Underwear nite at Ramrod, Lauderdale’s leather bar and I make the stupid mistake of picking up Gilberto, a Brazilian transplant/loser who promptly falls asleep after 90 seconds of inglorious sex, if you could call it that. Ah, but that wasn’t the end of my misery.
Complication #2: Gilberto snores. Not only does he snore; he snores loudly. And not only does he snore loudly, he begins humming tunes. In his sleep. By 5 a.m., I’ve had it with the snoring and the humming and my dogs’ whining. I get up, walk over to my other bedroom where my dogs follow me and proceed to jump on the bed. So here I am, with another man in my house, sleeping like I always do, alone, with my dogs.
Is there something wrong with this picture, folks?
About 7, I get up, determined to see Mr. Peter is satisfied and climb back into bed with my proper stranger who is sprawled out on his back. I begin to softly stroke Gilberto’s crotch. He stirs, then turns again on his side.
“You wanna play a little?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
He turns to me, and replies, “I -I tired,” with a faint smile, then returns to his snooze.
“Oh,” says I, ready to drag him out to the patio, tie one of my 60 pound dumbbells around his neck and throw him either into my pool or off my dock into the canal. But instead I play it cool. “I’ve got an appointment this morning so we’re leaving at 8. I’ll wake you when I’m ready.” The only reason I’ve decided to wait is my nosey-haven’t been-fucked-since-her-divorce-fifteen-years-ago neighbor doesn’t leave for work until about then and I don’t want her gawking from her kitchen window as I lead this loser out of my house.
Like a day trader checking the overnight Asian markets, I’m flipping through the websites frankly to kill time when “Morning Blower” pops up on my Manhunt mail screen. Not a bad looker, he wants to do me, RIGHT NOW. I try to negotiate a later time, but no deal. I surmise he leaves for work by 9 and wants to have a smile on his face and a smudge of cum on his lips when he walks into the office that morning. Plus, he’s in a neighborhood just past where I plan to unload Gilberto.
So I wake the fuck up, tell him to get dressed, and one minute after my neighbor pulls out of her driveway, Gilberto and I hit the road. As I drive over to a nearby supermarket lot where he asks me to drop him off, he tells me his “roommate” is a teacher and, given Gilberto’s unemployed status, is probably keeping him. Are some people that afraid of being alone?
I look at my car clock. I have exactly seventeen minutes to find 910 NE 17th Terrace before Morning Blower leaves for work.
Complication #3: One bad thing about living in Lauderdale, the Venice of America, is that streets abruptly die in midstream, coming back to life on the other side of some friggin canal. I get lost, irretrievably lost, and when I finally manage to find my destined address, it’s ten after 9 and Morning Blower is already gone. And with him, Mr. Peter’s last shot at happiness.
An hour later, having my Wheaties and coffee, I call Bill to see how he made out with Green Polo. “You mean that fuckin’ weirdo,” Bill mutters. “He grabbed my cock for about ten seconds, then said he had to get up early for work and just strolled away.”
I hate to say it, but misery loves company and I took secret delight in knowing both of us had gotten the shaft. But, as God is my witness, as God is my witness, the next time I play Motel 6, I want to get paid – Florida room tax included.
And as if the Gay God was looking down and had mercy on my neglected dick, several underwear nights later, I hooked up with a tall, hot guy from L.A., and as luck would have it, a week later, with a shy, hot guy from Canada.
No room tax charged.
Tomorrow – When is Sex Addiction Not Sex Addiction?
