And then there were eleven.
To some, those who close down a bar appear as pathetic stragglers, sad sacks with game too lame to score while the joint is hoppin’ and the booty’s buffet. On the contrary, I infer stamina and discernment.
If you’re still standing after last call, it’s safe to presume you’ll be quite active off your feet until at least four in the morning, but you won’t settle for sharing a bed with anyone of less than equivocal prowess. Confidence notwithstanding, lone departure is always a potential outcome when enacting this approach. Whether instigated by an absence of quality or – as was the case last night – an uneven number of present patrons, one need be prepared to go home alone.
Eleven horny men remained. Two bartenders, one bouncer, five fellow dodgeballers, an unaffiliated civilian couple, and I. Attractive and not yet out of my periphery though the three regular staff members may be, only one fellow still held my fancy and for his momentary affection I vied against another member of the Los Angeles Dodgeball Society. We aren’t due to face off on the court until next week, but there we were at Gym, neck and neck in the pursuit of necking.
“Am I out of the running?” I shortcut to the chase.
“What running? There’s no running,” he feigned ignorance.
“Mmm – HMM,” my own smirk acknowledged the truth apparent in his.
My opponent, his beer pong partner, returned and I moved across the room to challenge the doorboi to a game of pool in an effort towards nonchalance, a game that I swiftly and expectedly lost. The real victory, however, was not yet out of sight. I strolled back across the room, nearing the finish line, the deciding advance.
“So, you want to take me back to your place?” I began the final sprint.
“Whaaat?” His reply seemed to teeter from demure to disbelieving. “I don’t do that.”
“You don’t do what?”
“Take boys back to my place.”
“Ever?” Incredulity was now evident in my tone.
“Not like this,” disqualification resounded.
“Well – alright. Good to meet you,” I offered along with a grin and, like the good sport my dad’s years of coaching had taught me to be, a parting hug.
No courteous post-match-up high-five for my adversary in ass, though; but no dirty look, either. I might have given him a slight nod farewell and “well-played,” but of that I can’t be too sure because while my exit was most certainly a proud and measured strut, a respectable retreat, I wa’n’t really wantin’ to stick around to watch him negate the M.O. of our mutually desired mo.
Sure, I didn’t get any – again. But often mere, nonverbal validation is as satisfying as penetration. And despite my sweat tousled mane and athletic attire, I am pleased to say I garnered some of the former, turning more than a couple showered, styled, clean-clothed heads as I ambled up West Hollywood’s main drag.
Plus, I bought a milkshake blended with Junior Mints. FROZEN – Junior Mints. Of a better food item to substitute for sex I cannot think. Except maybe corndogs, phallic form irrelevant. I’m not that starved.
hahaha. boy, your crazy.