Vinny, the swinging electrician from the Valley, leaves another angst-filled message on my answering machine:
“Just calling to say hey, and…uh, I don’t know bro…I got lots
of stuff goin’ on in my mind…I just don’t know what to make of
it yet. A lot of things, see? Anyway, I’ll try back next week, or
something. Maybe we can get together then.”
* * * * *
Tony, the Fabio look-a-like, calls one Saturday morning and asks if I want to play with his beautiful body later that afternoon. “Sure,” I say as I fantasize his bubble-butt finally submitting to my masterful moves.
But the afternoon comes and goes. Finally, at six pm the phone rings.
“I\'m almost done here,” Tony assures me. “I’ll call you when I’m ready to leave.”
“We can make it another time,” I say, half hoping he’ll cancel.
“No, today’s fine. I’ll call when I’m ready to head out your way.”
Three long hours later the phone rings again.
“I got a couple more things to do,” Tony says, “and then I’ll be over.”
Well, I’ve got better things to do than spend my Saturday night waiting around for Tony—but hell, I’m horny, so I say, “I’ve got a hard dick here waiting for you, just hurry up!”
By the time Tony finally arrives I’m in bed watching Saturday Night Live. I’m tired, irritated, and ready to go to sleep. But hell, I’m still horny, so I slap his ass, squeeze his pecs, rub my dick against his hard thighs, get one finger up his butt (a miracle!), and he cums.
God, how I miss Mikey.
As my English friend Cash once said, “It was the most ghastly sexual experience of my life, and I did it five times!”
* * * * *
Patrick, a forty year-old surfer from Manhattan Beach, has a wife in Indonesia, tattoos crawling down his back onto his ass, and double-rings through both nipples.
“Are you straight or bi?” I ask, to break the ice.
“Well, let’s see…I think about fucking chicks maybe ten times a day. I think about fucking with a guy maybe…once a day.”
“Every day?”
“Yeah.”
That may be the truth, but everything else he says sounds like a lie. Whether he’s trying to impress me with his prowess as a stud—
“The surfer chicks are all over me. I can get laid ten times a day.”
Or his tales of being molested by a tabloid celebrity—
“You heard of the McMartin Preschool molestation case? Bucky McMartin molested me and took naked pictures of me, and sold them and made a fortune!”
“Why didn’t you tell your parents?”
“Bucky drugged me. Put something in my food. Bucky did that to all the kids. It was well known. You heard of Virginia McMartin, the grandmother?”
“Yeah.”
“She used to urinate in the kid’s mouths.”
I don’t have sex with Patrick and that really irritates him. He keeps asking me why. I say I don’t like to fuck on the first date, but the real reason is, if he lied about everything else, he might also be lying about his HIV status.
Which of course kicks in my OCD.
I’ve read all the medical research and formed an obsessive-compulsive strategy for surviving the dangers of strangers.
And this is it:
1. Latex gloves.
2. Lambskin condoms (still the strongest and safest in spite of what the stupid government says).
3. A rubber ring called “Condom Secure”, to hold it in pace.
4. Nonoxyonol-9 fortified lube, with triple antibiotic ointment mixed in for
good measure.
5. Disinfectant mouth spray (90-proof Peppermint Schnapps works well).
6. Anti-bacterial Band-Aids on any recent cuts.
7. And finally, ER’s own Betadine Surgical Scrub for the shower.
Okay, so I’m a tad over the top, but I’ve never caught anything, so you can’t argue with success.
As I walk Patrick back to the elevator I say, “It was good meeting you. I’ll call you soon,” but of course I don’t mean it. Yeah, I lie to him ‘cuz he lied to me. I guess it’s a guy thing.
* * * * *
Tony the Fabio look-a-like still won’t tell me what he does for a living. He’s so secretive I wouldn’t be surprised if he turns out to be a Mafioso (he is Italian) or a paid escort for rich older women (hence his Fabio impersonation). Tony’s cell phone rings during sex and sometimes he cuts our sessions short, so he can run off in the middle of the night to deal with some “emergency”.
“Are you a drug dealer?” I ask one day.
“No, of course not.”
“Does your job have anything to do with sex?”
“God, no.”
“Then why won’t you tell me what you do for a living?”
“I might tell you some day, if I think I can trust you.”
* * * * *
Vinny, the swinging electrician from the Valley, leaves one last, morose message on my machine:
“Say listen, this isn’t gonna work out. She was suspicious from
the very get-go. It’s no surprise…so I finally told her, and she
didn’t take it very well. So anyway I’m shit out of luck. I don’t
know, maybe in the future, I just don’t know what to tell you.
I’m disappointed. I’m sure you probably are too.”
* * * * *
Eric, a Latin cop from Orange County, leaves an intriguing voice-mail in my L.A. Weekly box. His secret vice, which he has yet to experience, is to get down on his knees and give a guy a blow job. I’ve always wanted to see a policeman in that position.
I give Eric a call, and within an hour he’s at my front door. But he has such deep pockmarks on his face and is so short and squat, that I just can’t imagine having sex with him. I tell him right away—
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but you’re not my type. I’d like it if you still wanna stay and talk and have a beer.”
“That’s no problem,” he shrugs.
“Are you okay with that?”
“Yeah, you were honest with me.”
After that he’s so relaxed, I suspect he’s secretly relieved I turned him down. We spend the evening talking openly about everything—including how he has to suppress his sexual desires and hide his shower-room erections from other cops, in a viciously homophobic sheriff’s department.
Eric’s job, besides staying in the closet, is to transport prisoners from court to jail. He’s been attacked, elbowed in the jaw, and spent several weeks in the hospital in spite of being trained in karate to defend himself. He grins as he recounts how he kicks prisoners in the balls now whenever they try to fuck with him. He was a gang-banger before becoming a Deputy Sheriff, and knows how to fight dirty.
The more we talk, the more I admire him. Getting down on his knees to give a guy a blow-job goes against everything he was brought up to believe in. Instead of kicking someone in the balls, he’s ready to snuggle up and make love to them.
I wish I wasn’t so hung-up on superficial looks. I’d like to give Eric his fantasy. I turn the lights down low to see if his looks improve. No need to get the disinfectant mouth spray—they don’t.
Still, I feel more intimate with Eric than with all of the phantom fucks that have been jumping in and out of my bed lately—leaving nothing of themselves behind but sweat and sperm.
When it’s time to say goodbye, Eric gives me a big hug and says, “I’ll talk to you again. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
* * * * *
Tony the Fabio fuck-a-like, who I’ve now decided has got to be a gangster (he talks like a wise-guy and always wears black), calls and asks to see me later that afternoon. I’ve played this game of hurry-up-and-wait before. My brain says no but my penis says please.
When night falls, Tony’s still a no-show, surprise, surprise. Then the phone rings.
“I’m still tied-up,” he says in his thuggish accent.
“Doing what?” I demand to know.
“My job.”
“You are in the Mafia, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, hurry up. I’m sitting here playing with my dick and it’s got a short attention span.”
By the time the muscle-bound mobster arrives it’s almost midnight. I chase him around the bedroom, and we play that game of tag that resembles the dumb-fumble of animals mating.
After I spank him, stick one finger up his butt, and he cums, the two of us collapse on the couch. It’s late, but Tony’s wired. Maybe he’s on coke or something ‘cuz he suddenly feels like talking. I try to guess again what he does for a living—
“Bodyguard? Godfather? Undercover FBI informant?”
Tony laughs and shakes his head no. Then, I suppose because he finally trusts me, he spills the beans.
And no, Mr. Meathead is not a Soprano.
“I write and produce and direct Hollywood movies. I also own my own production company,” he announces to my gaping, open mouth.
“Huh?”
“I’ve made a lot of movies.”
“But…you always seem so shy.”
“Oh, here I’m shy. I’m not at work. I’ve directed some big stars.”
Could it be true? Was I fucking, or rather not fucking a fucking big film director?
“You gotta come to my house sometime,” he says. “I live in a 1.3 million dollar home in thhome in the Hollywood Hills. I have seven luxury cars.”
I walk Tony back to his car. Well, fuck me if it isn’t a new Porsche. I feel the power shift beneath my feet.
Spanking a “hoodlum” was one thing. It’s quite another to slap the bubble-butt of an affluent film director.
* * * * *
I’ve learned a lot from sleeping with straight men.
I’ve learned that the compass of heterosexuality doesn’t always point North. It points in the direction of the dick.
I’ve learned that dominating the dumb jocks that used to scare me in High School can be damn good therapy.
I’ve learned that if you’re gonna date men who date women, you’d better be ready to be treated like a girl.
And I’ve learned that I want to start dating gay guys now.
