DAVINA'S STORY, PART 1.

Davina's Story, Part 1.

(The Dangers of Dentistry)

"Raanan, it's time to go back to the dentist. Dr. Rosenthal hasn't seen you in two years. Your time has come."

"But, mom! I don't want to go! Can't we go to another dentist?"

"No."

"Then I guess I'm not going..."

"Then I guess you're not."

This was a typical conversation between my mother and I as a child. My first experience with the dentist was rather traumatic and I had no intentions of returning to the scene of the crime. Dr. Rosenthal, our family dentist, was an upstanding member of our community. Our entire synagogue seemed to be patients of Dr. Rosenthal's. I grew up in an Orthodox Jewish community, sequestered within a town. We only conversed with fellow members of the cloth. Business was conducted with members of our religious community, first and foremost. We still shopped and took business to non-Jewish and non-religious forums, but only when we were out of options within our synagogue.

There was a strong theme of "keeping it within our community". My father had his own business and needed support from within the community. We were constantly instructed to support the "parnasa" of each and every member of our community, whenever able. "Parnasa", a Hebrew word most easily translated as "one's livelihood", has such a stronger connotation than just a job or career. It is in essence – as translated – one's livelihood, always heavily stressed when told to support our fellow Jews. The possibility of seeing another dentist was unfathomable. No other option was ever on the table. As Jews, we were taught that it was our responsibility to support fellow members of the cloth. This for surely included keeping business within our community. From doctors to grocers, most everything was kept within our community. My clothing, when not hand-me-downs, were purchased in the basement of an Orthodox woman's home. If you looked closely enough, you’d find a few mice running rampant while trying on a pair of Jewish garb slacks. We existed within a world contained from gentile outsiders. It was a world where things were "kept within the family", or the community for that matter...

Dr. Rosenthal and his wife Bertha had two children: Seth and Davina. Seth was a year younger than me, Davina a year older. They attended the same Jewish day school as I did and were members of the same synagogue. Our parents were friendly and I spent time with both Seth and Davina. Dr. Rosenthal was always a shy man, standing feebly behind his wife Bertha who had a personality large enough to outshine anybody. Bertha was a towering woman with an inner anger and rage that could only be matched by my own mother. I was always somewhat fearful of Bertha, or rather Mrs. Rosenthal, but the Doctor never seemed to phase me. This all changed during my first dental appointment with Dr. Rosenthal.

Before I go into the messy details of my first dental experience, let me supply a little further backstory on the Rosenthal family. Seth, being a year younger than me and a boy, had little in common with me. I wasn't very interested in Seth's time. Davina, on the other hand, was a friend from very early on. I always got along famously with girls as a youngster, and while my parents seemed to find no issue with this, the Orthodox community around us did not agree. Boys and girls were different and I needed to know my place.

Davina was a bit of a tomboy and Bertha was never going to accept this. Having money, as the dentist of our synagogue, the Rosenthals always had bright and shiny new things. Bertha did everything in her power to make Davina the prettiest girl within our community. Davina always had the nicest clothes, toys, and accessories. Around the age of 8 or 9, Davina began to require eye-glasses. Due to the aesthetic barriers that Bertha felt this opened Davina up to, she flew her daughter down to Florida to be fitted for contacts. This was a time before young children wore contacts. Bertha was convinced that she would make Davina most desirable within our community. For this same reason, Bertha did not like the idea of my spending time with Davina. 

I would often be invited over for play-dates with the Rosenthal children. Every time, I would find myself playing with Barbies and Polly Pockets in Davina's room with her. Just about every time this occurred, Bertha would storm into Davina's bedroom, discovering our play time. "You were not invited over to play with Davina! You are here to play with Seth!" I would then be escorted into Seth's room, where we would awkwardly share space and time until my mother arrived to pick me up. This constant divide only made it less likely for me to enjoy spending time there. As time drug on, I began to decline invitations to the Rosenthal house. When I was attending synagogue or school, I would find common ground and fun with Davina, but I always knew that Bertha would never allow the friendship.

As Davina was growing into quite the tomboy, Bertha made it her personal mission from God to shift this. The irony of this is that I was most probably a calming feminine influence. If anything, it would have been most possible to get Davina in touch with her inner woman with me by her side. 

One year, while I was still involved in playtime at the Rosenthals, my birthday had come around. As a birthday gift from the Rosenthals, I was gifted a VHS copy of 'Batman', the Tim Burton classic with Michael Keaton playing the bat. As I unwrapped my gift, I read the card: "From your friend Seth". There was no placement of Davina – my actual friend – on the gift anywhere. Being the obnoxious little kid that I was, I reacted in a very inappropriate manner to my gift. "I don't like it. I didn't want this." Had I said this to my mother, she most probably would have slapped me across the face and taken my gift away with zero promise of anything in the future. The Rosenthals, being accustomed to a different world of spoiling their children, offered we go to 'Toys R Us' and pick out another gift for me. I eagerly accepted, knowing my mother would have told me to accept the gift and shut my “fucking mouth”. Dr. Rosenthal, Bertha, Davina, Seth, and I jumped into their family van and left for 'Toys R Us'. My gift had been valued at twenty-dollars at the time. I was informed that I could spend up to twenty-dollars on a gift of my choosing. Almost immediately, we all split up. Dr. Rosenthal and Bertha slowly perused the toy paradise, while the children shopped. Seth went off on his own to look at toy trucks and whatever else little boys seem to like.

Davina and I paired up and ended up in the Barbie aisle. I had Barbies at home and wasn't sure I needed another that day. This is not to say you can ever have enough Barbies. For a young gay, Barbies are about as quintessential as shoes. Ask any gay man and they will tell you: “You can never have enough shoes.” At the time, however, I had developed an additional love of 'Polly Pocket'. I was always a fan of figurines and miniature toys. 'Polly Pocket' was a miniature girl's toy that took form in the shape of a woman's make-up compact. Upon opening the compact, there was an ultra-feminine world of miniature toys inside. I was fascinated by these toys and they were definitely a hot fad of the moment. Think 'My little Pony'. I picked out a compact of about twenty dollars’ value, while Davina picked out a luxurious hundred-dollar set that was purchased freely for her. I remember a huge sense of jealousy and envy at the time, wishing my parents would shower me with gifts the way that Davina was. Never once had it occurred to me that things weren't as "peachy" inside Davina's world.

I was roughly 9 or 10 years old when I had my first dental appointment. This procedure was scheduled with Davina's father, our Synagogue’s dentist. I was not a fan of brushing my own teeth (at the time – I’ve since embraced the act) and my parents never seemed overly concerned. My parents have always had a talent for telling me what to do, but that is usually where it ends. I may be directed in a certain way, but an explanation and a visual with potential follow through has never been their style. So, when it came time to go to the dentist for my first visit, I didn't know what to expect. My mother brought me in to Dr. Rosenthal's office. The Rosenthals had a rather large house on a busy corner in our neighborhood. Where a garage may have once been, they had built a dental office that served for Dr. Rosenthal's practice. At the time, Dr. Rosenthal had two dental hygienists assisting him, while Bertha handled managing the practice. I sat down in the waiting room, unsure of what to expect. My mother chatted with Bertha and filled out my initial paperwork. Then it came time for my visit with the doctor. I was shown in to a small dental room by Bertha, no larger than my own closet at home. It was a claustrophobic, tight space. One of the dental hygienists came in and greeted me, helping to make me comfortable and prepared within my chair for the doctor's arrival. As I sat there waiting, I really didn't know what to expect. “Would this be painful?” “How long would I be here?” I had no idea. When I asked my parents, I was assured of Dr. Rosenthal's high credibility. My parents didn't offer much support past that as there was always a blind faith in anything connected to our synagogue and community. As Dr. Rosenthal walked into the room, I was instantly flooded with a feeling of discomfort. Dr. Rosenthal awkwardly and equally cold greeted me, asking how I was feeling. As a child I knew that he did not want to know. There was a condescending and obligatory tone to his greeting and I didn't feel supported or cared for. Instead, I felt quite uncomfortable. Dr. Rosenthal wanted to get this over with just as quickly as I did.

After a brazen and uncomfortable examination of my teeth, I sat there feeling as if I had been taken hostage. Dr. Rosenthal was moving his hands around within my mouth without the slightest care for the discomfort I was experiencing. He never once asked me if he was hurting me or whether this was comfortable. I was a non-entity; a part of his process, but not a patient. Struggling to feel comfortable, my opened mouth was strained. Today I can confidently tell you that I have an abnormal gag reflux. Sad for any ex-boyfriends of mine, I have never been one to deep-throat. Perhaps this was the earliest sign, but I can't even keep a shot of vodka down. Rather than ask if I was strained, Dr. Rosenthal began to grow frustrated with me, criticizing my inability to keep my mouth open. He quickly began taunting me, calling me a "spoiled baby". It was official: I did not like the dentist.

When it came time for ex-rays, I had reached an all-time high in my discomfort. I was not looking to keep my mouth open any longer and now I had to bite down on a heavy mouthpiece, with a weighted fabric apron over my chest. Having reached a heightened level of discomfort, I resisted. I couldn't keep my mouth shut with the plate inside, biting down. (As an aside, this was not the first time I was criticized for an inability to shut my mouth...) I began to grow impatient and he was unable to capture my impressions for an x-ray. Dr. Rosenthal had no patience for me and dismissed me for the day. I left upset and traumatized by the overwhelming experience. No one seemed to hold my hand or care for my discomfort. As I had learned well already, I was on my own in the world. Sure, my parents claimed to care, but I knew that my true feelings were mine and mine alone. I pleaded with them to never take me back there. Rather than offer a better experience with another dentist, they informed me that I would go back to Dr. Rosenthal when I was ready. Instead of looking for a better route to supply me with oral hygiene, it seemed better to just let my mouth go unseen. My parents were not supporting me, but rather momentarily pacifying me, by allowing me to skip the Dentist.

After this experience with the demon dentist of Cherry Hill, I began to keep a further distance from his kids. Bertha preferred I stay away from Davina, so there wasn't a huge effort to bring the children back together. Davina began to develop into a striking, rather beautiful girl. She was tall, slim, and very pretty. Davina was very athletic and seemed to grow very popular, while I was bullied and cast out by our community. We were not traveling in the same circles. I was a loser by our community's standards and Davina was quite the opposite. As I grew older and dealt with other obstacles, the Rosenthals became foreign to me. I would see them on occasion at synagogue, but that was where it ended. Our families were never very close and once I stopped spending time with their children, this only kept us further apart.

When I hit high school, I began to attend school with Davina again. She was still popular and I was not. Not a lot had changed, so we kept the deep-rooted distance from years before. We were friendly, but we were not friends. Again, Davina was athletic, well-liked, and incredibly studious, while I could barely complete my homework, let alone throw a ball. This was not a time when I fit in or felt comfortable within my own body, so the idea of a friendship with someone popular within our community was not a high possibility. Davina was also a year older and, at that time, the variance of a school grade made a world of difference.

In the tenth grade, I left that environment to attend a public high school. Given a sense of freedom from our community and the kids I grew up with, I saw a further distance. Within no time, I started to grow a bit more comfortable within myself and my dental issues began to have an effect on me. I had never really been to a dentist, outside the earlier trauma of being taunted by Dr, Rosenthal. Now, here I was – a teenager – without any dental record. I had constant pains within my mouth that had already been plaguing me for years. Refusing to go back to Dr. Rosenthal whenever the topic came up, my parents took that as a refusal to see any dentist. Dr. Rosenthal was the only dentist I was going to be seen by. The problem with this was that I had been horribly traumatized by the Dr.'s lack of patience when I was in his care. His abrasive and demeaning behavior made me fearful of the experience. That being said, by the tenth grade, I had already survived several abusive scenarios at the hands of many adults in my life. Par for the course, I guess, but I was more prepared for a bad dental experience, despite my fear and hesitation. I finally agreed to go to the dentist; Dr. Rosenthal to be exact.

It was a terrible experience, but I should have known. When I first arrived, I was greeted by Bertha who acted as if she was my biggest cheerleader. She had a way of intoxicating people with warmth and affection when she wanted to. It's a common trait that my own mother shares. One minute you can feel the wrath of a domineering rage-filled woman, the next moment you feel the deepest love and admiration. It is enough to screw with anyone's sense of stability and calm. At this time, it was fairly known that Bertha had chased away any and all assistance within her and her husband's dental practice. Bertha had a reputation for being difficult and it seems it had caught up with her. Dr. Rosenthal was now operating a dental practice with merely the assistance of his overbearing wife. The doctor was a shy, timid man by most people's accounts. I can see now that the dental chair is where he feels in control and clearly takes out his aggression on non-complying patients. Here Bertha was kind and sweet to me, so I went in optimistically despite my past experience.

Dr. Rosenthal hadn't changed, except for an obvious sense of being worn down. He seemed older and far worse than before, easily frustrated by any sudden movements or feelings of fear on my end. I lay in the chair feeling hostage to both Dr. Rosenthal and Bertha as they took my x-rays begrudgingly. Dr. Rosenthal criticized me, while Bertha was simultaneously raving about Davina and Seth to me. I was held captive with a man's hands in my mouth, while I was squirming in every possible direction. As I was being fed abuse by the hands of my dentist, his wife raved about their kids. It was more of a gloat coming from Bertha's tongue, as if she was informing me that her kids were far better off than I. Needless to say, it was unsettling. I hoped to be done with my appointment and leave on my way. There were a few problems with this plan, however. Firstly, Bertha couldn’t shut her mouth, proclaiming all the accolades and achievements of her two kids that I had zero involvement with. She was holding up much of the appointment to shove her children’s supposed accomplishments down my throat. Dr. Rosenthal was attempting to get his hands deeper into my mouth, while she kept moving around in both of our ways as her stories continued. By the end of the appointment, I was ready to leave forever. “I’ll wait another six years before I go to a dentist.” That was all I could think of as the appointment came to a close. Finally, I could leave. It wasn’t going to be this easy, it seemed, though. As it came to pass, I had multiple cavities and needed immediate work. I had fourteen cavities in six teeth. My mouth was host to a myriad of mess. 

Someone (me) should have been brushing their teeth daily, but no one seemed too concerned outside of Dr. Rosenthal and Bertha, who berated me with insults and criticism after discovering the disarray of my mouth. I rarely brushed my teeth and was now at my first ever dental appointment to be finished in entirety and I was about fifteen years old. Never should a trip to the dentist have gone this long, but my sense of fear kept me away from Dr. Rosenthal. And my parents’ sense of loyalty to our synagogue and beliefs kept me from basic hygienic care.

As it was now obvious that I would need multiple procedures, I felt a common feeling of my childhood: I was stuck. I had nowhere to go but here. My parents criticized my cavity count and vented their frustrations with the nominal dollar amount to fix my mouth. I felt shamed by both the dentist and now my parents. This was another situation where I would need to keep my mouth shut and obey orders. My mother and Bertha organized a schedule for me to get all of my necessary procedures performed. We began to meet weekly after the school day was complete. I would walk directly to the Rosenthal's house after school and wait for my turn. Bertha would greet me warmly and find a way to insert a domineering sense of judgment for the state of my teeth. I would be ushered into the chair that should have had my name inscribed on it for the incredible cumulative time spent there. Dr. Rosenthal would enter the room and greet me coldly as per usual. Bertha would be present for each procedure and they would all travel the same course. Dr. Rosenthal would be abrupt and critical of my abilities to keep my mouth wide open and sit completely still. As this was occurring, Bertha would gloat about her children, with an emphasis on Davina. Looking back, I now see it came from a place of insecurity on Bertha's hands. Davina was never good enough, whether it be for her tomboyish ways, optical handicaps, or choice of friends. Bertha needed Davina to fit into a certain mold and the more she spoke of her daughter this way, perhaps it began to feel true; at least for her.

As all of this transpiring, I found my gums meeting the end of a needle at the start of each procedure. While it hurt deeply to begin, my chronic visits began exciting due to that pain. I was never one to cut myself or inflict pain, but this horrible grouping of experiences seemed a bit more manageable with that initial pain of the needle. Like a drug addict, I became dependent on that touch of the needle. I craved it as I sat in the waiting room of the Rosenthal's converted garage.

These procedures continued for the next few years. It was not until my senior year that I felt a sense of freedom from the Rosenthals. When I was cleared for work completed, I vowed to stay away from that home forver. I had endured enough by the hands of Bertha and her husband; I was done. Here and there, over the years, I went in for check-ups, but I was not responsible to see the Dr. and his wife more than once a year or so.                                                    

Around the age of 21, I was living in Philadelphia with my older sister Sharona. At the time, we were both going through our own party world. Most of our wild nights were kept secret from our parents. There has always been a strong sense of judgment from both of my parents for any sense of partying, drinking, or drug use. My mother always carried a certain connotation with partying, describing those that party as "losers" and "lost souls". She would be damned if her own children turned out that way. For that reason, there was no way that we would share our sordid details with her.

One day, I began to have a pain in my mouth. It was a pain prior to that day, but a manageable pain as my first reaction has never been to go to the dentist. On this specific day, however, I woke up in unmanageable agony. I had to see a dentist and it seemed most obvious to go back to Dr. Rosenthal. Never once had it occurred to me to look for another dentist. At this point, it had been conditioned in me to help the Rosenthals' "parnasa" rather than worry about my own care. With that, I went in for my appointment. No longer did I fight the discomfort of Dr. Rosenthal's office. His bedside manner was terrible and Bertha would talk my ear off, but it felt so normal then. As I sat in the dental chair, Bertha began to gloat once more about Davina. She had just received her MBA in Business from a prestigious school in Israel and had now moved to Philadelphia, not unlike myself. I was now openly gay and our childhoods had played out. Bertha seemed to have changed her tune from years before. Now she wanted me to spend time with her daughter, Davina. I was resigned to decline the offer. Having the set of childhood experiences that I did, there didn’t seem a need to reopen such relationships. Additionally, I didn't need any secrets from my private life shared with my parents. I was smoking weed daily and it was something I didn't believe my parents could accept. What if one meeting with Davina translated back to my parents? No, thank you.

Bertha continued to practically beg for my friendship with her daughter. She was new to Philadelphia and fresh back in the states. Davina needed friends and it was my obligation, as a member of the synagogue. Luckily, I was no longer held down by the synagogue, living on my own and left to my own devices. I left the appointment promising to reach out to Davina, but without any sincere truth to my vow. A few weeks later, I had a follow up appointment with Dr. Rosenthal. Bertha steamrolled me for not reaching out to Davina and made me promise yet again that I would seek out time with her daughter. This was followed up by a phone call to my mother from Bertha, pressuring me to reach out to Davina. Well, that was another route to force my follow through. My parents still had a strong hold on me at the time and I begrudgingly agreed.

I reached out to Davina and planned to meet her for drinks in the Rittenhouse House Square area, where Sharona and I had lived at the time. We agreed to meet at the 'Irish Pub', a bar local to my apartment. I dragged Sharona, disinterested in going alone. Years of trauma and abuse from the bullying I received at the hands of my peers growing up made me nervous for this meeting. Despite Davina's absence from that group of bullies, she was friends with many of those kids and I was nervous. I also felt like I would be a terrible influence on her, just given the fact that I smoked weed regularly. I approached the meeting skeptically out of a feeling of obligation and force.

Sharona and I arrived at the bar to find Davina already seated on a barstool with a Corona in hand. We exchanged pleasantries and ordered drinks. As we chatted for a few minutes, it felt very forced. We didn’t seem to have anything in common outside our upbringings. All of a sudden, Davina opened up her clutch and pulled out a prescription bottle. "Time for a Vicodin. It really helps having a father that can write prescriptions." And with that, Davina popped two magic pills in her mouth and swallowed without the assistance of her beer. Davina was clearly as pro at this. She was potentially worse off than me and my sister when it came to partying ways. I knew as well as any that two Vicodin mixed with even one beer was a recipe for disaster. This one action helped to break down a barrier between my sister and I with Davina. It might sound trivial, but at 21 years old, it seemed viable to me at the time.

I guess there were more perks being the daughter of a dentist than one would think. While Davina drank herself to a foolish mess, I began to feel a sense of comfort. Bertha couldn’t know her precious Davina was such a partying mess, so my transgressions with weed would not be shared. That was the hope and felt on par with the evening. As the three of us settled into the evening and continued to throw back beers, Davina popped another pill. Was this girl for real? I couldn’t help but be surprised by the experience of this meeting. Never once did I expect Davina to be such a party hound. This was only the beginning for the mess that traveled alongside Davina and her sad story. A testament to bad parenting, I was in for a whirlwind to come… Stay tuned for Part 2…

Xoxo.

R.

THE JOYS OF GRINDING...

         I often chat about the online forum that is ‘Grindr’. This smartphone application is the best way for homosexual men to network anally. I live for ‘Grindr’, seeing many benefits to my time on this program. My iPhone is signed on to ‘Grindr’ rarely often, despite the fact that I rarely meet up with most of the vagrants I chat with online. I enjoy the lack of filters and pretention most often aligned with this online forum. At any given moment, I can sign on to the program to receive a picture of someone’s gaping asshole with a timed directive as to where and when I should be plugging said hole. Etiquette is rarely found when chatting with said individuals. Still, I’ve met boyfriends, friends, and a variety of crazies on here, leading me to continue using the application. Having moved up to San Francisco, I’ve converted my ‘Grindr’ profile into a bit of a marketing ploy for this blog. The current advertisement I have posted includes my Twitter handle, Instagram, and of course this blog.

            More often than not these days, I chat with people who have been reading my escapades on here and I welcome the attention. That being said, I find many other entertaining folks on here. I find it humorous when people do contact me, not having read the blog, because it’s listed in my profile. Anyone who sends me a picture of their gaping hole or asks me to shit on them as an introductory hello will most probably get a blog devoted to their lack of etiquette. But, I guess that’s just how it goes.

Since moving up to San Francisco, I’ve received a number of ridiculous messages, but there is one ‘Grindr’ subscriber that takes the cake. His handle is ‘NSA’, which refers to ‘No Strings Attached’. Essentially this translates to ‘let’s have anonymous sex ASAP’. Going into the rules of etiquette on ‘Grindr’, if you message me with sex talk right off the bat, chances are we will never meet. Start with ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’ and you may have my attention, but ‘come fuck me’ is not really my cup of tea. Perhaps this works for many of the ‘Grindr’ subscribers, but it’s just not my thing. I don’t frequent bathhouses or get into watersports either, so I guess I’m a square in that way. Never once have I been to the emergency room with an unidentified object shoved up my anus either, so I probably fit into the classiest of online sex seekers. Despite my distaste for certain adventures in the bedroom, this doesn’t stop certain vagrants from asking for it. One of my favorite chats was from the relentless little man under the ‘Grindr’ handle of ‘NSA’. Ignoring all basic pleasantries, he greeted me with the following:

“My vers hubby wants you to piss in him in our shower tonight. Then you can have safe fucking sex with him or both of us if ya want, or just pee and leave. ;)” Well, au chante, as the French say it. How sweet an invite. As exciting as it might be to pee inside an absolute stranger, I couldn’t help but wonder what the need for safe sex would be if I was going to “piss in[side] him”. Still, none of this was all that enticing to me as watersports do absolutely nothing for me. Call me old fashioned, but I’m of the mind that urination is to be done privately, in the confines of a singular experienced bathroom. This may be the only thing Rush Limbaugh and I have in common – from a conservative standpoint – but Republicans in power tend to have some of the kinkiest bedroom habits, so maybe we’re not that much alike. Perhaps this request from ‘NSA’ was a case of the iPhone’s autocorrect function. Maybe he meant to write “piss on him in our shower”, but either way I had no interest. I ignored the message which came to follow with several naked selfies of both ‘NSA’ and his ‘vers hubby’. Moving on from this message, I continued to chat with other ‘Grindr’ subscribers, assuming I would never hear from ‘NSA’ again.

Then came the following day, when ‘NSA’ approached me yet again. His approach was entirely the same, sending me yet another invitation to “piss in [his vers hubby] in our shower tonight”. Clearly autocorrect was not the problem here. ‘NSA’ wanted me to piss in his hubby and then have sex with both men, “or just pee and leave”. Something about this redundant message also suggested that I was not the only person receiving this offer. Unfortunately, I was not that special. I could only imagine that I was one of many with such an offer. Still, I ignored the series of messages I began receiving from ‘NSA’ with the same pictures from before. This was obviously part of a protocol procedure for the two men when engaging with individuals on ‘Grindr’. Watersports were not the only deterrent in effect, however. I try not to judge anyone’s specific sexual antics as I live in quite the glass house, but couples are just not my thing. Threesomes do nothing for me. I had a none-too-satisfying experience with a three-way when I was seventeen or eighteen and vowed to never look back. That’s just not my thing, so when “open relationships” show up at my door, I tend to run. A love of watersports and bad grammar don’t bode too well either.

Ignoring the last message from ‘NSA’, I’d assume he would get the point. Often I message men on ‘Grindr’ that don’t so much as respond with a word, so I understand when someone’s not interested. This was not the case with ‘NSA’. For the next few weeks, he continued to send me naked pictures with requests for piss and sex. I could have blocked or reported this member at any point, but I was kind of enjoying it. The complete lack of self-awareness and ridiculousness to his many attempts was highly entertaining to me. A few days later, ‘NSA’ contacted me yet again. This time, he requested/offered all of the same benefits for me coming over, but with an added restraint on time. “Before 11” was his caveat for my coming over, shared along with his current location. 'Grindr' has its own form of GPS for geographically locating your next sexual conquest. Still I didn’t respond, but found it highly entertaining that now he was offering a curfew for when I could be over. This felt most similar to a verbal contract of employment with supermodel Naomi Campbell. You will be employed until I hit you with a cell phone, or before 11… This wasn’t something I had agreed to, similar to the parameters at play when working for the anger-issued supermodel. I wasn’t planning on responding to ‘NSA’, so I ignored him yet again. Then, after 11, around midnight, he sent me the pleasantry of “Hi”, followed by a string of dirty pictures. After he sent me over a dozen photographs, I hit my limit. This was enough of our one-sided exchange. I quickly responded: “Couples are not my thing”. He responded with a simple “Ok”, but this seemed strange, given the glib answer. As he had been contacting me so frequently and I was feeling saucy, given the late hour, I responded once more with: “Please get the hint, since I’ve never responded before.” This seemed to bother him as he responded with annoyance. “Please?! Lol. You ratchet mess. You are obviously completely unoriginal and completely forgettable. You’re disgusting.” Was this ‘Grindr’ stalker really getting so nasty with me?! The person he had sent countless attempts at conversing with, begging for me to “piss in” his hubby? Really? Given my saucy demeanor at this late hour, I decided to respond with some screen shots of his past attempts to entice me. Not only had he given me a time constraint of eleven that evening, but he was now contacting me well past midnight.

I thought I caught him in his ridiculous shenanigans as I sent images over of the past one-sided conversations begging for my urine. Had I been so aggressively contacting someone who had no interest, I would have bowed out and apologized after such screen shots would have been sent to me. Instead, he responded simply with “Exactly. Forgot it. You’re forgettable and BLAH!” So, clearly we can all walk away with the fact that getting a random stranger to pee on you is something that can be done anonymously at any point. He continued to bombard my ‘Grindr’ screen with nasty words, calling me ugly and disgusting. Feeling saucy and offended, I responded with one word: “Whore”. ‘NSA’ then wrote me the rhetorical question of “Who has a life?” Clearly I didn’t for focusing on such a conversation, but conversely his life was filled with anonymous piss. Our conversation ended with ‘NSA’ attempting to offend me one last time: “Poor thing. You are gross.” I couldn’t help but wonder what his definition of gross really was…

Our conversation ended just like that, without another word on my end. The following morning, out of nowhere, I received a message from ‘NSA’ once more: “You’re fucking hot! My vers hubby wants you to piss in him in our shower tonight. Then you can have safe fucking sex with him or both of us if ya want, or just pee and leave. But you’re hot ;)” Wasn’t I “gross”? Was I no longer a “poor thing”? Or was I just “completely forgettable”? After a month or so of these ridiculous messages, I finally blocked ‘NSA’ from contacting me ever again. This is not to say that was the end of my ridiculous ‘Grindr’ exchanges, just the last one with ‘NSA’.

‘Grindr’ is quite the entertainment forum for myself and many others as it seems. I googled ‘Grindr’ just now and found this gem of a screenshot from 2011.

Clearly ‘Grindr’ is still being put to great use.

Xoxo.

R.        

A LOW-KEY NEW YEAR'S EVE IN SAN FRANCISCO...

I’ve celebrated many a New Year’s Eve over my time as an adult, but it’s never held a high level of importance to me. Growing up an Orthodox Jew, the only times for celebration – in whatever restricted form – centered around religious holidays. For whatever reason, New Year’s was never a big deal in my home. Perhaps this was specific to my home and not the religion, but I’ve never held a connection to any “secular days”. As an adult, I have attempted to embrace many of these days, including Christmas. Still, I could take a day or leave it. New Year’s Eve is about as exciting to me as a Kardashian sister getting a bikini wax. It’s awfully messy and takes a few days to recuperate. That’s not to say it’s not worth the hype, but if I want to have a fun evening of mess, I can do that any night of the week. Drunken vagrants in the street isn’t all that appealing to me, but then again, I don’t watch ‘Keeping up with the Kardashians’.

This past New Year’s Eve met me with my new home, San Francisco. While it could have been fun to blow out the night in an aggressive haze of alcohol, I’d far prefer a night cuddled up to my puppy in front of the TV with some Haagen Dazs. If there may or may not be some medicinal herb involved, that wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. Who am I kidding?! That’s never not a possibility. And this New Year’s was going to follow a low-key plan with lots of marijuana, television, and my dog Scooby.  

This New Year’s Eve, I was scheduled to work my retail job until seven. I made plans to go out after for a drink or so with my friend Teddy Bear. My night would deliver me home before midnight. Working in the Castro, it’s very convenient to go out for just a casual drink and head back home by way of the public transport wizard that is SF’s BART train. As I prepared for my early evening, I was instructed on the chaos that is New Year’s Eve in San Francisco. Co-workers informed me that there was no way I would make a train before Midnight, considering the drunken scene of public transporters during this fateful evening of debauchery. “Get ready to sleep on the train tracks” I was told. This made my time schedule a more rigid minute-by-minute in my head. I can often be a rather neurotic Jewish mother type, so my interest in staying around for the shit-show was none too high. Leaving work that night, I met my friend Teddy Bear for a drink around the corner from my job in the gay mecca known as the Castro. He was finishing up a beer with a friend who was about to head out for alternative plans. Noticing the time, Teddy Bear and I headed over to our favorite medical dispensary for some herbal goodness. I’ve spoken of this before, but the ability to smoke marijuana in public here in SF, makes my jolly heart boom.

Purchasing a few joints each for the evening, we set out to return to the bar where I had met Teddy a few minutes prior. We proceeded to order drinks upon arrival, before heading towards the back of the bar, where the smoker’s lounge was kept. Surprising for the night, this bar was rather empty. It was barely eight at this point, but still you would have expected a higher turnout. This wasn’t the most coveted of establishments, but I had still expected a shit show. Instead, the mess only came from myself and Teddy. When we get together, the two of us get rather sassy and have a gay old time. Acting like mean girls in the corner, Teddy and I were bringing “the show” as he calls it. Smoking cigarettes, slinging a drink or two, and smoking some weed, the two of us were making this empty bar our playground. I’m always surprised when the two of us go out, because rarely do people approach us, but Teddy is convinced we scare people off. This is most probably accurate, considering our track record and the insatiable fun contained between us two. Perhaps it’s intimidating, but it is what it is and we always have a blast when we spend time. Standing in a bar, sharing a joint, I’m often reminded of my love for San Francisco and this time was no different.

As our drinks were running low, Teddy opted to head back into the bar for refills. Standing by our high-top table alone, a stranger approached, asking for a cigarette. I obliged, noticing the Adonis like nature of this man in question. His name was Eduardo and he stood about six foot two in height. The thing with me is that while I have many parameters for what I find attractive, height can easily change my tune. When I see an overly tall man, I just want to climb them like a tree. Eduardo had height on him and a very Parisian look. Until he spoke, I was sure this man was French. Within moments of opening his voice, he revealed himself as Mexican. Latinos are always welcome by me, so I began to flirt as we shared a smoke. English was not his first language – not by a long shot – but Eduardo was highly intellectual with a creative mind and we began to connect on many things. We had shared a similar vagabond tale upon our arrivals to Northern California and I found myself crushing. After a few minutes of chatting, bridging the language gap with tangible lust, Teddy arrived back at the table. Proving what an amazing friend he is to me, Teddy played our time together as the best possible wingman. He was the Khloe Kardashian of our pairing, but arguably she’s the best part of that sex tape empire. Eduardo informed us that he had a midnight yoga class to attend for the New Year’s, “starting 2014 out right”. Before leaving to attend his midnight mass for a gay man, Teddy made sure we exchanged phone numbers and information to my blog. Not only was Teddy my wingman, but here he was playing the role of agent as well. Wishing Eduardo a great evening, Teddy pulled out a joint and we began getting stoned once again, while drinking away our early evening.

All of a sudden, a group of straight girls tore through the bar to this back patio to congregate. “I’m not wearing pants, girls!” This was the first hello as this group of six exchanged kisses, clearly meeting for a night of adventure within the realm of the gays. Earlier in the day, a girl had informed me that every year she does a “theme night”, trying out a different niche of the city. One year she did the Mission. Another year she went out with her girlfriends to Haight Street to dance among the hippies. Last year, she and her friends attended the Castro. “It was a lot of fun. Definitely not something for every weekend, but it was fun to see that side of the city.” I, on the other hand, see the Castro as an easy drink among my people. But then again, I don’t do “theme nights”. (Catch that shade) So, here Teddy and I were at a very empty bar with a group of six straight girls that said hello with a plethora of air kisses and the proclamation that “I’m not wearing pants, girls!” As all the girls giggled, another friend shouted out “I’m not wearing pants, motherfucker.” All the girls giggled and marveled at the two members of their group choosing to attend the evening sans pants. The irony of it all as I looked over were that they had opted for leggings with long blouses. This was not ignoring pant rules in the Castro. Up until recently, it was perfectly legit to walk around the gay area naked. Now the legality has changed, forcing some coverage. The resident “nakeds” of the Castro found their loophole, however. Daily, I see a man who walks around with nothing on his body more than a gold sequined penis sock. All he has covering his manhood is a very descriptive and visual piece of cloth constructed around the shaft. This is a “fuck you” to lawmakers and I love it. I’ve always wondered how local businesses handle it though, and I recently had the chance to find out. While seated outside of the Starbucks in the Castro, I saw this bare bottomed gentleman walk past me in his sequined banana hammock. As he approached the door to this coffee establishment, I watched him lift his arm to expose a hidden fanny pack. I had no fucking idea that was coming. Staring in shock and excitement, I couldn’t help but think: “How crafty. I need to get myself one of those.” He then pulled out a small shred of lavender and magenta cloth, quickly wrapping it around his nether region like a sarong. This cover-up of fabric was just enough to clothe his penis sock and part of his back crack. With that, he entered the Starbucks, grabbed his venti iced coffee and came back outside for the big reveal. That gold sequined banana cloth was exposed once again along with his bare bottom. Since then, I’ve encountered this man a number of times and watched his sarong being dressed and undressed. These straight girls in the Castro on New Year’s needed to understand what the true definition of “no pants” suggests. Should I be in a bar in the Castro and hear a proclamation of no pants, I expect to look over and see a bare bottom. Leggings will never count; sorry.

Continuing to drink and smoke with Teddy, I began keeping my ear open to this collection of straight girls as they shuffled towards a picnic table in the back. I may or may not have started a twitter collection of tweets with their delicious sound bites. As they sat around making comments about the “exciting” nature of the Castro, I couldn’t help but think “you’ve chosen the wrong bar…” At least go to one of the busy bars for the evening, not this empty smoker’s lounge with Teddy and my commentary to keep you entertained. This must have been a theme night, however, and these girls were in for their taste of the Castro, however that was going to be delivered to them. When it came time for drinks at the table, I overheard one girl’s request: “Karen, can you get me a beer?” “Do you have a preference?” The response was priceless. You can’t make this shit up. “In a cup. Not the bottle.” I enjoy beer myself, on occasion, drinking it that evening to accompany the weed and cigarettes. That being said, I enjoy a white or Belgian beer, generally on draft. Never would I respond to a beer preference with the vague response of “in a cup”, but then again I would never claim to be pant-less unless I was in fact naked from the waist down.

As this table continued to drink their “beers in cups”, the conversation died down for a bit, closing at a whisper. Teddy and I continued to our girl-talk, ignoring this table of messes until it became time for refills. “What would you like now, Karen?” They had all been drinking draft beer and it was another girl’s time to make her round to the bar. “Another beer. I’m just a tad bit fucked up.” This was her response, followed by the other four girls confirming their “tad bit” of drunkenness, all opting for more beers. I could appreciate their level of incoherence from one drink, citing the easy ability to date-rape anyone of these girls. Luckily I’m gay and there would be a slew of homos encountering them all evening, so their easy ability to get wasted off one draft beer each wasn’t going to get them into trouble this evening. Teddy and I began to finish the joint we were sharing, while I threw back the last few sips of my beer. I was stoned and in dire need of munchie food. We opted to leave, in need of sustenance for our stomachs. Just before our departure, as we grabbed our bags, I heard the final outburst of my evening from the gaggle of straight girls: “There needs to be girth involved, Karen!” All of the girls nodded in agreement. Women after my own heart. I realized these ladies would do quite well for themselves this evening. Clearly I had misjudged them by their poor attempts at bare legs. Any woman that knows the importance of girth when talking about a man’s member has a rightful place at the table, in my humble opinion. I felt like Teddy and I were passing the torch to these women upon our departure. And with that, we left on our way.

Headed down Castro Street in the gay mecca, Teddy and I were planning on pizza for our insatiable palettes. I was ready to stuff my belly in an aggressive manner. Just then, we passed a Mexican restaurant I hadn’t tried yet. My eyes began to swell with excitement. Seeing my new need for tacos, Teddy obliged my request. We walked into this busy taqueria, excited for treats. Overwhelmed by the menu in my stoned haze, I eventually decided on Azteca Beef Nachos. Placing my order with the gentleman behind the counter, he began asking me my preferences regarding beans and toppings. Within moments, I realized he was preparing an Azteca Chicken Burrito for me. I’m not a big fan of all that dough, but I was stoned and resisting the mood to waste a prepared meal for an argument over my order. As I proceeded to the register to pay for my oversized wrong order, Teddy Bear turned on the Latin charm. Teddy has Latino blood in him, but rarely turns it on. I always assumed he was Caucasian as he mostly looks it. Only recently did I discover him to be a mixture of German and Mexican blood, or as he puts it: “Half beaner, half Hitler youth white”. To those who find this offensive, well, this blog may not be the place for you. Judging by the fact that you’ve found yourself this far in, shock value is probably lost on your devilish sense of humor. And I support this. So, Teddy turned on his rare Latino sense of charm and began speaking in Spanish asking for the menu options not listed. “There’s a secret menu that the gringos don’t know about” he informed me, before proceeding in Spanish. As it worked out, the taqueria was fresh out of all the options he requested. In the end, Teddy ordered a plate of nachos which did not magically turn into a burrito like my meal. Despite my desire for nachos, my stoned haze accepted the doughy plate of goodness that was a burrito in front of me. Within a few moments, I devoured my entire plate, citing a new love of burritos. Realistically, I was so stoned that any plate of grub would have been licked corner to corner. I then shuffled chips and salsa into my mouth while I waited for Teddy to finish his plate. He wasn’t quite as excited to devour his plate in under a minute as I was. Finishing up, we left the Mexican restaurant for the night. Teddy was planning to attend a New Year’s party, while I was planning to head home for a night in bed with my pup.

Exchanging goodbyes for the evening, I set out for the BART train. Walking to my train stop, I began to fully sober up, with my belly full of burrito goodness. Proceeding down Sixteenth Street from the Castro, I encountered a number of drunken vagrants raking in 2014 with open containers and the smell of marijuana. As I’ve said before, the open ability to smoke weed in the streets here warms my heart. I soaked in the excitement on the street, admiring my new city, but still intent on proceeding back to the East Bay for an evening of Television and Scooby. Walking down the stairs to the underground train stop, I didn’t encounter an insanely high level of riders waiting for this transport like I had been warned. I thought, “Phew. I’m leaving just at the right time”. Then came the train and my calm grew unsettled. My approaching train was filled from end to end with drunken patrons of the BART. Squeezing on board, I found a claustrophobic spot amongst a group of fellow standing train-goers. Within seconds, I was punched in the stomach – playfully, of course. There was an overly drunken and potentially high couple seated on the handicapped preferred bench by the entrance doors. Flavor Flav’s doppelganger held residence as the male from this couple, with his New Year’s plastic party blower positioned in his mouth, squealing in excitement. This mess was resting in his seat, raising to the ground unstably every few moments to try interacting with fellow train riders. His way of communicating was through friendly punches that were catching all recipients off-guard, myself included.

After receiving a punch to the gut, I politely pushed through other passengers to find a spot further from the mess. I didn’t want to venture too far as I knew I would be watching a show, but I didn’t want to get hit again. This Flavor Flav look-alike stood far higher than the former rapper and VH-1 D-lister. Standing at least six foot seven, this man had pants falling to the floor with his dirty boxers exposed for the train to see. His eyes were circling the back of his head, suggesting some sort of hallucinogen in addition to the alcohol he held in a paper bag. The little woman that stayed by his side was equally intoxicated, standing no higher than five foot herself, with a roly-poly stocky body frame. She kept screaming “that’s my man!” as passengers were attempting not to lock eye contact with this couple. I felt like I was an audience member during a reunion episode of the VH1 classic ‘Flavor of Love’, where Flavor Flav had a bunch of dirty girls fight for his attention, all the while getting in countless girl fights with one another. As the moments passed and the punches kept being thrown at various onlookers, my train began to empty. Despite the busy time of night on New Year’s Eve, people were leaving for deeper claustrophobic conditions on neighboring train cars in opposition of stomach punches. The train emptied rather quickly, leaving a dozen or so people along with me still seated. I had found a seat as the car began to empty. Noticing the empty state of their train car, but unaware of the reasons, Flavor Flav and his woman began dry humping and stumbling around the perimeter. “That’s my man! That’s my man!” These words could be heard throughout the cabin in between dry humping sessions and stumbles to the ground. A well composed group of girls sat scattered on a few benches nearby and I could hear their rising disdain for this behavior. “He better not fucking come near me. I have mace.” Just then, Flav started stumbling around the train car yet again, falling onto the lap of the girl who had uttered these words. She threw his ass on the floor, telling him she’d beat the shit out of him. “Hands off my man!” This was heard from Flav’s roly-poly munchkin wife. She rose from her seat and grabbed her man, bringing him back to their handicapped sanctioned bench by the train doors.

Then, without any forewarning, these two incapacitated vagrants began embarking on a new adventure of the evening. While he lay back, practically catatonic on the bench, she climbed on top of him and began dry humping his rather aggressively. My eyes were planted on the two of them. All of a sudden, I watched her hands reach into his boxers and pull out a rather large appendage which she slid inside her unzipped jeans. Drunken and messy, their coitus began with myself and the rest of the train car playing the role of an audience. I had heard rumors about sex on the BART during late hours, but never had I expected to see this. My low-key New Year’s Eve wasn’t turning out as calm as I had planned. Following a few minutes of lazy sex, the couple ended their encounter. I don’t know if either reached climax, but she got off of him and everything was put away. The two continued heckling fellow passengers until two police officers entered our cabin. Still so incoherent and fucked up, Flav and his woman couldn’t cooperate with law enforcement. By the time we hit our next stop in Oakland, the two were escorted off the train by the officers in our cabin. Collectively, our entire train car let out a sigh of relief.

Once I approached my stop deep into the East Bay, I left my train and lit a cigarette, walking home. It wasn’t even midnight yet and my New Year’s had been quite exciting already. Walking home, I made a stop at ‘7-Eleven’ for cigarettes and a bit more munchie food. Once my Marlboros were in hand with a few donuts and some crappy chips, I continued back to the house. Walking in the door, I received a text message from Eduardo, the boy from earlier in my night. He was very cute in person and awfully flirtatious in text messages. We exchanged a few other words before I set into my bed with my pup and a joint. I watched a couple episodes of ‘Friends’ before hitting the hay. The following morning, I woke up without a hangover, having resisted an exuberant level of alcohol for the evening. Eduardo was still texting me and we were planning a night’s date for the following week. All of a sudden, I received a message from my new beau: “I really like you a lot Raanan, but I have to be honest. I have a boyfriend, so we have to be friends.” He then followed that message with a picture of his dick. I swallowed a bit of throw up in mouth, grossed out by his interest in being “friends”. Opting to start 2014 out right, I decided to leave the night before in the past, including Eduardo. My low-key night was as low-key as it was going to get. After all, crazy tends to follow me.  

Xoxo.

R. 

THE DANGERS OF MEDICAL MARIJUANA...

            I consider myself a bit of a professional when it comes to herbal remedies. Having my degree in marijuana, California was a brand new experience with this magic herb. Out here on the West Coast, we have this lovely thing called “medical marijuana”. Considering my high level of anxiety, I was eligible for this cosmic treat. Once acquiring my prescription, I discovered a brave new world more exciting than my first penis. The only reason I would ever consider weed better than cock is because my first adult experience with another man led me down the path of micro –penis. Anyone who’s been there knows what I’m talking about, however if you have a micro-member, my apologies and condolences are all yours. There are plenty of people that enjoy a pocket-sized penis, I’m just not one of them. Weed, however, is always good. It doesn’t matter what strain of natural herb I inhale, I enjoy it all. Penis, while I greatly love, is not quite as exciting as weed in my world. If I was on a deserted island and could only have three things, weed would be one, diet coke my second, and some form of stoner food would fill my bag. Sadly, I’d have to say goodbye to dick. Luckily for me, I live in San Francisco, California – the birthplace of homosexuality (by my report), so I don’t have to make that decision and I’m not moving to a desert island anytime soon.

            Back to my love of weed and medicinal marijuana, I found myself in awe of everything once I received my first prescription. Essentially I was able to walk into any number of pharmacies and legally obtain a filling for my pipe. Coming from the East Coast, I never knew such a world could exist like this. Walking into my endless supply of stores, I found more selections than had ever been offered to me. After being buzzed through a private waiting room, you would be escorted into a private room with no windows or ventilation, able to explore the possibilities. You could buy any number of strains, all with a lengthy story to their origin. The worn and tiring eyelids of their sales staffs suggested good product. Additionally, each salesperson had tried the assortment of product with great knowledge to educate me on where/how to spend my money. For years in Los Angeles, I had the opportunity to purchase whatever I wanted. In addition to the many strains of marijuana available to me, I was also able to purchase an endless assortment of edible products. Anything you can think of, they had. You want Rice Krispy Treats laced with weed? Done. Pot cookies? How about ten different flavors? Done. Weed Popcorn, lollipops, caramel, you name it – they had it. Over the years, I had purchased many an edible, but nothing ever seemed to happen. I seemed to be immune. Years ago – in my early twenties – I took edibles to euphoric highs. I can remember the days when a THC laced brownie would set me in a psychedelic craze for eight hours – easy. That was a number of years ago and times seemed to have changed for me. No matter what I ate, the results were always questionable. On occasion I felt something, but it was never anything close to the many cookies I ate years before.

            Arriving in San Francisco, by way of LA, everything changed. I’ll get into the edibles in just a moment, but first I’d like to paint a picture of my new home. Never having been to Amsterdam, personally, I have heard many a story about the progressive and free attitude towards marijuana there. Moving to Southern California, I encountered the closest parallel, being able to purchase my weed legally. Still, you didn’t smoke in public or anything like that. In actuality, Mary Jane – as they call it – has quite the stigma in Los Angeles, at least from what I observed. And it’s definitely not something you want to do in public. San Francisco is the closest thing I’ve known to Amsterdam. I’ve been at bars and smoked weed during open hours with the bartenders. Smoking joints throughout the streets with various friends, this is considered acceptable. Coming from a childhood plagued with a judgmental, dry household, this was the furthest leap I’d ever taken. I never imagined myself outside on a street corner smoking weed in the open, let alone in a bar. A day or so into my move, I was brought to a level of awareness with this green lover of a plant. People up here don’t even turn a side eye at you when you smoke weed. It doesn’t matter where you are, this plant is socially acceptable up north. Still, I find myself battling with my own inner goody-two-shoes (someone that’s been long-gone for years upon years) whenever such a thing comes up. Every time a friend offers me a joint, I look all around, paranoid as hell, like Lindsay Lohan should be doing before getting behind the wheel. Unluckily for the other driver son the road, when Lindsay’s in tow, that ain’t happening. I get nervous and crazy that the cops are going to arrest me. Funny enough, though, I’ve found many a police officer enjoying joints of their own or walking by as I am without batting an eye. I guess this is the closest to Amsterdam you can get without travelling across the sea.

            Within this world of open freedom to smoke, I have found the weed shops to be on a whole different level than those in Los Angeles. In Southern California, you have an intermediary room where you must be buzzed in before entering the counter to purchase your greenery. This was always freer than I could have ever imagined moving out west, but SF is different. Most of the shops will have open doors to the street, still with bouncers, but no intermediary room separating you from the gold. Here you can see just how busy each establishment is before entering the door. It’s just way more open. While I thought Los Angeles had so many different strains, San Francisco has menus when you walk into their stores. The sales staff are strangely far more professional – by my experience – and way greater in knowledge. And the selection is far greater and better managed. It’s astonishing to walk into a store here. Walking into my go-to shop in the City, I planned to purchase a few joints a month or so ago. As I spoke to the sales person, I began craving the possibility of an edible treat. Over the years, I have purchased these many times, but never once has it had an effect like when I was younger. This visit I wanted to try an edible anyway. I knew this would be wasted money, but I had just acquired my first job up north and it seemed worthy of celebration. What better way than enjoying an edible? Again, penis was not quite as exciting as weed. I asked the shop help his recommendation for an herbal treat to eat. Explaining my lack of success with ingestible medical marijuana, I was open to suggestion, but pessimistic. “Are you lactose intolerant?” He asked. “Excuse me”, I thought. “I’m in a weed shop, not a doctor’s office. What does my tolerance for dairy have to do with anything?” He explained this is a regular problem for patients when looking to achieve a great high. Never once had anyone ever optioned this as a reason. Growing up, I never had issues with dairy, but since the age of twenty-four or so, I have had issues with dairy. I have never been diagnosed as lactose intolerant, but I’m aware that I am. Aging into my later twenties, it has come to my attention that most people become intolerant of dairy. Shortly after I wrapped my head around his question, I confirmed my status with dairy. “Well, that’s the problem, Raanan.” My weed shops in Los Angeles never went that deep, but this is part of the draw from SF proprietors. New Amsterdam – as I call my new home – is full of many tidbits about marijuana and this was just one of them. As the sales rep went on, he explained that dairy is the reason I haven’t gotten high from edibles. Suggesting a vegan option, I could only confirm that this was a first world problem. In third world countries, they’re good with the drugs ripped from the ground, but here we have so many options to please the senses. Standing in this weed shop, I was offered a vegan coconut dark chocolate macaroon made with coconut oil, rather than butter. Promised this treat would “blow my mind”, I purchased the macaroon skeptically.

            Before returning home on the BART (public transportation service in SF), I stopped at a Starbucks for a glass of milk to wash down my new treat. I really didn’t think this treat was going to do anything. Despite the salesperson’s certainty that dairy was the issue, I had been promised a great high from so many shops in Los Angeles, leading to a lackluster nothing. Sitting in Starbucks, right outside the train stop location, I drank my large glass of non-fat milk with my vegan treat. The irony was that I purchased a dairy treat to wash down my vegan edible. Defeating the purpose of pleasing my stomach, I swallowed up the concoction rather quickly. I despise the taste of weed, despite loving the smoke of it. Edibles are never pleasant going down, given my innate gag reflex. Relating back to sex, my gag reflex has always been a problem in a relationship outside the micro-penis. Trying to hold back from vomit, I will chew an edible down and swallow in one big sip of a glass of beverage. Washing this gross taste down my throat with milk, I quickly got myself together and boarded the train.

I had been advised to eat only half of this THC treat, but that had been the case with every edible consumed prior to no avail. Swallowing the whole macaroon, I anticipated nothing. Well, fifteen to twenty minutes into my BART ride, I realized the sales rep at my favorite weed shop was far smarter than I. I began to feel the same sensation from so many years prior, feeling an insane full body high. From my experience, the best highs from an edible delectable treat will deliver a series of vignettes, all of a psychedelic nature. I grew giggly on the train and became super paranoid, convinced everyone knew what I was feeling internally. Not only that, but I was insatiably high, barely able to stay seated like a grown adult. I became like a six year old, unsure of my surroundings. The best parallel I can draw is to whatever Paris Hilton feels day in and day out through her own haze of a life. Laughing hysterically from my seat, I could barely look in any one direction for more than a moment or two without seeing a visual play on the eyes. Attempting to focus every few seconds, I became determined to make my train stop home. When I was a few stops from my destination, I rose to my feet and positioned myself by the train doors, in an effort to ensure my exit. Incoherent, I never considered my balance to be a possible concern. Within seconds of standing, I fell to the ground in an aggressive manner, planting my face on the unsanitary ground floor of the train. Rather than cry from the numbing pain, I let out a highly inappropriate level of laughter. Paranoid already, I became convinced everyone was looking at me. I believe this was not actual paranoia, but the fact that I was becoming a cautionary tale for an anti-drug organization. Had anyone caught it on camera, I would be part of a documentary shown to middle school children on the dangers of marijuana.

Somehow by the grace of Oprah (God), I got off at my scheduled stop. Lucky does not begin to explain this event, given my incoherent state of awareness. Walking home from the train stop, I had one of those moments where I thought: “I got this.” “You’re okay, Raanan. You can do this.” Arriving home, I had forgotten my plans for the evening. In addition to eating an edible in celebration of my new occupation status, I had made plans for the night’s meal. Staying in the suburbs outside the city of San Francisco, I don’t have all the same luxuries afforded to the urban environment. What do I have? Shitty chain restaurants. Growing up Kosher in the suburbs, I dreamed daily of the chain restaurants around us. ‘Applebee’s’, ‘Chili’s’, and ‘T.G.I. Friday’s’ were all fantasies as a child. When I finally did eat “gentile-food”, I was brought to Jersey diners and said chain restaurants. My favorite of these low-scale crap-on-a-plate meal houses has always been ‘The Olive Garden’. Once or twice a year, as an adult, I venture out with friends to the Italian-like slop joint. Making sure to wear loose fitting clothing, I leave at least two pant sizes larger in the waist band. Staying outside the city in Concord, California, I have all those shitty restaurants within my sphere. I had made plans to go for a fat-girl fest of binge eating at ‘The Olive Garden’ that evening before choosing to swallow the macaroon of mess.

I plopped myself into the bed the moment I arrived back in Concord. When my host – Unicorn – arrived home from work himself, we had agreed to stuff our faces. After a few minutes lain catatonic on the bed, I arose to experience a brand new vignette of my edible. Getting into said friend’s car – Unicorn as his friends call him – I thought we’d be at the Italian knock-off chain in no time. We had gone to plenty of meals out at ‘Applebee’s’, ‘Chili’s’, and ‘Panda Express’, enjoying our fair share of heart-attacks on a plate in Concord. ‘The Olive Garden’, it seems, was about twenty miles or so away. Sitting in the car, I became horribly paranoid that all other cars on the road knew I was stoned. This was ridiculous as I wasn’t even driving and Unicorn was stone cold sober. I became convinced Unicorn was unprepared for the drive, swerving side to side, when in actuality, he was driving normally. “Can you stay in our lane?!” I pleaded, but I was the crazy one in this scenario. After an extended car ride of giggles and paranoia, we arrived in Antioch, a town I had never heard of. I asked what stop this train was on the BART, being all too familiar with this form of transportation at this point. Unicorn explained that Antioch was way further down the line from SF, without a stop on the BART. For whatever reason of my current state of high, I became hesitant as to the safety of this town. Growing up with an overbearing Jewish mother, when it came to my safety, I quickly become fearful of just about any new area. Beverly Hills presented fears to me, given the new nature of this town when I got there five years ago. Antioch was not Beverly Hills, not by any means, but I wasn’t in a town like Compton. I then asked Unicorn about the safety measures of this town and its crime rate. “Are we in the ghetto?” I asked. “Yeah. This isn’t a very safe area.” In reality, Unicorn was screwing with me, but I didn’t know. Being high and experiencing my surroundings on a whole other platform, any little word could trigger a mess of thoughts. Hearing that this foreign place was “ghetto”, my mind began to race. As the psychedelic nature of my high was blurring my vision, so too it was clouding my mind. I became convinced this would not be a safe meal for us. “Why don’t we just go home, Unicorn? I’m not hungry anymore.” This was a lie, but I became fearful like I was walking into a KKK rally with a giant Jew cap on my head. Or even worse, having dinner with Ann Coulter. What in the world could be worse than that?! My fears were chilling my body.

Unicorn insisted we would be fine. Seeing as he was my ride, I agreed to proceed inside. As anyone that lives in any suburb will tell you, ‘The Olive Garden’ is always busy. For whatever reason, people in the suburbs love an endless assortment of carbs and Antioch was no different. Putting our names in with the host, we were told there would be at least a forty-five minute wait to be sat. Walking outside to smoke a cigarette, I could barely inhale the smoke. I was barely composed enough to stand up straight, let alone manage a cigarette in hand. We’re talking about far too much responsibility for me to handle at this point. Across the street was ‘Red Lobster’, the sister restaurant to ‘the Olive Garden’, owned by Darden Restaurants. While the parking lot where we sat was jam packed, ‘Red Lobster’ was nowhere close to filled. I called the seafood chain restaurant to inquire about the wait. They informed me it would only be five minutes or so and I gleefully hung up, accidentally throwing my iPhone to the cement ground. While I had moments of coherence, I was a mess and overly anxious to stuff my face. As we walked across the street, I became excited for the famous cheddar biscuits from ‘Red Lobster’. They must cook them with crack, because shit is addictive. I live for those biscuits any time my waist line can use an expansion. This night was the perfect time.

Walking into the restaurant, we were met with what appeared to be a gay host. I felt a little more at home, despite believing us to be in the least tolerant/safe place by account of Unicorn’s words and my insane level of high. As we were led to our seats, we passed a number of filled dining rooms, only to find ourselves sat in an almost empty room in a booth by the fire exit. Uncontrollably high, my mind began to race once again. “Why are we being sat all the way out here?!” I didn’t understand the placement, considering the filled rooms we had passed. Never once did it occur to me that those rooms were once empty as well, prior to being filled with people. All I could see was what my tricky mind was telling me. Moments after we were sat, so were an incredibly white trash table of three right behind Unicorn. I sat there, intently listening to their conversation which got heated rather quickly. As my mind raced, unable to decipher their words, I became convinced they were talking about us. Somehow, given the unsafe nature of this place that my unreliably intoxicated mind had built up, I felt like we were in a place that didn’t want us. “Is this a gay-friendly area? Are they like San Francisco here?!” Unicorn quickly responded: “No.” I sat on my side of the booth in horror. “What do you mean? That host who sat us was gay.” Unicorn quickly responded: “No. You’re high, Raanan. He wasn’t gay. They’re not very gay-friendly here. Actually, it’s better if you don’t let anyone know you’re gay. We aren’t accepted here.” I became overcome with a panic sweat. Why were we here then?! None of this made sense to my already erratic brain. All I wanted to do was leave, but also I wanted cheddar biscuits. Unfortunately this high had delivered both an insane level of paranoia and hunger. Neither was subsiding.

I sank into my seat uncomfortably. As the waitress approached, she was tall and pretty with day old lipstick and a displeased look on her face. Most similar to an overworked and disinterested diner waitress, she was not overly pleasant. This was entertaining in a “2 Broke Girls” kind of way, mirroring Kat Denning’s character on the show. Still, I couldn’t get past the table that “hated” us right behind Unicorn. After taking our extensive order, our waitress left us. In that time, my newest vignette began. Somehow, given all Unicorn had said and my racing psychedelic mind, I became convinced that we were offending this establishment just by being there. There was no question in my mind that we were going to be punished. I am no stranger to gay-bashings, but I hadn’t been in a scenario like this in many years and here I was – off my rocker. Trying to decipher the words of our neighboring table, I became convinced they wanted to hurt us. Shortly after this, another table was sat in this empty dining room, just to the right of us. Now there were only three tables sat in this area of the restaurant and they were all in close proximity to us. As my mind was racing, I couldn’t help but think they were the town discipline committee. This new table presented more problems for me as they were backwoods white trash. ‘Duck Dynasty’ had arrived, essentially. The table of three sat a woman and two men with beards past their chests, heavy metal jackets, all the while chewing tobacco and cursing. Now this was prior to the ‘Duck Dynasty’ controversy of recent, but given all of that, you can understand my fear of these new guests. The truth is that this was all in my head, but I didn’t know this at the moment. I thought these backwoods looking bearded diners were the infantry brought in to deliver the pain. All of a sudden, I became convinced that this was far more than a gay-bashing or some harsh looks. We were about to be part of a town’s divine judgment lynching at the hands of prejudice. Every word spoken around us seemed to ring in my ears as hatred. I couldn’t get past Unicorn’s words. We were in a place where gay was not the norm, nor accepted. Our eatery was in a less than safe area and we were offending the townspeople by being present.

Convinced that this would be the second coming of the Matthew Shepherd story, I was transplanted to Laramie, Wyoming within my head. As our food began to arrive at our table, I was overwhelmed with the options. Being stoned, I ordered most everything on the menu. We had a list of appetizers, salads, entrees, and endless biscuits. I was shoveling food into my mouth, sure this would be my last meal. Better make it count, right?! Each component of our indulgent fat-fest meal was delivered by a different member of staff. My mind was racing, keeping within this current vignette of the high for far too long. I became positive that these different hands delivering our food options were all trying to take a peek at the victims of a town’s lashing. They all had to get an eye in on the gays invading their town before we were dragged to slaughter on the wheels of a four-by-four truck. I stayed silent in my seat, partially because far too much food was invading my system, but also out of fear. Oprah forbid I say something our neighboring diners dislike, I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire. I was attempting to prolong as much time as possible to life.

Unicorn began telling me a story about some difficult elderly customers at his retail job earlier that day. Seeing as the ‘Duck Dynasty’ kinfolk sitting close by were edging late in age themselves, I grew beet red at Unicorn’s admission. I began trying to shush him, asking him quietly to “shut the fuck up”. There was no way I wanted to offend any of these ‘Red Lobster’ patrons, fearful it would bring our impending fate sooner. Unicorn didn’t understand my silence, but he was not inside my head – where all the crazy was occurring. I still can’t look back at this evening and see it any other way than my warped mind imagined. Seated in our booth, I began saying my goodbyes to the world internally as I finished my meal. This was surely my final meal, seated at a ‘Red Lobster’ in Antioch, California. I couldn’t help but believe this was sooner than I had ever planned to leave this world, but felt like the choice was not my own.

As our meal came to a close, it became time for the desserts we ordered at the meal’s start. Unicorn asked that we take the brownie sundaes to go, but I knew better. “They’re going to be trashed with our bodies…” As sordid and twisted as this all sounds, it was way worse in my head. I couldn’t help but blame everything on my edible macaroon. Had I been sober or normally stoned by smoking the herb, I could at least have given up a fight or ran into the night. Given my incoherent state, I knew I wouldn’t be capable of a fight, for any reason. When our waitress brought the bill, the brownies were still yet to be delivered. I couldn’t help but think she was prolonging our visit in order to better prepare the infantry. They didn’t want us to leave early. At least that was what I thought at the time. As our waitress dropped the bill, she handed us both surveys to fill out. “Can you go on your smartphones and fill these out before you leave? I need perfect service points for your dining. Rate me the highest options possible before you head out.” Firstly, our service was not great. Whether I would have been stoned or not, Unicorn confirmed that she had about as much interest assisting us as Sarah Palin would have marching in a gay pride parade. That mess of a ‘Fox News’ talking head would prefer to take part in our neighboring ‘Duck Dynasty’ diners’ plans for us. Unicorn began filling out the survey online on his android phone. I quickly grabbed the survey from his hands and motioned he wait. Somehow in my warped interpretation of our evening, this survey was a ploy when the police would come to discover our destroyed bodies. “Well, officers, they had a great experience dining at ‘Red Lobster’. Just take a look at the surveys they filled out about their meal. Tens across the board.” How my brain has a mind of its own… Unicorn didn’t understand my reluctance, but respected my demands. After we paid our bill, we left in a hurry. This was mostly due to my fast nature. I couldn’t help but feel sure a group of white trash hicks were waiting for us with a group of pickup trucks and some uncomfortable rope. Walking to the car, I was sure we were going to be attacked.

It wasn’t until we arrived back in Concord that I was able to come down, finally convinced that we would not be meeting death that evening. Shortly after arriving, I proceeded in the door and passed the fuck out on a bed. The following morning I told Unicorn everything I had experienced, none of which he had been aware of at the time. All the while, I was nursing a hangover like I had finished a handle of whiskey the night before. Despite the fun nature of my ridiculous story, the night was pretty horrific to endure at the time. I didn’t smoke a pipe for at least a week following this evening of insanity in Antioch. Looking back, this is a cautionary tale for me, all about the dangers of medical marijuana and ‘Red Lobster’.

I’m back to smoking weed like the professional pot-head I’ve been for all of these years, but I have kept my distance from edibles and ‘Red Lobster’ – for now.

Xoxo.

R.