This past Sunday, my buddy and I hit Sebastian Beach, Lauderdale’s gay sandbox, on a perfect South Florida day, and after baking under the sun we stopped at an Office Depot so I could pick up a new ink cartridge. (I love how the cartridges are almost as expensive as the printer.) Well, when we got out of the store to head home, my car decided not to turn over. Luckily, I’ve been carrying Triple A forever and, though it took their guy over an hour to get to us, he quickly diagnosed the problem as a dead battery (my Honda Element IS four years old), and for a hundred bucks replaced the sucker right on the spot. Better to have broken down in a near empty parking lot on a sunny afternoon than at 2 am coming out of some dive bar.
But it had been a long day and after a quick bite I decided to take a comma nap. I woke about 10, but though Ramrod, our local leather bar, was holding its Mr. Ramrod contest that night to cap Fort Lauderdale’s Leather Weekend, I pondered whether to go out at all or just climb back into bed. I was beat, not just from a weekend of beaching and bar-hopping but bored with the couple of tricks I had had that were just not satisfying sex.
But whenever I feel the blahs, I always say to myself, “Ray, you’re gonna below ground a lot longer than you’ll be above, so kick yourself in the ass and get moving. They’ll be enough time to watch TV when you’re 97 and drooling in some nursing home.” So grabbing a quick cup of caffeine-laced ambition from my Keurig, I threw on my cockring, jeans, (I never wear a shirt or underwear) boots, and arm band and headed off to the RR, all of 10 minutes away.
When I arrived about quarter of 11 the contest was already in progress, hot and not so hot contestants cavorting on the tiny stage to prostitute themselves to their fickled leather brothers. The place was packed with a generous amount of handsome, muscled specimens of manhood, but as I made my way to the bar for my obligatory Bud Lite, a strange thing happened. After a weekend of feeling like the invisible man, guys were turning their heads and looking at me. Short, unshowered, just got of bed me.
I made it out to the back patio just as some pathetic twenty something with an ironing board body was on the stage, sharing his equally pathetic leather fantasy (“I get home from work and open the door and there’s my dog, Sherman, waiting to lick my big bull balls, and I drop my pants, watching as he drools in anticipation of his prize …”). There, almost as if he had been preordained by destiny, was this slim, trim, fuzzy, shirtless, handsome Irish looking guy who immediately began stalking me.
I stared back, he walked up, and after a few minutes of chit chat, stroking and comparing our bedroom preferences, we headed out to his place just a few minutes away.
I hadn’t even finished my Bud Lite.
And while the mass of hunks continued to watch the contest, Paul, his hand around my shoulder, and I made our way out. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, guys moved out of our way as we walked through the crowd. I could see them staring at us as we passed, and imagined what was going through their minds: ”Fuck, I’m watching these jackasses up on the stage holding my overpriced drink while these two hairy fucks are getting out to get it on.”
I chuckled smugly to myself, thinking that I might have still been in bed if I hadn’t pushed myself to go out, which leads me to what I said at the beginning:
You never know.