Perchance To Dream

What have I been up to lately?

Well, softball this Saturday. And it was a grim affair. We were scheduled for two back-to-back games against the Saints, a team new to the league. I stayed in on Friday night, as our first game was at 10 am. That meant I had to get to NYC at 8 am. That meant I had to leave home at 6 am. That meant I had to get out of bed at 5 am.

(Commitment!)

And I did. We were pretty ebullient. All set to kick some Saint butt.

In the first game, it was pretty competitive. They scored some runs early on, and we clawed and scraped our way out of a hole to gain the lead by two runs. But, then there was the final inning. And the Saints seemed to fly around the bases at a dizzying speed. And we lost.

During the interim, we compared notes. They had great hitters. Their infield was amazing. Their outfield was amazing. We... we... we were outmatched.

Second game. First inning. They scored six runs. No Ballbreakers crossed home plate. And after that, we all sort of fell apart. Phoned it in. They beat us by a score of something like 328-4. We got bitter pretty quickly. Blaming each other. Blaming the league. Blaming ourselves.

It totally put me in a foul mood.

Back at the bar, we griped some more about everything under the sun. I complained about my performance to one of my team mates. Specifically, my hitting. I couldn't hit the damn ball out of the infield. Which was bad news for whoever was in the lineup ahead of me. Y'see, he'd get on first, and then I'd come up. I'd hit the ball in the general vicinity of the second baseman. And the poor guy would be tagged out. Except the time I flied out.

"Well," responded my teammate, "look at it this way: you're hitting the ball."

Huh.

That's true. I'm hitting the ball. And that wasn't always the case, now was it?

Anyway. I gathered up what was left of my self esteem, grabbed an iced venti quad one-pump-vanilla easy-ice latte, and headed north on the West Side Highway.

Y'see, I had a date.

Back up a minute. The West Side Highway. Perhaps you heard on the news about the landslide that shut down the West Side Highway. And you would be correct in assuming that landslide would be right in my path. No matter, I gave myself plenty of extra time. And I wanted some time to get my head together.

Because my date was with a guy with whom I had come in contact via America On Line. (Never a good sign.) And his scene was KO. As in, Knock Out. As in, putting me out cold.

Well now that's kind of dangerous, right?

Right.

Especially given the fact that the whacko factor on AOL is just off the spectrum.

Oh. And did I mention that we were meeting at a hotel in Danbury, Connecticutt? An anonymous hotel.

Nothing like an inherently dangerous scene with a stranger, right?

So what's up with that?

Okay. I'd checked the guy out as much as I possibly could. He had coherent answers to every question I posed. And I felt I needed something like an adventure. Plus, I don't know anybody who has ever done that scene, so that would give me some bragging rights. And, Top that I am, I love it when I'm the heaviest bottom in the room. (Okay! Okay! Selectively heavy!)

Whatever.

So there I was, sitting in the parking lot of the Ethan Allen Hotel in Danbury, Connecticutt, calling Mr. Sleepytime on my cell phone to let him know I had arrived. He gave me the number of the room he had rented, and he ran over his instructions to me one more time. I was to knock on the door and he'd pass the key under the door. I count to twenty, then come into the room. I strip, and take a shower. After the shower, I put on the pair of undies he left out for me, and go lie down on the bed.

Stuffing my second thoughts, I found the room, knocked, counted, entered, stripped, and jumped in the shower. While I was in the shower, behind the opaque shower curtain, I heard the door creak open.

Oh very cool.

But nothing happened.

I finished up in the shower and pulled back the curtain. The bathroom was empty. And there were the undies. They were a cheesy acetate affair with a Christmas motif, reading something like "Jingle Balls!". And about three sizes too small. Verrrry slutty.

Okay. Deep breath.

The suite was dark except for a television in the bedroom. Everybody Loves Raymond was on with the volume turned low.

Another deep breath.

I crossed the suite to the bed. I heard movement behind me. His arm was round my neck. A rag was forced over my mouth and nose. A weird perfumey but not unpleasant smell. Chloroform.

Cool.

I did some nominal struggling. Held my breath for a bit, but then took a good deep breath. Nada. Another deep breath. And I felt it.

It was strange. Like my perceptions--sight, sound, sensation--were limited by a spotlight that got smaller and smaller and smaller with me at the center. Till then there was blackness.

I came too. I got put out again. I came too. I got put out again.

At one point, I came too, and Mr. Sleepytime was counting change or something. I curled up. Hugged the pillow. And went off to sleep without assistance.

I woke up and the clock read midnight. And I was alone in the suite. There was a note.

"Dear Seth, Sorry I couldn't stay. Had a great time. I rented the room for the night, so you can stay here. Just please check out before 11 am tomorrow."

Okay. Here's the part where I critique the Top.

First off, my name's not Seth. That's a pretty important detail. Secondly, where the hell did he go? Thirdly, I would toss out a line like, "You'll take good care of your boy while he's out, right, Sir?" and he'd be like, "Yeah, whatever, out you go!" Now that's hardly fodder for fond memories and recollections useful for jerking off, right? Right.

But the overall synopsis is... I have no idea what to think about all that. I mean, it's weird. I feel like the scene went on without me. I'm not sure what contribution I made. Although, I think I made a significant contribution. Specifically, I think I was really brave! Maybe the boys are lined up for this dude. Maybe he got my name wrong because last weekend he did three Seths.

But somehow I don't think so.

I got up on Sunday, had breakfast, found cheap gas, and headed home. I imagined that Mr. Sleepytime and I would have breakfast together after a good-morning bang, bidding a fond farewell. But no, it was a solitary egg sandwich at Mr. Bagel of Danbury, Connecticutt.

*sigh*

Later that evening, I felt as though the weekend had sort of gone by and I had... I dunno... slept through it.

So I headed down to the Raven to have a beer and a cigar before doing the grocery shopping.

And guess what! It was the final event of New Hope's Pride Parade!

NEWS ITEM: New Hope celebrates L/G/B/T Pride! Leather Community severly under-represented! Inebriate gay men with elaborate hairstyles and mall clothes out in force!

But I chatted with some new guys. And it was a good cigar.

Monday was a typical work day. Followed by Starbucks. Followed by the gym. (It was a bit chilly for kayaking.)

Then today, I rushed home after work so my dad and I could go vote. (Primary day here in Pennsylvania.) Then I hit Starbucks. I had a date. Some AOL guy wanted to meet up with me, so I invited him for a latte at the Starbucks in Doylestown. He was waiting when I showed up. Decent looking guy. And then we started talking.

How do you say... Awkward?

Oh. My. God.

Like pulling teeth.

After about fifteen minutes, he excused himself to go to the bathroom. After waiting ten minutes for him to get back, I opened my book. Forty five minutes later, I finished up another chapter, and I headed for home.

KO scenes in my future?

To quote my saintly white-haired grandmother, "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

---