Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Ho(rror) stories: No party en mis pantalones. 1:2

Like any young man who has read more Higgins Clark than Hemingway, I often daydream of a future alongside a strapping, six foot, dark haired, chocolate eyed hunk of a man. Preferably, the birth of our relationship won't coincide with the murder of my sister and culminate in a fight for my own life in which my lover proves his devotion by tackling my sibling’s killer just as he is about to throttle the last bit of breath from my own cowl - necked - THROAT. Alright, okay, that might be a bit far fetched. Androgynous though I may be, we all know I'm not so gay as to don such an obviously feminine garment. Also, sexy, swarthy, and statuesque is but one of my many preferred sex partner genres. "Generally tantalizing" is as close as I get to a definitive type.

While such an open-minded approach to selecting who I’d like to satisfy my body does free me from the tether of Santa Monica Boulevard, the monotonous frequenting of homogeneous homo haunts, I do savor the cross section of Los Angeles’ gay male population provided by my West Hollywood dodgeball league. Eight teams, 80% teammates, and all on far greater display lined up across the well-lit court than one could ever be when seen through a drunken haze in a darkened club. Having never before been an active participant in any niche of the gay community, this level of public, premeditated pursuit is an unprecedented opportunity in the advancement of my social and romantic lives. That said, commonality doesn’t translate into an easy opening for introduction or any progress past simple ogling when the focuses of my fancy dodge the post-match revelry at Gym in favor of another bar.

Sure, I can always count on the attendance of the Beautiful Dudes – kings among queens in terms of physique and dodgeball dexterity – as well as the marvelously misfit make up of my team and the Vampire Layers, but the Haughty Hipsters haven’t been present to entice into a round or eleven of flip cup or fuck since the start of the season. The superiority and poor sportsmanship of which their name is emblematic has certainly soured my taste for the team as a whole, but there are still a few dilapidated denim and plaid-clad players whom I would love to nail in the non-violent, sensual sense of the verb. Although one of said prospects actually did return to carouse with the rest of the league last night, it wasn’t until my fellow Power Bottoms and I made our way up the drag of debauchery to Fiesta Cantina that I honed in on a tattered, tartan target.

"All by your lonesome," I lured his attention, "Or workin' your magic?"

"Working my magic," he laughed. "You?"

"Oh I'm workin' my magic. I'm working my magic right here."

I arched my eyebrows, grinning mischievously - like I do.

"- Oh -" It took him a moment. "Ah -"

I chuckled - like I also do. "I gotcha. Good luck."

He was gone by the time I got back to my friends - three seconds later. Eh. Tall, dark, handsome, AND hip a character though he may be, the romantic hero of my personal story I guess he is not. And regardless, I shan’t


Not readily. Tears are a fluid foreign to my face. Plus, I’ve already ensorcelled one gentleman this week and it’s only Wednesday.

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