“All I’m saying is that to the extent gaydar is merely a ‘ping,’ well, he’s pinging all over the fucking place.”
“You’re not the first person to tell me that.”
“I would assume I was not.”
“For the record, I neither support nor oppose your hitting on this one, despite his oh-so-obvious Sauce. It’s between the two of you if you want something to happen.”
When Scott returned, Jackson commenced with his usual captivation, a dance seemingly free of steps, a trickling flow of smiles, glances, gestures, purrs. He’d never be so obvious as to ask someone if he was interested, and he’d never be so bold as to begin an evening with sexual touching. He was, quite simply, engaging. He asked questions, laughed at jokes, made his own, displayed interest. He was warm and open and sometimes crass. Within twenty minutes he usually spoke to those he just met as if he’d known them for years.
Scott kept rather quiet, clinking the ice in his glass, looking down, sinking himself into well-cut pants. Toad Hall shocked us with hip-hop, not hugely common in the Castro. Pale neon lights bounced on and off our faces, and we gulped our drinks, as well as a couple of subsequent rounds. Soon there was a bit more sway in all of our hips, a looseness to us. We herded Scott out onto the street and elected to begin hopping bars, seeping in and out of the sidewalks, weaving between happy couples holding hands and groups of friends arguing their destinations and the naked guy that lies on Castro Street on the weekends. A taste of Moby Dick, a circle through the Mix, a trek to Blackbird and around the corner to Churchill, our migrations and our conversations began to blur together until suddenly it was almost one in the morning on a Monday and we were swaying a bit too much to walk. We discovered the wherewithal to make our way to eat something and settled at a diner booth at Sparky’s for some greasy food of middling quality that was available in the middle of the night.
At Sparky’s the action truly began. Scott had reached the point where his speech was absentminded and irrelevant, as I suppose we all had. Jackson and I took seats on opposite sides of the booth, and Scott predictably slid in next to Jackson. I watched as Jackson adjusted his legs to scoot imperceptibly closer to Scott. I pretended to consider the menu as I watched Scott’s neck turn in Jackson’s direction, and I wondered if my sidelong glance had properly observed his inhaling Jackson’s neck. My farcical consideration of my dining options continued as Jackson engaged Scott in some private dialogue, their faces almost touching, and I could see clearly that Jackson’s arm was overlapping with Scott’s waist. Bold! I smiled to myself.
“We better get some food in him,” I said to Jackson, tearing him away. We ordered carbs, carbs, grease, and carbs. We insisted that Scott eat them all. He tried. By the end of our meal, his dialogue was considerably more coherent. The meal sobered me as well.
“Shall we roll to my casa for a splif?” Jackson proposed. It sounded a brilliant idea to Scott and me, though I presume for decidedly different reasons. In the cab, Scott jumped in the middle seat and splayed his arms across the back headrest, cradling us both. “I miss San Francisco,” he said as he leaned his head onto my shoulder.
“It misses you too.”
Puff, puff, pass, and fatigue overwhelmed me, though I would have departed if I had the pep of a four-year old recently filled with chocolate Easter bunnies. “Boys,” I said, “I’m spent. Scott, you have my spare key?”
“Ya.”
“Alright. Peace out.” And off I went.
* * *
Naturally, I grilled Jackson after Scott’s flight took off the next morning. I’d woken to Scott sleeping in the guest room alone, but I had a sneaking suspicion that wasn’t the whole story. I was right.
“After you left,” Jackson dished, “I poured us new drinks and sat down next to him on the couch…”
Jackson began with little knee taps, emphasizing his points in conversation. He was not surprised to find that Scott reciprocated his movements, leaned in, lowered his voice to a whisper. From there it was simple enough for Jackson to drop into a kiss. His exploring kiss was apparently very different from mine.
“No, wait,” I cut him off. “I need details. I can’t learn from this if you use nondescriptive verbs like ‘kiss.’”
Jackson made an angry-cat noise. “I kissed him hard, like I couldn’t hold myself back any more, like I had to have it right then. But I wasn’t kissing so hard that I couldn’t put my drink down at the same time, and I did. His was enough to keep his hand bound in thin air. I put my hand on his thigh and squeezed his quad hard, holding the squeeze and running it up his leg until my thumb brushed his cock, and it was already chubby. That was sufficient green light, I thought.”
“I’d tend to agree.”
“So, I pulled away and took his drink and put it on the table in front of me, and then I just looked at him while I slid my hand back up his thigh the same way, and he watched my hand all the way up. I flattened my palm against his cock, and I swear to you I could feel it pulsing, getting harder and straining his zipper. Then he surprised me, actually. He took that lovely big paw and grabbed my junk, squeezing it a little, and looked back up at me.”
“I guess this one actually does know what he’s doing. Or at least I had suspected this wouldn’t be a wholly new experience for him,” I noted.
“It did not seem to be novel, no. So I stood up and I pulled him up too, and I laid another hard kiss on him and ground my cock into his crotch… was rewarded with some lovely throbbing. I relieved him of his shirt and he returned the favor. Then the pants. Fuck he was hard, hard like they usually get once I have lips round shaft and have started sucking already.”
“The man lives a life of buildup.”
“Right, so, there was no pandering about and didn’t seem to be any need to pretend. I slipped off my shorts and pulled his down, and stood back up so we crossed swords. But that didn’t last long. I think my cock spent about half a second touching his before he dropped down to his knees and had me in his mouth.”
“Whoa! I wouldn’t have guessed he’d take the initiative. Was he good?”
“Quite. Dude, that was not his first time at the dick-sucking rodeo. He knew some gay tricks. He sucked on the base of my cock, and his right hand went straight for my asshole. But he pulled back for a second well before I was gonna come, so I pushed him back against the couch and went to town on him. He has a great cock.”
“I know, he’s whipped it out at me drunkenly once before. Thick, straight… and, at that point, well-manicured.”
“Still well-manicured. So I was sucking him and all of sudden on my upstroke he pulls his hips back so he falls out of my mouth and he looks at me and says ‘fuck me?’”
I laughed, highly amused.
“I was almost worried he’d lose his nerve while I dug up a condom, but I led him into my bedroom and when I pulled it out of the drawer he took it out of my hand, ripped it open, and put it on my cock himself, running his hands all over my shaft and my balls and all. So, I took some lube out too and offered it to him, and he took that too and smothered me with it. Then, his most adorable move all night, with my cock in his hand, he kissed me and turned and bent and put me in his ass. I was all easing in when he just thrust himself backward onto me, and I was all the way into him. I pounded him until I came, but he didn’t, so I pulled out and slipped the condom off. He was still shaking his ass back at me, groaning, and I flipped him over and sat him on the bed, put a condom on him, lubed him up and mounted him.”
“Amazing.”
“Seriously. I was riding him and he started thrusting up, right on queue, and when I started to get hard again he started jacking me off. So we’re all sweaty and he reaches in the drawer while we’re going and puts a new condom on me and says, ‘I want you to fuck me til I come.’ So I lifted myself off and let him get on his knees. I could slide back into him in one pump, and I picked his chest back up to lean his back against me. Thank god for pot. I’m not sure I would’ve have had the energy
for a second go without the extra intensity.”
“Amen to that.”
“So yeah, I rammed him for a while and yanked him too, all the while he’s squealing like a little girl. So then the tempo of the squealing starts to increase and – this is perhaps the best part – he shot his load square on my headboard. I came in him watching it drip down.”
I was speechless for a moment before I managed a “wow.”
“Wow, indeed,” he said, “and thanks.”
“For what?”
“For delivering me a nice, Sauced lay in a big pink bow.”
“Honestly, darling… I’m thrilled you liked it, but I put you together mostly out of curiosity. I know your talent for drawing the Sauce out of boys, and I’m afraid there’s a lot of hurt coming down the road for several people if he doesn’t face his. I wanted us both to know what happened when he faced it. By the way, thanks for kissing and telling.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but he’s faced this before. This wasn’t like Eric where he was all nervous and hesitant and I just coaxed him into playing a little and he fell in line with it and got into it. Scott’s done this before.” Jackson’s accent became somehow more euphonious. “He knew what he wanted me to do, and exactly what would make him come with all that Whiskey in him. He didn’t conceal a certain hunger for cock. But he did disappear after I fell asleep. I hate that.”
“I’m sorry. I mean I believe I misjudged much about this situation, but I suppose I could have guessed he’d sneak away to avoid discussing it.”
“And I expected that. It’s a lot to get a handle on I guess, at least if it’s the first time. But… like I said…”
“This wasn’t the first time.”
“No.”
“He certainly didn’t say a word to me. Not that I expected he would.”
“Well, if this boy goes the rest of his life denying himself the glorious pleasure of cock, I’d be shocked.”
“I don’t think that’s exactly how it will go.” The guilt I’d purposefully ignored all through the night, and the lingering guilt I’d felt since that day I’d seen Mark’s hand run over Scott’s ass, was magnified a hundred-fold now. On the one hand, we’d dragged Scott just slightly closer to the truth about himself. On the other hand we’d muddied muddy waters anew. I frowned for his girl. She might not get hurt tomorrow, he’d likely not say a word, but it seemed only a matter of time before she or her successor discovered him in some compromising position, or just felt her life slowly consumed with pain because her man seemed disinterested in her. But, I told myself, maybe he loves her more than he loves cock. I wasn’t sure it was worth it to hope. “I think he’s well practiced at denying that such things ever came to pass but making sure they occur fairly regularly,” I told Jackson.
I hung up wondering what it was to be Scott, to be hungry for something in that way and spend your whole life not acknowledging it. I wished for Scott that the world were a place where he could be comfortable just saying “I like men too” and it wouldn’t cost him a second thought, much less a job or a family fallout. Or a world where it was not shocking to have a girlfriend who allows you to dabble with men now and then, to express the impulse in some limited way, the way a Roman wife likely would have. I felt certain Scott would be a happier person in that world. But, in this world, Scott showed me what happens when one is aware of same-sex attractions but feels social pressure against voicing them. Before, when I’d heard stories of middle-aged married men getting caught soliciting sex from boys in a park, I’d imagined behavior like Scott’s was where they probably started – ineffective denial. I hoped Scott could find a better outlet, and I renewed my resolve to help those with Sauce find better outlets. Isis included.
Scott never spoke of Jackson again, but he continued to visit Mark regularly.
Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty that charms one. A mist makes things wonderful.
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
Festival Season
The rain petered out through April, leaving the city warm and sunny and ready for months of debauchery. In May, the revelry of San Francisco’s proper Festival Season kicks off with our version of a footrace.
Bay to Breakers presumably began under inauspicious circumstances, around the turn of the century. Its course winds just over seven miles from the bay in the Financial District toward the Pacific, finishing at the waves of Ocean Beach. At some point in the last hundred years, it acquired bandits, hilarious persons trailing behind the registered runners merely to join the Citywide revelry. I’d never run the race, but since I moved a few blocks off the route I’d made a point to go out and watch the bandits, at least.
The Saturday before the race, I called Ben with a very particular purpose. “Sir,” I said when he answered, “can I assume you’ll be joining for routeside camping tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“Could I possibly request you invite Isis?”
“I dunno, man. I don’t really want your drool all over me. And I can’t have you Saucing my clients.”
“Oh, come on. I won’t drool on anyone, not externally, I promise. She’s really cool, though, I’d like to be friends.”
“Hmm. Okay. I’ll ask. I suppose all of Mississippi will be there?”
“Yes, Jackson is coming.” I hadn’t really brought them together in the past few months, I suppose because I focused on one gay boyfriend at a time. “We’re gonna make a cooler-o-Bloody Marys. Bring any chairs you can. I don’t know how many friends I’m gonna have tomorrow. Apparently my biggest draw is a nearby private bathroom.”
“It is the sexiest thing about you.”
“Bitch. Alright, see you tomorrow?”
“Yep.”
The weather fully cooperated, sun beaming warm and dedicated from the moment it burnt off a light fog at dawn. Jackson appeared at my door before nine, carrying a bag full of celery stalks, olives, and cocktail onions, dressed in a pair of cobalt spandex pants and a hot pink tie-dyed tank top. I tossed a box of toothpicks in his general direction as I placed the bucket cooler with the tiny spout on the countertop. I poured two gallons of Bloody Mary mix in, then a handle of vodka, a quarter of a bottle of Worchestershire sauce.
Jackson just watched. “This is more of a production than usual, no?” he asked.
I ignored his question. “What else are we supposed to drink before ten AM?” I sliced fifteen or so limes in half, then squeezed each half into the bucket, dropping the rind in after the juice. “I suppose we could have been pedestrian and rented a keg, if there are any left to be rented in the city.” I grabbed a new bottle of Tabasco, ripped off the seal, and counted out thirty shakes into the bucket, then I turned a black pepper grinder around inside for a minute to give the stuff texture, staring into the mix as I worked.
“Why are you so quiet?” he asked.
“Am I? It’s just early. You want some coffee?” I switched on my espresso machine, then pulled a small, flat bit of Tupperware from the cupboard. In went sea salt, more black pepper, a bit of cayenne. I sealed and shook, then handed it to Jackson. “Put this in your bag. We’ll get ice on the way.” He took it. “And these.” He took the stack of cups. “And you have the toothpicks?”
“Plan much?”
“Do you want to walk back and forth all morning looking for forgotten supplies?”
“Oh, do your business. I’ll drink it.” I fielded a few curious text messages and poured us each a coffee before collecting two folding chairs and donning a set of mesh fairy wings. “Let’s go, we’ve probably already missed the centipedes.”
We slithered into a spot on the Panhandle adjacent to Fell Street, just along about the fifth mile of the route, prying our chairs between groups such that we gave the impression we wouldn’t be joined by a whole troupe of other brightly-dressed people shortly. I sent out an email to the several folks I expected to join, specifying our location. Jackson and I planted our lawn chairs, salted a red solo cup apiece
, and tapped ourselves a Bloody Mary.
We hadn’t missed all the centipedes for the day, only the serious ones who wanted to finish in under-eight-minute miles. There were two categories of centipedes with the potential to be highly amusing. First, there were the professional centipedes tied together with expensive rubber ropes specially manufactured at the instruction of some Silicon Valley monolith, composed of wiry geeks who worked at the monolith, representing the motivational power of technology or something along those lines. If one of the runners stumbled, the group gathered around him or her immediately, coddling the fallen, who eventually pulled it together and started jogging again, barely slowing the centipede. Second, there was the comedic centipede, and these weren’t likely to pass in droves just yet, really. The comedic centipede rarely ran, often wore fur, and was bound together by ropes of duct tape or some other cheap, haphazard coagulant. When a ‘pede of this variety fell, the organism dragged it along for a moment before reaching the slowed, drunken realization that a leg was broken, hollering excitedly for a moment, swarming around the fallen soldier and lifting it away from the ground for thirty or so meters before dropping it again.
In the first fifteen minutes, we saw three furries run by: a pink rabbit, a purple teddy bear, and a brown… something furry. They all wore numbers. I guessed they were running an eight-and-a-half minute mile, and I was impressed. We only saw one naked guy, which was sort of disappointing, but of course it was early and the people running by at the point probably hadn’t had the opportunity to get intoxicated before they started out. We were saturated with anticipation. Naked people could be ugly, but runners were rarely offensive-naked. Later, those with saggier skin would join the naked runners and temper our amusement. The walkers that had started to appear were merely in zany workout attire.
“Hey,” a deep voice cooed from behind me, and I turned, overjoyed to see Wesley standing there.
It took me a moment to take in his body in those clothes. Wife beater, emerald green booty shorts, matching emerald green puffy sneakers, emerald green headband with a four-leaf clover on it. He wouldn’t have stood out on the bus today except for the muscles rippling all over the place, demanding attention despite the fabric stretching over them, and, given the context, wouldn’t have been readily identifiable as gay. But, my god, Men’s Health was out wondering where it put that body.
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