of planning for this six hour move to Northern California. The idea of a drunken shit-show at a bar was not sounding very fun. One cocktail sounded like too much. I was tired. Messaging Magenta, I asked to rain check for later in the weekend. As quickly as I sent the message, my phone began to ring. It was Magenta, giving me an estimated time of arrival landing at less than sixty seconds. Reluctantly, I agreed to one drink, reiterating my early day over the phone. “Of course! I want to introduce you to some of my friends who will be out tonight. They’re really connected in this city. And I want to meet you! One to two drinks, tops.” How could I say no?

                I waited on the dirty street corner filled with drug addicts inserting needles and Europeans smoking marijuana freely. Then an over-sized Chevy Suburban with an array of dents and chipped paint pulled over next to me. “Magenta can’t be in that car.” Considering the guy bragged about an extensive car collection, he wouldn’t be showing up in this. If anything, when he told me he’d be in a 4x4, I assumed he would drive up in a sexy Jeep or Range Rover. Listen, I didn’t have two pennies to rub together, but this kid had me under some major misapprehensions. As I peered away from this now parked jalopy, I received a call. “Look to your left. It’s me!” I didn’t want to – I SO didn't want to – but I did. There he was and there I got in. Opening the passenger’s side door, I stepped up into the seat and discovered my driver. Magenta sat behind the over-sized wheel amidst the ripped upholstery fabric donning the seats. He looked like a ten year old practicing driving his father’s truck on a Sunday after choir practice. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. Although he was not my obvious type, the pictures I received on Grindr presented a macho Latino thug type that happened to be very short. Instead, I was looking at a little boy that could barely reach his foot to the pedal. Not to mention his choice of wardrobe...

               Seated behind the giant wheel, Magenta was wearing a stark white pair of booty shorts (well past Labor Day) with a short-sleeved neon lime green button up dress shirt two sizes too small, with a bright white clip-on bow tie. My first reaction, outside of “Does your mommy know you took her keys?”, was “This boy’s a bottom”. What other conclusions could I have arrived at?

                Sitting in the passenger’s seat, I couldn’t help but wonder why I hadn’t jumped out the window yet. This was a prime example of misrepresentation via the internet. Grindr had failed me. What an epic fail. Had I been catfished? No. This was all my own fault. I was so desperate to find what I felt that I needed. Trying too hard can bring unlikely results. From where I was sitting, I didn’t want to spend another minute, but I had to see if there was any truth to his proposed offers. “Could Magenta assist in finding me a new job?” "Did he have a place for me to stay?" After all, I only knew virtually one person in this city – and not all that well, so what could one drink hurt? Maybe two. So, with that, I stayed seated making small talk with this little person behind the wheel. Knowing very little about this city I had just moved up to, I let him take the lead with where we were going. While Magenta drove around town in this oversized jalopy, we discussed the neighborhoods we were passing through. There wasn’t much else to discuss. Words were disappearing into the air as we had no common topics to speak of. It became pretty obvious that we were not the same kind of people. Passing neighborhoods was the only thing that seemed to interest us both. Despite the disconnect, Magenta kept squealing with excitement, remarking on the opportunity for us to be spending time together. He kept declaring how attractive he found me, stumbling on his words in excitement. I sat there silent, dissecting my complete lack of attraction for him. He couldn’t be further off base. The further we drove, the more confused I became. I thought we had planned to have a drink or two, he knew I had morning plans, and he knew where he had picked me up. Something nearby seemed like the obvious destination. A dive bar could have been easy. We had been driving for over fifteen minutes at this point and I couldn’t help but wonder where he was taking me.

                After a few more minutes of driving geography, I asked Magenta where we were going. He explained that we were attending a friend’s birthday party at ‘El Rio’ in the Mission. I didn’t know where or what the Mission was. Outside of the Castro, I had never been anywhere in SF for a drink. ‘El Rio’ seemed forever and a day away, but living here now, I know that anything in the Outer Mission is always further than it sounds. I didn’t understand why we were going to a friend’s birthday. We had agreed to a drink or two and possibly a sleepover. His friends showing up to the bar was discussed, but under the rouse that “they may be out”. Going to a birthday party for a friend is not something I would attend with a Grindr date, but what do I know? I was trying to ride with the flow as my new journey in San Francisco was set to explore outside conventionality. This was definitely not a conventional beaux for me, nor the norm of circumstances. I’ve had my own place in some fashion for the last ten years of my life. This was all new to me. After all, my belongings were waiting for me back at a hostel where I was designated a mattress on a bunk bed.

                Driving to ‘El Rio’, we began discussing the potential scene for the evening. Rather quickly, the topic of drugs came up. While I am no prude to the nightlife scene and a predominance of drug use in the gay community, I’ve been there and done that. I enjoy the occasional drink and a daily puff of the medicinal herb, but hard drugs aren’t really a part of my life any longer. The excitement some may find snorting a line of coke up their noses is the same glee I find in going to bed early with an episode of ‘Golden Girls’ playing in the background as I close my eyes. I was not looking for a messy night. Sometimes we don’t get what we want. This has been a weird learning lesson for me. As Magenta and I discussed our past and how drugs played a part, I explained that I had zero interest being around such things for the night. Magenta concurred, explaining that some of his friends might be high (on a variety of substances), but that he had no intention of leaving me on my own. This eased my anxiety a bit; enough to keep the evening going. I kept telling myself: “You know no one in this city and you need a lot: a job, a place to live, and some friends. So…. Get the fuck with it.”

                We finally arrived at ‘El Rio’ around 10 PM. Along the trip, we drove through the entire city, got on and off the highway a few times, and finally made our destination. I know now that Magenta probably had no idea where he was going, because ‘El Rio’ is far, but not that far away. Then again, I knew very little at the time. 

                We parked a few blocks away, in a spot that seemed adequate for Magenta’s oversized beaten down Chevy. As quickly as we were parked, I jumped out of the passenger’s side without once asking to help Magenta get down the big leap. Perhaps he brought a foot ladder with him for such circumstances. I couldn’t imagine him getting in or out on his own, but that wasn’t my responsibility. The moment I hit the pavement, I lit a cigarette. He had expressed his dislike of smoking when we first chatted on Grindr, but at this point, I could care less. I had no one to impress, from an attraction stand point. Lighting up my Marlboro Light, I felt my first real ease of the evening. At least there would be one person I liked with me for the evening: my cigarette.

                Arriving at the door, I threw my cigarette to the curb and followed Magenta in the entrance. The person working the door was asking for a ten dollar fee to enter the club. I really didn’t want to part with what little money I had, but Magenta quickly paid for both our entries. Arriving at what looked like any other bar, Magenta and I sought out a bartender. He ordered me a Jameson, while he got some pink froo-froo drink with cherries. If there had been a lime green cocktail to match his shirt, I’m sure he would have ordered that. Making a joke, I presented that option and Magenta proceeded with Midori Sours for the remainder of the evening. We were definitely not on the same page.

                Following our first round of drinks, two girls approached us by the bar, where we still stood. They were friends of Magenta’s and came over with warm introductions. He introduced us, chit-chatted for a moment, and then we proceeded to the back. Everything seemed harmless, despite my lack of interest. Approaching the back of the bar, I was led into something of a magical forest. While the bar seemed somewhat typical, in every sense, there was an outdoor patio that rivalled many of the spaces I had become accustomed to in Los Angeles. This was a big sweeping space, all outside, with picnic tables, strung lights, and a party atmosphere. Magenta led me to a corner collective of multiple picnic tables and a group of about twenty five people or so. He pointed to the group, explaining that this was the birthday group we were meeting. Walking over, I was already overwhelmed by the group. As soon as we arrived, Magenta left me to my own. He didn’t introduce me to a soul. Walking a few feet ahead of me, he took that lead and wandered around with pleasantries. I stood there, knowing no one, and completely out of my element. Magenta was already off in a corner, ten to fifteen feet away from me, showing off his “fancy” outfit. I had a drink in my hand and didn’t know a soul, so I pounded that whiskey. Feeling a little friendlier after some libations, I proceeded to introduce myself to a few of the party-goers. I met the birthday boy, offering my well wishes. Then I made my way to a group of four guys that seemed to be having the best time. Attracted to their giggles and energy, I thought this may be who would entertain my evening.   

     These four guys were laughing hysterically, animated in their seats, getting up to hop around every few seconds. From where I was standing, they were the fun. I introduced myself and I immediately met Sheila, Cruz, David, and Terry. Sheila and Cruz both had very eccentric looks to themselves. Their names seemed to be given titles, versus birth names. Sheila and Cruz were part of a polyamorous relationship, with multiple other counterparts, and I learned this almost immediately upon greeting them. Cruz was sitting atop Terry’s lap, groping his groin as he reached out a hand for introductions. Terry was a British guy who resembled a favorite porn star of mine (Peto Coast) and that may have been where my initial attraction to this group began. Their friend, David, was stoically silent, but earned his place at the table by his killer good looks. He stood well above six feet and had a very classically attractive face. Think of that rugged all-American sportswear runway model straight from a Michael Kors or Tommy Hilfiger show. I made eyes with him the moment I arrived at their group, but felt it was inappropriate, given the way I arrived to their party, not to mention the fact that I felt he was way out of my league.

Cozying up to this newly delegated group for the night, I looked around and Magenta was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he had left. I didn’t know, but I had to make something of my night. At this point, my glass was empty, but this group had a pitcher of beer and offered to pour me a pint. I agreed and began carrying a conversation with this strange group. Sharing my story of newness to the city, I tried to network right off the bat. Within a few minutes, I realized these people had zero connections to getting me a job. If they had any, they weren’t offering them to me. Struggling to find a place within this new group of Northern Cali people, I proceeded to drink my beer at a steady sip without taking a breath. Then came the obvious reason for their excitement. Cruz relieved Terry’s lap for a moment to pull a small white baggie from his back pocket. As quickly as the bag appeared, the entire group was overcome with excitement. They began taking bumps off Cruz’s knuckle in the great wide open that was this outdoor bar patio. I was taken aback for a moment. While I don’t subscribe to the drug culture these days, I’m not unfamiliar with drug etiquette within the bar environment. In Los Angeles, there’s always a line for the bathroom at any given bar on a busy night, and most of them don’t have to use the facilities. That’s just the way you do drugs at a bar – in the bathroom. My new acquaintances had zero interest in walking fifty feet to the restroom. They were just taking bumps of cocaine in the wide open. I couldn’t believe this. Never had I been in quite such a public place with drugs running rampant like this. I asked, “Aren’t you worried, doing this out here, in front of everyone?!” “This is Northern California. Things are different here. Get with it.” So, I did. 

Then came their offer of invite. “Want a bump, new friend?” Normally, I would say no, but here I was in this new place with no idea where my ride had disappeared off to. “Why not?!” I said and proceeded to snort a bump off Cruz’s knuckle. This was followed by three more. When in Rome… All of a sudden, I was feeling better. I was engaging more with this group and starting to have a fun time. David, the attractive Adonis who said very little, began giving me bedroom eyes. He couldn’t take his eyes off of me. I was both turned on and flattered by his subtle advances. Still, I had arrived with Magenta and needed to have some closure on that scenario before jumping onto David’s lap.

High and a little drunk, I sat back, basking in the random nature of this night. Then came Magenta, out of nowhere. He showed up by my side with a drink in hand. As I accepted another free Jameson, I realized that all of Magenta’s attention had been reverted back to me. Meanwhile, as he stared longingly into my eyes, I caught David giving me a nice long stare, jealously. I was redirecting my attraction for David towards Magenta, allowing this exchange to occur. With no warning, Magenta rose from his heels, stepping on the tops of his toes and shoved his tongue down my throat. Perhaps up my throat, but the logistics don’t matter. I kept looking back at David as Magenta raped my throat, playing games with both men. Then Magenta grabbed my hand and placed it on his erect package over those tiny little booty shorts. It looked big enough to me. Within a moment of this, Magenta loosened his belt and began unzipping his shorts, pulling my hand beneath the seams. I pulled back for a moment, reminding him that we were in public. “Everyone’s drunk or high around us and no one cares.” That was Magenta’s response. With that, I took this as a pass and allowed my hand down his pants.

Continuing to mash faces and grope Magenta’s dick, I became lost in the moment. He suggested we go for a walk to his car. I had no reservations or prior plans. Agreeing to his offer, we walked off holding hands. Magenta took the lead and dragged me a few blocks to his car. I smoked another cigarette as I had been chain-smoking at the bar patio, now coked out of my mind. We approached his Chevy and I was led into the back seat. Making out for a few minutes, Magenta was then quick to rip his cock out. I proceeded to perform fellatio for a few brief moments, but upon further inspection, it was nowhere as big as he had suggested or I had hoped. Giving up on this, I suggested we head back inside. Instead, Magenta ripped my pants off and proceeded to turn the tables. He buried his face in my ass for a steady ten minutes, before turning me over and swallowing my package. While these weren’t optimal circumstances, I was drunk and high in a new city getting my dick sucked by someone that seemed like they had studied their entire life for this moment. I allowed it. Within about fifteen minutes, I tapped him on the head, letting him know that I was about to squirt. Magenta kept his jaw locked in place and swallowed my entire load, alleviating the possibility of a mess. As quickly as it finished, Magenta rose to my face to plant a kiss, just after exclaiming “YUM!”

We zipped back up and put ourselves together, quickly heading back inside. This was only the beginning of an epic night to follow, as the remnants of my orgasm dripped within my pants… Part 2 to follow…