it was a night out
31 july

Last week I received a familiar number on my pager, it was a regular of mine who likes to see me in a particular hotel. Thank god for regulars, a few weeks ago I missed an advertising deadline, then rushed to get the next one in only to find out I was a week too late, so I haven't had my ad out there and when that happens, all you can do is hope for regulars or packrats- guys who stuff a clipped-out ad in their wallet or stumble across an old issue and I guess they are optimists because they'll just call anyway. A friend of mine had left the business (temporarily) and, a few weeks into his retirement, received a call on a particular ad he had not run for months.

But this was a regular. However, there were a couple issues floating around. One, he looks very much like a friend of mine in San Francisco, so much so I am almost tempted to ask if he has a relative in the Bay Area. Two, this friend disappeared a few years ago, it is just too weird. Three, this hotel is a creepy in its own way, under occupied, and looking too much like the hotel in The Shining.

Consequently, getting stiff is hard- (lame!), but really, the littlest distractions affect my performance, and not getting an instant boner only makes me more self-conscious.

Sticking a half hard penis, already desensitized by latex, into a sphincter, is like threading a needle that snaps itself shut. Well, I tried something the last time I was with this guy and it seemed to work. I became a cock-tease, the worst cock tease, if this had been an amateur lap dancing contest, I would have been disqualified. It tortured him, and he loved it.

He knew I wasn't going to give it up, or did he? I was so blatantly showing off my cute ass that if you didn't know any better you'd had thought I was a bitch in heat. But make no mistake, I didn't get all femmie cartoon, and that's what kept the suspense going instead of the situation becoming a mockery.

Somehow, I think because I was getting turned on by his getting turned on, I got wood and drove it in. I only had to thrust a little while because after I'm in he's ready to pop, which is good, because in this type of situation I can't maintain beyond a few minutes. After the first boner, subsequent ones come farther and littler, and then it's like threading an overcooked piece of spaghetti into a keyhole.

But I made it, this time. On my last trip to San Francisco I experienced sex fatigue. I decided I ought to see a doctor about my special case, I wanted some help. I just had to find a way to word it.

After my client, I stopped in one of my favorite clubs, a once a week we-turn-the-lounge-into-a-micro-dance-floor club, loungey in feel, formerly too hip for its own good, now verging on its own version of becoming bridge and tunnel. But when the dj comes on, the music is fierce, lots of the kind of stuff I loved when I lived back east. I don't mind that the people coming here are getting younger and drunker than the last time.

This place is always fun to drop in for a dose of the glamorous life. There used to be celeb sightings, I saw Jeff Palmer there that night, and although this time I was dressed in quiet hotel drag: shoes (a rarity in this town of sneakers, sandals and boots), slacks (seldom seen outside of Beverly Hills or Fred Segals), and a button down shirt (I think the only woven shirt there that night- and to make it even more unusual, I kept it tucked in), I still gave good jet set, especially since I'm a good dancer. People sometimes don't know what to make of me, and that's the way I want it.

But, at any painfully trendy hip club in Los Angeles you are guaranteed to run across certain elements, one of the most annoying being the damaged cowboy hat. Why do people in LA feel they must scrunch their cowboy hats, robbing them of any usefulness, and make themselves look like they just survived their head being run over by a car? I don't remember seeing it so much in other cities after the early nineties, but Angelenos just can't let go of it. Maybe it's mohawk envy. At least no one showed up on one of those silver scooters.

So, I stayed maybe forty five minutes; I had to get up for work the next day. Plus, I had made my impression, lived my Wallpaper moment, it was time to get into my big comfy bed, turn the ceiling fan on, lay naked on top of the sheets, and make some issue-free boners in my sleep.

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