The out-of-towner
Friday night and I'm out with three of my buddies. Dinner at Fat Fish followed by drinks at the Abbey. It's relatively subdued for 10 o'clock on a Friday night, probably because of the coming Halloween festivities. We settle in next to the center bar as the place gradually starts to fill up.
We had been joking about another friend who, especially after he's knocked back a few, has a tendency to grab anyone I've expressed an interest in, pull them in for an introduction and say "My friend thinks you're hot." It can be a bit embarassing, but we shy boys need all the help we can get sometimes. And after a handsome man passes our group and catches my eye, one of my friends decides to take on the role of matchmaker for himself. He stops the handsome man and says "Have you met my friend M? He thinks you're cute."
I'm not on the make tonight, but I don't really mind. I roll my eyes. Whatever. I figure the guy will smile and thank me, maybe even chat a bit, before moving on. But this one sticks around. He introduces himself as Jeff, visiting L.A. from Boston for the weekend with a friend. He's tall, dark and handsome, and looks a bit like George Clooney. Deep brown eyes, salt and pepper hair, devilish smile and a day or three of stubble. I'm shocked to discover that he's 51, since I would have pegged him for my age, a decade younger.
He's a nice guy, so we keep on talking. At some point I realize that my friends have discreetly moved about ten feet away. And Boston Jeff is great. Very charming, very funny. No funny accent. And very handsome. Entirely unsuitable, of course. What on earth am I going to do with a brunet from Boston? Completely useless.
Still, I really like him. He has been single for several years, after a 15-year relationship. He has an interesting job. He actually strikes me as someone I'd definitely want to date, and I tell him this. "Fucker," I say. "Why did you have to live in Boston? I actually like you."
It's almost like my frustration with the Viking, the right guy at the wrong time. But this time, it's the right guy in the wrong city.
It can't go anywhere, after all. Not even for just something quick and purely physical. My house is a disaster area and the Ex is presumably there or will be soon, so that's definitely off limits. He's sharing a hotel room with his friend. Going nowhere.
We keep talking and we're both enjoying each other's company. It's nearly 12:30am now. He tells me that they're planning to hit the shops on Melrose on Saturday, so I give him my recommendation for where they should eat breakfast. There aren't any trick cards or paper or pens, so I ask for his cell phone number so I can text him the name of the restaurant and directions. I hold my cell phone close to my chest and text him:
"Doughboys @ 3rd & crescent heights. West of crescent on south side of 3rd. Kiss me."
After an excruciating wait for the text message to go through, he opens his cell phone. The first few words appear, and for a moment I worry that's he's not going to bother reading the rest. "Keep reading," I urge him.
He looks up at me and smiles. And then he leans in for a kiss, right there in the middle of the now crowded Abbey.
Very nice.
The next day, his last full day in town, we've made plans to meet for dinner. His friend has other dinner plans, so it's just the two of us. I pick up Boston Jeff at his hotel, and we have a cocktail in the rooftop restaurant so we can admire the view. This is kind of weird, though. It feels like a date, but it's clearly not a date. I'm just a friendly native showing him around town. Right?
For dinner, I've decided on another local institution. Marix, the native stalking ground of the tall, handsome men of West Hollywood. The host asks for a name, then looks at my Aquaman t-shirt. "I'll call you Aquaman," he says. "Table for two." (He actually writes down on the sheet "Aquaman: 2" which cracks me up.)
I'm a little less guarded tonight, or else it's just the margaritas talking, but I go on about the breakup, my new roommate, my costume for Halloween, my body image problems, my friends, the works. It's not too awful, really, but he's definitely getting the non-filtered version of me. And he still likes me. We talk about his career, his big Italian family, his non-existant dating life. Another bunch of my friends are there too, and they encourage us to join them for dancing at Hot Dog later in the evening.
"I don't know about you," I say. "But does this sorta feels like we're on a date? It does to me."
"I think it's a date."
After dinner, Boston Jeff calls up his friend to figure out what to do next, and I figure that the easiest thing is for us all to end up back at the Abbey, since the friend knows how to get there. We agree to meet there in about an hour. Boston Jeff and I have a bit of time to kill, and I could use a brief respite from drinking. We could go around the corner to O-Bar, we could go on to the Abbey early. Decisions...
No. I take Jeff purposefully back to my car and I drive west. Back to his hotel. In the car, I'm already hard. Up in his room, when I pull off my t-shirt, I hear him whisper "Wow." And he is completely hot himself: perfectly manicured hairy chest, strong defined pecs, the works.
It was fantastic.
Afterward, we return to the Abbey, where the two Bostonians decide to call it a night. I'm wide awake now, of course, and kind of giddy, so I decide to meet up with my buddies at Hot Dog. On my way there, I send Boston Jeff a one-word text:
"Wow"
I'm on the dance floor, surrounded by my friends, when I see that I've gotten a new text message. One which I think I will never erase:
We had been joking about another friend who, especially after he's knocked back a few, has a tendency to grab anyone I've expressed an interest in, pull them in for an introduction and say "My friend thinks you're hot." It can be a bit embarassing, but we shy boys need all the help we can get sometimes. And after a handsome man passes our group and catches my eye, one of my friends decides to take on the role of matchmaker for himself. He stops the handsome man and says "Have you met my friend M? He thinks you're cute."
I'm not on the make tonight, but I don't really mind. I roll my eyes. Whatever. I figure the guy will smile and thank me, maybe even chat a bit, before moving on. But this one sticks around. He introduces himself as Jeff, visiting L.A. from Boston for the weekend with a friend. He's tall, dark and handsome, and looks a bit like George Clooney. Deep brown eyes, salt and pepper hair, devilish smile and a day or three of stubble. I'm shocked to discover that he's 51, since I would have pegged him for my age, a decade younger.
He's a nice guy, so we keep on talking. At some point I realize that my friends have discreetly moved about ten feet away. And Boston Jeff is great. Very charming, very funny. No funny accent. And very handsome. Entirely unsuitable, of course. What on earth am I going to do with a brunet from Boston? Completely useless.
Still, I really like him. He has been single for several years, after a 15-year relationship. He has an interesting job. He actually strikes me as someone I'd definitely want to date, and I tell him this. "Fucker," I say. "Why did you have to live in Boston? I actually like you."
It's almost like my frustration with the Viking, the right guy at the wrong time. But this time, it's the right guy in the wrong city.
It can't go anywhere, after all. Not even for just something quick and purely physical. My house is a disaster area and the Ex is presumably there or will be soon, so that's definitely off limits. He's sharing a hotel room with his friend. Going nowhere.
We keep talking and we're both enjoying each other's company. It's nearly 12:30am now. He tells me that they're planning to hit the shops on Melrose on Saturday, so I give him my recommendation for where they should eat breakfast. There aren't any trick cards or paper or pens, so I ask for his cell phone number so I can text him the name of the restaurant and directions. I hold my cell phone close to my chest and text him:
"Doughboys @ 3rd & crescent heights. West of crescent on south side of 3rd. Kiss me."
After an excruciating wait for the text message to go through, he opens his cell phone. The first few words appear, and for a moment I worry that's he's not going to bother reading the rest. "Keep reading," I urge him.
He looks up at me and smiles. And then he leans in for a kiss, right there in the middle of the now crowded Abbey.
Very nice.
The next day, his last full day in town, we've made plans to meet for dinner. His friend has other dinner plans, so it's just the two of us. I pick up Boston Jeff at his hotel, and we have a cocktail in the rooftop restaurant so we can admire the view. This is kind of weird, though. It feels like a date, but it's clearly not a date. I'm just a friendly native showing him around town. Right?
For dinner, I've decided on another local institution. Marix, the native stalking ground of the tall, handsome men of West Hollywood. The host asks for a name, then looks at my Aquaman t-shirt. "I'll call you Aquaman," he says. "Table for two." (He actually writes down on the sheet "Aquaman: 2" which cracks me up.)
I'm a little less guarded tonight, or else it's just the margaritas talking, but I go on about the breakup, my new roommate, my costume for Halloween, my body image problems, my friends, the works. It's not too awful, really, but he's definitely getting the non-filtered version of me. And he still likes me. We talk about his career, his big Italian family, his non-existant dating life. Another bunch of my friends are there too, and they encourage us to join them for dancing at Hot Dog later in the evening.
"I don't know about you," I say. "But does this sorta feels like we're on a date? It does to me."
"I think it's a date."
After dinner, Boston Jeff calls up his friend to figure out what to do next, and I figure that the easiest thing is for us all to end up back at the Abbey, since the friend knows how to get there. We agree to meet there in about an hour. Boston Jeff and I have a bit of time to kill, and I could use a brief respite from drinking. We could go around the corner to O-Bar, we could go on to the Abbey early. Decisions...
No. I take Jeff purposefully back to my car and I drive west. Back to his hotel. In the car, I'm already hard. Up in his room, when I pull off my t-shirt, I hear him whisper "Wow." And he is completely hot himself: perfectly manicured hairy chest, strong defined pecs, the works.
It was fantastic.
Afterward, we return to the Abbey, where the two Bostonians decide to call it a night. I'm wide awake now, of course, and kind of giddy, so I decide to meet up with my buddies at Hot Dog. On my way there, I send Boston Jeff a one-word text:
"Wow"
I'm on the dance floor, surrounded by my friends, when I see that I've gotten a new text message. One which I think I will never erase:
posted by M. at 12:24 PM
3 Comments:
Aw! YAY! That totally made my day!!! :) Yippee!
A couple of things....
You're making me look bad. I can barely turn out two sentences and a picture. You keep writing these fabulous epics.
AND...this one is just great. Only you could turn a trick into something this wonderful.
You should have brought him to after hours. God was it great!
Awww... that is so sweet, Arthur Curry.
Whew! There are more plot twists and guest stars going on in this blog than "Lost" and "Will & Grace" combined.
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