2006-08-30 - 12:17 a.m.
No need to worry, delightful Big Blue Blog-a-roo, my stepfather got home from Wyoming in comparative comfort and safety. But, brother, what an odious journey it was! We drove about 300 miles from Wyoming to Salt Lake City, with poor stepdad hooked up to a gigantic oxygen canister, one of those dangly plastic tubes flopping below his nose. “Hooosh-whoo,” the damn oxygen machine went, “puffa-puffa-ka-puffa!”
But even so encumbered, the journey was longer more than it was strictly uncomfortable – and we even stopped off at the divine Sam Weller Bookstore in Salt Lake City. Although it baked in the near-hundred degree heat, Salt Lake City was looking really lovely – all those stone buildings and perfectly landscaped sidewalks. And they had the nicest light rail train that whooshed hither and thither. And so many blonde-haired Mormons, all smiling at one! So attractive. If only they knew that I was the devil out of Hell.
However, if you want to know the truth, Salt Lake City has always looked a tad too much like a zombie town to be believable. Did you ever watch that episode of the original Star Trek series in which Kirk, Spock, Sulu, and McCoy all wind up on this planet that was made up to resemble an American small town, except everyone is possessed by a computer that made them all act like bland, possessed automatons? Well, Salt Lake City is just like that.
Everyone walking on the street is disturbingly good looking and well dressed – but they also walk just a little too slowly and with a little too little urgency to be totally convincing. They’re possessed! Zombies! Or they are being controlled marionette-like by the gigantic computer in the sky! Aside from that, though, I suppose they’re all right.
It is funny how ignorant folks can be about their own town, though. Sam Weller’s Bookstore is a huge deal in Salt Lake City, I’d think. It’s like Duttons is here in LA, except more important, because there are fewer options there. Yet, when we could not locate the bookstore, and we had to ask several people on the street for directions, I swear we had to ask about a dozen folks before anyone had heard of the place. And that was when the bookstore turned out to be a mere three doors down. It was almost comical.
“Naaw, I ain’ never heard of it,” one local after the other jawed, looks of well-intentioned perplexity wrinkling their brows, when there the bookstore was, its ruby red awning glinting just three doors away. Bizarre! I’d say it was some kind of a joke, with the locals conspiring to mislead tourists with wrong directions, but the people were frankly altogether too friendly for such shenanigans. They were sweet, handsome, but utterly incurious of the most obvious landmarks of their city.
If you ever have the fortune to travel anywhere with my parents, you will discover that they are total bookstore groupies. In any city or town they visit, the first place they aim for is the bookstore. It’s kind of funny, really. It’s the way a sex addict might be in making a bee-line to a city’s strip club (as if there is one in Salt Lake City). First thing they do is zero in on the bookstore. It is fortunate that Sam Weller’s is, at least, a world class bookstore, its used book section populated by thousands of volumes from the library of hundreds of Utah old ladies and gentlemen, who died and left their estates to be sold en masse by their ungrateful children.
The flight home was otherwise inconsequential and stepdad perked right up upon being returned to the sea level altitude to which he was accustomed. He took right to his bed and is still there now, unless I am very much mistaken. The diagnosis of emphysema has been confirmed by other doctors now, but everyone seems to think that my stepdad will be fine as long as he quits smoking, once and for all.
Upon arrival home, I succumbed to a wearied malaise that was evidenced by an overall lack of enthusiasm for just about any subject or activity. What can I say? I really just don’t give a rat’s ass. I seem to particularly be having trouble getting started on any task, major or minor. I just want to sit and watch porn on my computer! I just want to play stupid Internet games! I don’t want to do anything important or useful.
The most excited I got this week was while watching PROJECT RUNWAY, when poor Robert Best got voted off. How sad! He was really the nicest and most pleasant of this season’s designers, though I must admit I retain a particular soft spot for Kayne because he’s so damned cute and queenie – and because he was one real and true fattiepants when he was a kid, if you’ve seen the photos from the Mothers and Sisters Episode.
To cheer myself up, I bought myself a membership to this wacky website about which I have written before – http://fratpad.com. It’s not bad! This is the website in which six straight boys all room together in an apartment on Sunset Blvd and Cahuenga. A month or two ago, I was enchanted by the “free preview” the site offered, so on a whim I decided to buy the membership.
I am faintly amused by how the site has developed, and I must confess to a genuine curiosity as to the motivations and purposes of all the folks involved with the shows. Each of the five straight boys is forced to chat and jerk off for something like six hours a day. That would strike me as being rather a long time to masturbate, really, even for me, but the gentlemen on the site do seem to be enjoying themselves.
It’s a strange crew of boys who are all around 19 or 20, from various flyover communities in Virginia and Louisiana, who seem to have come to the Big City of LA for uncertain purposes. They can’t be making THAT much money whackin’ it for a living, can they? I mean, back in the day, the boys at Chi Chi LaRue’s Live and Raw Hotel would get paid no more than three hundred bucks a week (plus board). How much more can these guys be making?
There’s also something vaguely disturbing about the notion of guys who are unarguably straight – and you need only watch one of them ejaculate onto a leather sofa and then wipe up the cum with a paper towel to know that’s a straight guy – flirting and teasing and slutting around for a gay audience. I wonder what that does to a man’s psychology, don’t you? I would think the constant sexual pressure – and pressure from a sort of sexual orientation that isn’t that of the performer – would create any number of issues of emotional conflict and confusion. I have heard stories of these het guys who finish up their shifts of jerking off and spooging for the gay guys and then run right off to the strip club across the street to get lap dances with the cheesiest hoes, simply to re-focus their sexual energy. It’s downright perplexin’.
Meanwhile, I am pleased to report that I have done all right for myself this week, at least sex-wise. It’s so funny how easy it is to have sex! And how difficult it is to do anything else concrete and meaningful. It’s like the sex falls right into my lap. Go figure! But, my pets, what can I say? It works for me.
For instance, I had scarcely returned from the trip when I got an unexpected E-mail from a long ago correspondent of mine, a young Brazilian man who, at the time, was working as a flight attendant for a Brazilian Airline. We met up once, something like four years ago, and had a great time, but for some reason, even though he chatted me up now and then over the subsequent millennia, we never got together again. He was an amazing powerbottom, and a vividly remember his dropping on my bed to his hands and knees, ass up, so that I would have no choice but to enter him fiercely from behind. How he moaned and grunted! It was quite inspiring.
Anyway, the nice boy abruptly contacted me out of the blue, to tell me that he was staying in town – and, in fact, was housesitting for a wealthy doctor in his fancy Ocean Avenue condo just around the corner. Now, I don’t know if you know my neighborhood at all, but there is a definitely class system. The run down, hideously 1970s-esque buildings, such as the one in which I live, are for steadfastly middle class folks like me.
But a mere stone’s throw from me are all these movie star palaces and American corporate palazzos that one only sees when one is walking down the streets in front of them. Like the Venetian palaces, no one really seems to live in them – and the only people who get invited to see them are the mysterious super-wealthy folks who are just like the owners.
Therefore, the opportunity to visit one of these Ocean Avenue Palazzos – and indeed to have sex in it with a hot Brazilian former flight attendant – was not something any sensible person would or should pass up. And so, when I got the call, I packed my little shoulder bag with lube and condoms and trotted allllllll the way around the corner to the gigantic, hyper-expensive condo-scraper with the astonishing views of the ocean.
The building was fronted by a long, circular driveway that led directly to a hotel-like reception area. A team of burly security guard-doormen-receptionists sat at the counter, glaring, but I was prepared for them, as I had in my hand a slip of paper with the name of the owner of the apartment, and the room number.
“Yes,” I said in my best ‘gentleman caller’ voice. “I am here to see… uh… Doctor Wes Nightingale in Apartment 402. I’m Johnny.”
If the doorman-guard thought that I might be a dirty hook up arriving to boink Dr. Nightingale’s esteemed housesitter, he gave no sign of it. “Yessir, room 402. I’ll buzz you up!”
The doors to the marble-walled elevator opened magically behind him, and the button for the 4th floor lit up by remote control as if by magic. Everyone smiled and smiled, like I was paying their salary. And then the elevator doors closed and up I went. The doors opened in front of this plushly carpeted hallway, which stretched the length of the building. Apartment 402 was right in front of me. I knocked gently, and even before I finished, the door slowly opened.
Xavier, curly haired, with olive brown skin and beautiful twinkly eyes, just as I remembered, whisked me inside. He was wearing a tight black shirt -- and nothing else at all, his hairy, lean legs and round naked ass framed by the border of the shirt tails. He wrapped myself against me, and thrust his tongue into my mouth, as my hands worked their way down his shirt back to his naked ass.
I looked around me. It was quite some apartment! It was dark, walls and floor lined with expensive woods and tiles, and expensive Asian sculptures were artfully poised in every room. On one wall, there was a glass case containing what I suspected was a priceless Japanese Kimono spread out, framing a samurai sword. On a pedestal near it, was a Japanese Kubuki mask of a spirit woman. There were no books whatsoever, of course, but plenty of small tables made of polished black wood.
The feel was very much that of a Manhattan Upper East Side apartment that I might remember from my youth. And, even though it was a miserably humid, hot day outside, inside the palatial apartment, the air was cool and still, the quiet leavened only by the genial chit chat of the Brazilian stud. He told me that he had long since quit being a flight attendant – “Bush got me fired after 9/11!” he explained in his heavy Brazlian accent. Now he was in insurance, which seemed significantly less glamorous, I must say. Yet, he was still Brazilian, and that counted for much more than something.
We made out and tumbled along the wooden-floored foyer to this gigantic living room, which had floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Pacific Bluffs. If anyone had looked up from the park below, they would have been treated to quite a sight, I assure you. On the other side of the room, there was this ENORMOUS wall sized flatscreen TV, showing the most ghastly porn movie. In front of the TV, Xavier had dragged a mattress, clearly for sex purposes.
Xavier instantly ripped off my clothes and dropped to his knees, slurping hard on my dick. I sucked him, too, but then he flopped right on his back and plopped his legs on my shoulders. I latexed and lubed myself up, and entered him, pumping him slowly, then faster, as he gasped and moaned and shrieked, his grunts echoing off the wooden walls of the cavernous apartment. He wriggled around, so I was thrusting into him doggy style, grabbing his waist, as he masturbated my cock with his butt. Then I lay on my back and he rode me, going up and down, his own little hard cock bouncing up and down with arousal. Finally, we both came.
Sweaty, I asked if I might take a quick shower.
“Sure, here, come on,” Xavier smiled, leading me down another wood paneled hallway to this most astonishing bathroom. The chamber featured this borderline astonishing shower – it was huge, with a stone slab to sit on, and a pulsating, revolving shower head that looked like it could power a space ship if it was hooked up to a warp drive cylinder. There was also every wonderful expensive toiletry known to man, including some wacky lavender fancy-pants bodywash that I was delighted to smear on my body.
After toweling myself off using this Bloomingdale’s Finest fluffy terry cloth towel, atop the genuine Persian bathmat covering the marble tiled bathroom floor, I donned my clothes and headed back into the living room, where Xavier, now dressed in a pair of tight paisley was putting the house back in order. I moved up behind him, and started rubbing myself against his briefs-clad butt.
From this point, I’m afraid, things started to reheat again. I slid down his briefs, as he slipped his tongue back into my mouth. He was in the process of moving one of the black wooden tables from one part of the room to the other, and I am afraid things turned out so that he was lying on top of the table, with me pounding into him once more, his sweaty back and ass making squeaking noises and smearing all over the wood.
After I shot a second time all over his back, I showered once again, dressed and gave him one last kiss goodbye.
“Dang,” he sighed. “That was even better than I remembered. Fuck! Don’t be a stranger!” I smiled and left. I daresay the doormen noticed my post-coital flush as I exited the building, into the humidity of the Santa Monica Summer.
