Monday, October 30, 2006

Forty Deuce

A great birthday weekend, and it's not over yet.

I had to work on Saturday, covering for someone who was out at one of our weekly street outreach sites. Which was great. Even though I'm "management," I get to have direct contact with our clients, and it's one of the things I enjoy most about my work. And yet another reason why I have the best job in the world. After work, I met up with TopLthrStud4u, who got cheap airfare and a reasonable rate at his favorite hotel, so was up visiting Philadelphia from his home in Jacksonville. We had met once before at MAL after years of messaging back and forth to each other. He's a great guy, and I enjoyed spending time with him, walking through Philadelphia, and visiting Passional, a BD/leather/kink emporium. While at Passional, I made a Very Important Discovery: they have a little clearance bin in the back, where I picked up a vibrating butt plug for $5.81. No really! That's how much it cost! Woo-hooo! (I'm just going to hope and trust that the reason it was in the clearance bin wasn't beause the product was recalled in the wake of several horrible inter-rectal electrocutions or something.) TopLthrStud and I parted ways so he could return to his hotel and get a nap to prepare him from the moveable feast that is the Bike Stop on Saturday night, and I headed back up to Bucks County.

After hanging at Starbucks in Doylestown for a wee bit and getting all kindly uncle for one of the vagabond youth I befriended when I frequented the place, I headed home, packed a bag, made dinner (cream chipped beef on toast!) for my dad and headed up to NYC.

First order of business was to meet up with a man whom we'll call Brownstone, as he's the World's Foremost Leading Authority thereupon (we'll, in the Top 10 anway). Brownstone and I have had an online mutual appreciation society going for years and years now, and finally we were going to be in the same place at the same time, so we planned to get together. We met up at the Factory Cafe on Christopher Street, and talked about architecture, kink, and body building. When the Factory threw us out at 1 am, we headed up to the Eagle Spiegel to peruse the local leather scene, or lack thereof. The Eagle was packed, and there were actually two or three guys there besides me in leather!


Regardless of the Spiegel experience, I think that the leather scene in NYC may, in fact, be tumescent. The New York boys of Leather is rocking the town. Leather Invasion keeps coming up with innovative outings for the cowhide clad, and now I hear that there's a bar opening up at 85 Avenue A called Big Lug ("a men's bar") that has a leather-rubber-uniform thing on Saturday nights. (If I still lived in NYC, I'd be a fixture at Big Lug.) And how cool that it's a close neighbor of the Pyramid Club, ground zero for the East Village Drag Explosion that brought the world Lady Bunny, Ru Paul, Lypsinka, Sister Dimension, and LaHoma Van Zandt. (The uninitiated might not understand why that is supremely appropriate, but you do, don'cha?)

Brownstone was feeling jet-laggy, so he called it a night early. And truth be told, I was feeling none too zippy and peppy myself. And I was starting to dread the drive across the river to Jersey City, where I planned to stay the night courtesy of my Friend and Former Landlord. But luckily, up on the roof deck catching a smoke, I was approached by a reasonably hot man who chatted for a bit, and said the magic words: "I live a few blocks from here." And so, together we repaired to his well-appointed digs in Far West Chelsea.

The next morning, I met up with Brownstone for breakfast, and then we embarked on a brief tour of nice architecture in Lower Manhattan. Too brief, to be sure. We hit the Richard Meier Towers (I was hoping that Brownstone was going to surprise me with ownership of one of the units for my birthday, but no.). And then we headed up the West Side Highway to behold the new building that Frank Gehry designed for Barry Diller at 19th Street. And it's spectacular. Around the back, there's this completely utilitarian windowless building painted white that's surrounded by the Gehry masterpiece, as though by cupped hands. It's so cool.

Brownstone and I had lunch (I know we just had breakfast, but Brownstone has a body to build, so he's all about eight meals a day.) at Bennie's Burrito's in the East Village, which was jam packed with strollers. (I love children, but I could never eat a whole one.)

And then, and then, Brownstone and I parted ways, and I headed over to my Gay Men's S/M Spirituality Discussion Group. We really need an acronym, right? GaMSamSPIDIG, maybe?

We hadn't met since April, so it was so great and much needed to sit in a circle with those guys, get centered, hear what's going on with their spiritual paths, and talk a little bit about my own.

Mostly what I talked about was my current obsession with coupling up. That's spurred, in part perhaps, by getting the Best Job In The World. So much of my previous stress and anxiety have been wiped away, and that's now come to the fore. And, my ruminations on what happened to the once prominent role that SM played in my life. As I expressed it, "Presented with a hot man with whom I had a deep connection, and given the choice between whipping him and curling up with him to keep warm on a cold winter's night, it's pretty obvious to me which way I'd go."

One of our number reminded me of something I know all too well. You've got to let go of the wanting. Because the wanting takes up space in your soul, and until you clear away the wanting, you won't have room for the thing you want. Once I let go of wanting a boyfriend, then I'll be open to having a boyfriend.

It's verrry Buddhist. And verrrrry 'Sex In The City.'

And it's just what I needed to hear.

So after we broke, we repaired to dinner to the nearby Ukrainian Home. My pork ghoulash was wonderful, and the company was marvelous.

After dinner, we said our goodbyes, and I headed down Ninth Street to where my car was parked on Eighth between Ave B and Ave C.

More than any other neighborhood in NYC, and I lived in several, I think of the East Village as my home. I know all those streets, if only because that's where I lived (at 7th and B) when I was new to New York and the City was new to me, and everything was magical, a world waiting to be explored.

Then the drive home. As I was headed for the Holland Tunnel, my BlackBerry signaled an incoming call. It was hot tub guy! I picked up, and heard that wonderful man warbling at me...

"Happy Birthday to you!
You live in a zoo!
You look like a monkey,
And you act like one, too!"

That. Made. My. Day.

And hot tub guy had a proposition: instead of heading for home, how about I come to his place in Philadelphia? We could go nutso tonight, call in sick to work the next day, and spend the first full day of my 43rd year going nutso some more. And, of course, spending the night curled up with each other in bed, keeping each other warm.

But of course, there was one problem: Faithful Companion was waiting for me at home, wanting a walk. I counter-offered that we postpone it until tomorrow (Monday) night. And hot tub guy was game.

So this morning, I brought Faithful Companion to work with me (they love him, of course), and when I get off at five, I'll head down to hot tub guy's lofty abode in scenic Fishtown. He's hard at work as I type planning some kind of Birthday Extrrrravagannnza for me. (Which may or may not include heading to the Bike Stop for Jock Strap Night sporting the requisite jock straps and werewolf masks.)

Y'know, I'm getting my needs met. I've got plenty of love in my life, plenty of people who think of me fondly and often and wish me well. My life is rich, full, and satisfying.

Happy Birthday to me.

Friday, October 27, 2006

Love, Doctor

I'm switching doctors.

Currently, my doctor is the man who brought me into the world. He's 79 years old, and I like him fine, but I just don't feel up to... uh... like telling him that I do guys. And that's not a good doctor-patient relationship.

So I asked around, and Datt of Datt and Male, JPZapper and DogTopper all recommend their doctor. So I made an appointment. My main objective, beyond a check up that I'm overdue for, is to get a prescription for Cialis. Of late, I've been getting my kitten punched a lot more than I've been punching kittens. Me being me, I've been subjecting myself to all sorts of self-examination about What Does This Mean? But recently, I realized that the past umpteen times I've managed to get laid, my plumbing hasn't been working so well.

So things generally go down like this:

Mr. Boy: Oh yeah! Awww give it to meee...

Me: Hell yeah, boy, I'm gonna plow you into next week. I am gonna... uh...

Mr. Boy: Um, uh, it's okay if you're not that into me, I mean...

Me: No! I'm totally into you! And I wanna be totally in you... just give me a minute...

Mr. Boy: Hey that's cool. Want me to give you a back rub!

Me (panicky and hysterical): No! I don't want you to give me a back rub! I want you on your back with your legs over my shoulders and... and... Ummm... Come to think about it, a back rub would be pretty nice.

So it's kind of frought.

Luckily, I love getting plowed myself, and I have a nice tight hole that I'm told gives a sweet ride. So it's all good.

But it would be nice to have the option to Top again with my anatomy as well as with my whips and chains and such.

Back when I lived in NYC, I had a Viagra prescription, but I still have half a bottle in my medicine cabinet. It gives me a wicked headache for days, and I hate headaches. But, I'm given to understand that with Cialis, that's not so much of a problem.

So anyway, I received in the mail a form to fill out from my new doctor. Mostly asking about my medical history and my family medical history (which goes like this: Kramer's live forever and Kavetsky's don't make it to 70).

Filling out the form, I had sort of an Addams Family moment when I hit this question: "Are you in a relationship in which you have been slapped, kicked, punched, or bruised by your partner?"

No, but if you know somebody nice, I'd sure like to meet him!

Monday, October 23, 2006

Adieu Project Runway. Hello Top Chef?

And Jeffrey won! Yesss! And this was an amazing season on Runway. Not without flaws, surely. A few pretty weak contestants were kept around just because of the whacky-factor they offered. But Uli, Laura, Michael, and Jeffrey were all so strong. But mostly what I loved was that Season Three was about emerging young artists finding their voices. And that was just amazing to watch.

So now, Bravo is promoting Top Chef.

here's the problem I have with it. Anyone who has being a chef as his or her aspiration is nuts. Or has no idea what they're getting into. Every time I cook for the Baron, he tells me I should open a restaurant. And I patiently explain to him that having a job requiring fifteen hour work days six days a week and having your one day off be like a Tuesday and knowing that the majority of new restaurants close in a year and even the successful ones have incredibly slim profit margins... Well, let's just say that there's a good reason that having worked my way through college in restaurant kitchens, it gave a slacker student like me plenty of motivation to graduate.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

Welcome To Philadelphia

All about afterglow here.

Although it's not without some wistfulness around the edges.

I've continued to date furiously. Looking for Mr. E. "E" as in...

Choose one of the following:

E) All of the above.

But thus far, Mr. E remains 'E" as in "Elusive."

It's all been about finding a man to buddy up with for the winter. And hopefully beyond.

But, I took time out for a little recreational pigsex. In my perusal of the hook-up sites on the internet, I ran across a smokin hot Daddy. Lean, leathered, brushcut, with mega facial hair situation. Not just that "little goatee thing going on from Friday afternoon until Monday morning." Of course, he was from out of town. Way out of town. From Atlanta.

Now in general, my modus operandi is to meet up for coffee before sex. But something told me to just jump in with both feet, and I made a date for Saturday night, agreing to meet up with him at his hotel room down by Philadelphia International Airport.

Oh man.

Did that ever pay off in spades.

First off, in our run-up phone calls, he was perfect. Talking all that nasty talk, flattering me, tellling me how much he was looking forward to it. He demostrated exuberance. The Baron and I were recently talking about how rare and how winning a quality that was. And this guy had it dripping out of every pore.

Eagerly anticipating the night, I spent yesterday taking something of a trip down memory lane. My former employer, Wuperiour Soodcraft, has an annual "kitchen tour," ferrying folks around to show off some of the splendiforous kitchens they've done over the past year. I've volunteered for the past two years, and as an employee, I got to be "in charge" of a house. This year, my status downgraded, I was in charge of parking. So I spent the day standing in the driveway of a horsefarm outside of Stockton, New Jersey, pointing the arriving Escalades and BMWs to open parking spaces, and welcoming them, and radioing down to my counterpart at the other end of the driveway when they were making their way out again. So that was pretty pleasant.

Then I got dinner on the table for my dad (fish chowder, the best anywhere), and headed south on I-95.

Waiting for me was one of the hottest men I've seen anywhere. We took it so slow, kissing, touching, whispering in each other's years. And then, he unbuttoned his 501s and out flopped the largest dick I've ever seen in my entire life. Just humungous. Enormous. I just about passed out.

And I was a little bit scared. Going down on that thing, with my gag flex, would have been humourous at best. And my hole gives a real sweet ride, but it's a tight one. Would I be able to accommodate?

Not to worry. I was in good hands. This Magic Man spent a lot of time in priming the pump. For a while, he just let his head sit right inside, and pretty soon, we were going to town. I was doing the best I could with that 'rhythmic tightening of the muscles' thing, and apparently with good results.

We fell asleep, sticky with each other's juices, and were entwined together all night long. And this morning, it was Round Two. And then we had breakfast at Denny's. (The scrambled eggs with jalapeños rocks.)

And now here I am back at home, looking at an afternoon of chopping firewood.

But wondering.

At one point, the Magic Man said, "You definitely are the best that Philadelphia has to offer." I demurred, but not very convincingly.

What is it about Philadelphia? Why is this so hard?

If'n you happen to be a ManHunt subscriber, do a search on guys signed in from Philadelphia, and then compare it to your town, or, for that matter, any other town in the country. First thing you're likely to notice is that Philadelphia doesn't seem to be a town of men, just penises. All you seem to get are pictures of penises. Hard penises. Floppy penises. Penises in the pool. Penises on bed-reclining bodies. Blurry penises. Sharp focus penises. Penises. And alluring "profiles" along the lines of "fum [sic] guy loking [sic] 4 hot tims [sic] w/U."

I know, right?

Like, I'm in!

Like, Not.

It is a hard row to hoe that I have.

So I ask, what goes on? Is there something in the water? What's the deal with Philadelphia?

Not that it's universally true. But it's no big surprise that hot tub guy, who is a smokin hot man, had dated this other smokin hot man that I met. The pool is not a large one. And no doubt part of the reason I'm having a hard time finding Mr. E is because coming late in the game, all the guys I'd be interested in buddying up with are already buddied up.


Is geography destiny?

Ah well.

I've got a great job, a good life, the autumn foliage here in Bucks County is beautiful this year. There's firewood to chop. And every now and then, I get someone like Magic Man wandering into my life.

Monday, October 16, 2006

So I Met A boy

For coffee. In Philadelphia. Tonight. After work.

We had chatted on ManHunt. And he made mention of an interesting fact: he was sleeping in his car. That, coupled with the fact that he's a total smokin hot man made me want to meet up with him for coffee. (And I'll admit there's a fair portion of narscicism there: his bushy stache bears uncannny resemblance to my bushy stache.

And he's hotter in person than he is on ManHunt. He's having a hard time right now. On a number of fronts. And things are looking like they might get worse before they get better. But he was honest and upfront about his situation, and he was still able to smile and laugh. In fact, he had a certain... a certain... exuberance to him. He was seeing things clearly, was doing his level best to meet the challenges, but I still got the sense that he was a man who loved life, no matter what life happened to throw at him.

Oh. And he called me 'Sir.'

And I just had to use all my will power from picking him up and holding him tight and making all the hurt go away.

I wanted to make the boy all better. Or at least let him know that I was in his corner.

So the thing that puzzles me is this: these fatherly feelings he stirred were not without an erotic charge to them.

What's that about?

Something, perhaps, about a strong, good, happy man who just needs a Daddy.

I swear!

And I've recently developed a short-hand to describe to the unitiated who inquire about my kinky inclinations: "I like to make big boys cry." And I hope that's not taken as indication that I'm cruel. Because I'm not. Because after the big boys cry, I'll be there to dry their tears and hold them tight till they stop. (That, my friends, is what a Top does!)

Perhaps that's it. Here's a big boy who has sure taken a whipping lately, only at the hands of the Universe, not me. But regardless...

"Yeah boy... It's okay... Just let it come... Daddy's got you. He's right here. And he's not going anywhere. And he won't let anything bad happen to his boy. Oh no. And he sees the strength in you that maybe you don't see, boy. And he sees your good kind heart, and your wisdom, and your generosity, and your capacity for joy, and your handsome face, and your beautiful body... And Daddy sees all that and thinks, "Dang! He's one special boy!"

So I told this wolf pup that we'd talk again. And, I hope, meet up again. And that I'd say a prayer for him.

And, if'n you're the prayin' type, I'd ask you all to say a prayer for him, too.

Thanks for that.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

hot tub guy Rocks. Clearly.

This weekend is hot tub guy's birthday weekend. (Happy Birthday hot tub guy!) So of course, I'm baking him a birthday cake. (One of my many obsessions is baking birthday cakes.) Last night, I called hot tub guy and asked if it would work for him if I brought him a birthday cake sometime on Saturday, and then spent the night Saturday night as I'm doing the Philadelphia AIDS Walk (sponsor me! please!) on Sunday, and it kicks off at some ungodly hour like 8 a.m. or something, and I don't feel like getting up at 6 a.m. to drive down to the city.

This morning, on my drive in to work, hot tub guy called me back and said that absolutely he was up for some birthday cake (yessss!), and although he's flying to Terre Haute for business on Sunday, I could definitely spend the night (yessssss!!!). And hot tub guy also mentioned that he had met somebody who greeted him as "hot tub guy." As in, "Hey! You're hot tub guy, right? From SingleTails?" He was flattered and astonished, and I'm pretty astonished, too, that one of my more astute readers was able to identify him. hot tub guy can't be the only smokin' hot built man with dreamy eyes you just wanna get lost in and shares my fascination with werewolves and disdain of vampires in Philadelpha, can he? Or can he?

And while I had him on the phone, I mentioned that I had recently had dealings with someone he knew. Namely, Very Hairy Man. I described my involvement with Very Hairy Man to hot tub guy, who confirmed my assessment: Very Hairy Man is a prick. And something of a whacko, too. And as to the Unsolved Mystery of Very Hairy Man (calling to cancel our Thursday afternoon hook up after we had a nice lunch together and a few phone calls on Wednesday where both of us expressed our mutual attraction), hot tub guy offered a possible explanation: Very Hairy Man works for the FBI.

No way!


He's not a G-Man per se, but he is a computer guy, doing data base administration or something. And as such, he has all kinds of security clearances, and access to all sorts of information.

Okay. So that definitely is a possibility, although it poses as many questions as it answers. Chief among them: what could the FBI have on me?

FACT: I have an arrest record as long as your arm from acts of civil disobedience committed during my time involved in ACT UP, the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power.

FACT: I'm a nationally recognized sadomasochist (I make friends wherever I go, all across this great land of ours).

FACT: Whenever I fly, I conceal several disposable lighters on my person and in my luggage to ensure that I'll be able to light up and have a smoke as soon as possible when I get off the plane.

FACT: I have been professionally involved in making sure that injection drug users have access to sterile syringes in order to prevent the spread of HIV.

FACT: I shouted down then Vice President Dan Quayle when he was speaking in front of the New York Conservative Party in 1992.

FACT: My awful Ex hates me and thinks I'm a terrible person.

FACT: I am banned from driving in New Jersey, but I do it anyway.

FACT: I know more people who have visited Cuba than I can count.

I guess it's possible that the FBI could have caught wind of any and all of these Fun Things To Know about me, but none of them really rings true as a reason to suddenly and without warning fire the guy who gave you a blow job in a porn theater 48 hours previously.

On that issue, hot tub guy had a different explanation: not only is Very Hairy Man a prick, he's also crazy and unstable.


And then hot tub guy said it: "You're one of the most level-headed and kindest and most genuine people I've ever met. And whatever the reason he did that, he did you a huge favor, because you don't deserve someone like him in your life."

And at that point, I made that little coughing noise I make on those rare occasions when I'm speechless.

Monday, October 09, 2006

That Ol' Feelin' I Get

My brother and his vegan wife are coming for dinner tomorrow night. First I was thinking I'd make ravioli, and then I remembered that Step One in making pasta is to make a 'well' in a mound of flour and break an egg in it. And eggs aren't vegan.

So then I thought about wonton noodles, which I haven't worked with before, but didn't think they'd be too hard. Alas, at my local purveyor of better chow, they had no wonton noodles. But, they did have filo dough. And filo dough, it turns out, is vegan vegan vegan. I only worked with filo a couple of decades ago when I had a job cooking in a restaurant. I don't rember it as being that hard, but we'll see. And what am I going to stuff my little filo pillows with?

Why... I'm glad you asked!

Some will be stuffed with butternut squash meat and shallots, and some will be stuffed with fennel and apples. All of them will go on a plate in a pool of a sort of cream sauce I'm making from pecans and soy milk, and they'll the heavy creamy butteryness will be relieved with some kale braised in vegetable stock.

Pretty lip smackin' good for vegan fare, huh?

But anyway.

God damn you, Very Hairy Man anyway.

What the hell?

Why can't I get a date? Why the hell is this so hard? Maybe it's the case that all the hot, happy, balanced, genuine men my age are already buddied up already, and so all I'm left with are the broken, depressive, out-of-shape, drug-addled, timid remains.

I'm getting really tired of this.

Damn you Very Hairy Man! You really pulled the rug out from under me.


Okay. So Very Hairy Man has cut me off cold.

Let's review.

We met up for lunch on Tuesday. Had a great time. Talked on Wednesday about the great time we had and how we liked each other and were looking forward to getting together on Thursday when I got off work. So then Thursday, he calls when I'm in a meeting and leaves this message--all nonchalant like--'going into a meeting, call you when I get out, something came up for me with work and we might have to rearrange plans,' and that was the absolute last I heard from him.

Now, I have to admit that I was hurt by that, but the hurt quickly gave way to profound curiosity. I mean, what the hell could happen to make somebody turn tale and run like that? It's weird! It's sooooo CSI, right? Before the victim disappeared, he received a phone call, from who? saying what? If we knew that...

What the hell could Very Hairy Man have learned about me that would cause him to do that? I mean, I understand. I have deal-breakers myself, but none of them are quite so dire that I'd cut off all contact with the guy when my interest was strong enough to want to set up a date with him.

He described his profession to me as "security," and I kind of get the impression that it's along the lines of Wackenhut or whatever. Did he do a background check? And even if he did, what the hell did that uncover? The D's on my college transcripts in Painting I, Intermediate Italian, and Macroeconomics? Or maybe he met somebody he liked better? Or maybe he had some personal crisis? (The last two are unlikely since he's off and on ManHunt pretty steadily.

It's crazy. And it's driving me crazy.

Probably I should just let go of it all. Chalk it up. Not like he owes me anything after only lunch and a blow job. At first I was like, "C'mon! Grow a pair and at least pick up the phone when I call," but I've moved beyond that.


But... but... I'd give anything to know.

Next time I talk to hot tub guy, I'll see what I can do about getting the skinny on Very Hairy Man.


Damn. Dammit dammit dammit.

Very Hairy Man just seemed like somebody with whom there might be possibilities. And that's what I'm having trouble letting go of.

Ah well.

Sunday, October 08, 2006

Washington DC... Softball Can Be Your Alibi!

Friday after work, I jumped into the jeep and headed south on I-95 towards Washington DC, leaving behind my consternation regarding the Very Hairy Man. Unfortunately, I wasn't feeling very well. I had an 11:30 meeting that day, and during the meeting, I got a headache. I thought I needed something to eat, but a panini at the Mean Bean didn't do much for me. And it just got worse as the day went on. And on the road, it got much worse. Like, one of the worst headaches I've ever had. Pounding. Throbbing. Bringing tears to my eyes.

It was so bad that when I stopped at a "welcome center" in Delaware to get a Starbucks, I left without my Starbucks. I just couldn't bear the thought of a pumpkin spice latté. That's how bad it was. I did pick up some Advil and took two of them. But they didn't seem to kick in. But they did give me a pretty sour stomach.

As I was heading past exits reading Christiana, Delaware, the Baron's home town, I thought about stopping off and begging the Baron to take me in, giving me the corner of a dark room to curl up in. But I kept on going. On the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, I pulled over for $2.15-a-gallon gas and to see if I could bring something up to settle my stomach. At a well appointed gas station, I spent a while in the bathroom, but nothing would come. But walking around in the cool, fresh night air did me a little good. By the time I rolled into the Washington Plaza Hotel, I was feeling better. I was greeted by my fellow Ball Breakers in the lobby, who had brought me some ginger ale to settle my stomach. I headed up to my room, drew a nice hot bath, and relaxed before bed. Tommorrow would be all about softball!

Or not.

In the morning, although I was feeling 100%, it was cold and rainy, so all the games that day were called off. Alas! A whole day to spend in Washington DC. We piled into cars and headed to the World War II Memorial (unimpressive), and while the rest of the team headed to Arlington, I went to the National Building Museum. Which was wonderful. They're having this whole Green thing going on. I got to commune with my fellow Design Nerds, picked up a few books in the bookstore, and enjoyed a few of the exhibitions. I met up with my teammates, we were all getting hungry, so I took us to one of my favorite restaurants on the planet, Afterwords Cafe at Kramerbooks off Dupont Circle. I'm just never disappointed by Afterwords. We all ate well, I had Fettuccine New Orleans, my favorite thing on the menu. Back to the hotel for another bath. Because we had plans for the evening: we were intent on watching the Mets game.

We got on our cell phones, calling all the gay bars in DC, and found that the only bar that was going to have the Mets-Dodgers game on: the DC Eagle.


Now, I love the DC Eagle. The Eagle has never disappointed me. I know DC guys love to be hatin' on their local pub, but I love the place. As a matter of fact, I'd go so far (and I've done it in the past), declare the DC Eagle to be the Best Leather Bar Ever.


I've made the argument before here that DC is naturally a great town for SM. It's a town of transients, and people who gravitate there go for one reason: power. They're particularly attuned to it. And that being the case... Well, you see where I'm going.

So we watched the Mets take on the Dodgers and win, and our manager had a question to put to us. It seems that since the first day of games was canceled, the games played on Sunday would have special rules to fit all the games in. First off, no game would go beyond 30 minutes. And second, when a batter came to the plate, he'd do it with a 3-2 count.

Say what???

Yeah. That was terrifically unappealing to all of us. And, or first game was scheduled for 8 am.


So, although we spent all that money and came all that way to play softball, it looked like we wouldn't be playing any softball. I, for one, wasn't disappointed. I had a great time hanging out with the Ball Breakers. I'm totally looking forward to April. This will be the year that it all comes together for me! I just know it!

Oh. And the Eagle did not let me down. I ended up taking two of the hottest guys in the joint back to my room at the Washington Plaza Hotel, and the three of us had a great time. In fact, this was the only threesome I've been involved in that really worked. Nobody felt like a third wheel, and I'm glad they both were there.

It was pretty healing, after the recent disturbance to my usual Zen calm and general contentment caused by Very Hairy Man.

The next morning, the Ball Breakers assembled in the lobby for a final brunch together before we bid a fond farewell to Washington DC.

Man. I needed that.

On the way home, I stopped off in Philadelphia to catch the tail-end of OutFest, some gay thing involving vendors, tshirts, blaring music from crappy sound systems, stickers, and a hell of a lot of rainbow motifs. And then stopped in to the Bike Stop. Alas, where smoking cigars--or anything else--is no longer permitted. But they did have karaoke in full force.

I was in and out of there in about four minutes, wondering how I could move me and my father to Washington DC so I could go to the Eagle more than twice a year.

Thanks, DC! Thanks, Ball Breakers! And a special thanks to Tom's Friend Tom and Luis from Kearny, New Jersey!

Thursday, October 05, 2006


So tomorrow, after work, I head down to DC with my softball team for a tournament. And it gets better: we're staying in the Washington Plaza Hotel on Thomas Circle. Which is, of course, the hotel where MAL is held. And one of my favorite hotels in the world.

So why am I in such a foul mood?

Because of a guy, of course.

The Hairy Man.

So we checked each other out on Manhunt. He liked the looks of me, and I liked the looks of him. He lives in Philadelphia, and I work in Philadelphia. In short order, we progressed from typing at each other to talking on the phone. And he sounded great. And, come to think of it, we made the phone call because he typed at me, "So are you just after sex or something more?"

After "Something More"? Am I ever.

On the phone revealed an interesting detail: he used to date hot tub guy. Until he dropped hot tub guy. I was upfront about liking hot tub guy a lot. We talked a lot. We even did the phone sex thing, which I never do because I think it's stupid, and I enjoyed it.

And he kept up with the patter: I'm likin everything I'm seeing and hearing, I think this could really go somewhere, that kind of thing.

So we met for lunch. And he is ten times hotter in person than he is in his pics. I mean, just smokin hot. At lunch, I put all my cards on the table, and his response was, "Well, I'm still sittin here."

And then he made a novel and creative suggestion: that we step around the corner to a porn theater, the kind with the little booths, and get it on.


And I thought that was just the best.

And with our shirts off, running up against each other in the dark. He is very, very hairy.

So at this point, I'm pretty far gone. Thinking that finally my ship had come in. This was a man I could really go places with. This could maybe be it.

And we made a plan. Today, after work, I'd shoot down to his place, and spend some time together naked.

So today, I had a lunch meeting with this guy from the Department of Health. It was the Very Hairy Man. I couldn't pick up and interrupt the meeting, but as soon as it was over, I picked up my voice mail message.

Oh. No.

"Hey what's up. Just about to go into a meeting, I'll be busy for the next hour and a half, then I'll give you a call. Have to do a workaround for later. I have to work from midnight to eight tomorrow morning. So I'll talk to you later."

Now, it wasn't clear to me that we were off for after work. I called him, telling him I got the message, and waited for the phone to ring.

I should have remembered: "I'll talk to you tonight" with the Very Hairy Man means "If you give me a call tonight, I might pick up the phone."

The last three hours of work went pretty slow. I was really looking forward to seeing the Very Hairy Man. Even if we couldn't do the get naked thing, having coffee would be good for me.

He didn't call.


I drove down to his neighborhood, just about impossible as Bill Clinton and George Bush père are in town to receive a medal at the Constitution Center and most of the town is shut down. I called from the corner where he lives.

"Hey! It's me. I'm in your neighborhood. It's six o'clock. Give me a call and let me know what's going on."

And of course I heard nothing.


So what's up with that?

Specific plans to get together. An ambiguous phone call. And then silence. No "I'm really sorry, I was looking forward to it." No "Hope we can make it another time."

No nothing.

The deal is, I wouldn't do that to someone.

Whether it's the case that work came out of nowhere and he couldn't make it, or if it's that he chickened out, or if he just decided the energy wasn't there...

All I can say buddy is, Grow a pair and give a call.


Monday, October 02, 2006

Do We Really Need Another Starbucks?

If you're asking me that question, you're asking the wrong person.

Especially if we're talking about the recently opened Starbucks at 12th and Walnut Streets in Philadelphia.

That would be half a block from the parking garage structure where I park my car. And a mere hop, skip, and jump away from the Bike Stop. It'll be my new home away from home, I'm sure. I've been going to a place in Philadelphia called the Mean Bean. It works in that I can sit out front and watch the boys go by, but... well... it's not Starbucks.

But now I have a Starbucks, just where I want one.