Ok. I know not all people are shit. But in the world of speed it can get really methy.
I’ve always been fascinated by the Hanky Code. More fascinated, actually, with the reason why it existed as today it’s hard to fathom having to communicate with someone so secretly that the color of your snot-rag was your scruff app. Super low tech but highly effective and quite practical. The amazing thing is that the color of the piece of cloth had tremendous meaning to someone knowing the code but absolutely no meaning to someone who didn’t. How this knowledge was spread so effectively throughout the gay community without mobile phones, the internet is beyond me.
I wear a hankie quite often. I don’t think the younger generation knows about it as much but I do get some glances when I wear on in my back pocket.
Oh, I have red, orange, yellow, green and blue. You can do the math.
Was feeling a little broke the other night and put up my escort ad up for a month. Was totally surprised to find an inbox full of messages. I took two outcalls from the pile.
The first was a cute latin guy who wanted to talk and sip vodka and smoke some T. He didn’t have to twist my arm on either one of those and soon he was grabbing at my dick. We went into the spare room (his partner’s dressing room, as he called it) and he proceeded to fuck me, which was a total surprise as I was hired as a top. He took less than the alotted time and gave me the negotiated $130 and I left.
The second one was a bit more interesting. The guy who hired me and I had been talking 3 years ago and when I posted the ad last weekend, I mistook his text from 2013 as one just sent. I answered it and he asked who I was. When I told him, he replied with “Why did it take you three years to respond?” Nonetheless, the called me on Sunday and wanted to know if I could get there by 9. It was 8:30. I told him I would try.
Miraculously I made it there by 9:15. The place was in Pacific Heights. As I walked in the lobby, I was greeted by two doormen in the warm and lavish lobby. I walked up to the desk and said “I’m here to see Alfred in 405”. The young doorman walked me to the elevator and said “The doctor is in 406. Get off the elevator and take a right”.
He took a minute to answer the door. When he opened it, I was greeted by an older guy who looked like.. well, a doctor. He offered me a gin and I graciously accepted it. As I walked over to put my jacket on the chair, I was blasted with a view of the city like I’ve never seen in a residence. Of course, I’ve never seen a residence like that was either. The ceilings in the condo were at least 12 feet tall, with beautifully decorated everything.
He took me to (again) the spare room and he spent the next two hours tied to the bed getting face fucked and paddled until his ass was red. I left with $400.
Both of them had this in common: Their partners were in the next room.
Just got a text message from someone in my phone that I have saved as “Yes Hot”. I have no idea who this is but I answered of course. I wouldn’t save someone in my phone as “yes hot” unless I was trying to tell myself to say “yes” because he is “hot”.
A few years ago I started a database where I keep track of the men I’ve slept with, the ones I want to and the ones to stay away from. Too many times I arranged a hookup with a repeat that I didn’t realize I had already done before with no desire to do again. The database contains pics, numbers, notes and warnings so I can minimize the chances of re-doing a loser or someone that I didn’t feel chemistry with. I’ve also logged thieves, of which there are many. I truly don’t understand why people think that it’s ok to take something that doesn’t belong to them. It happens so freaking often, too. Makes me want to kill.
Oh, well.. Go figures that Thursday, Friday and Saturday night all go without any interest from anyone and now I have yes Hot and some dude named Alex both on their way over. Should be interesting.
I decided to go out last night and have a drink. I gathered up all of my change to take to the coinstar at the grocery store and in the process of looking for quarters, I found the little bag of Roxy that the crazy “massage” in-call I tricked with left at my house. I remember him saying that it was enough for two people so I carefully shoved the straw in the bag and took a big snort, consuming about 3/4 of the bag. I gathered up my bag of quarters and left the house walking to the store. By the time I got halfway to the store I realized that I probably wasn’t going to make it to the bar. I did make it to the store and exchange my coins and got $27.85, enough for a couple of drinks. I couldn’t force myself to get on the train so I just walked around. I ended up by 19th Ave and Sloat and there is something that happens in Stern Grove on the weekends. Hundreds and hundreds of kids congregate there and smoke pot and drink. I was amazed at the fact that there weren’t any cops there. There must be some sort of agreement that the adults won’t bother the kids getting fucked up there as long as they don’t drive a car or something. It was practically a rave. I walked down the side of the grove and down Wawona, the part that ends and becomes a walking trail for about two blocks. Creepy as fuck late at night and since I was tripping balls, I heard all sorts of shit.
I got home finally and was so fucking horny I ripped off my clothes, turned on a porn and shot a huge fat load within 30 seconds and it was one of the most intense orgasms I can remember. Within a few minutes, I shot an equally intense load and fell asleep.
Today I’m as stiff as fuck so I’m popping percocets and sipping wine. I think it’s Sunday. I hope so. I may have to troll for a “massage” therapist to help alleviate some of this pain. And I didn’t make it to the needle exchange once again.