XXIV. The Guy Who’s Got Hairy Bush

There’s something extra thrilling about having sexual encounters while you’re traveling, whether you’re with an exotic local or fellow travelers you meet in the bathroom of your hostel. I think it’s mostly because of the mutual understanding that everything that happens is temporary; meaning that you know that you won’t run into this power bottom you fisted in a dark alley a few nights ago at your local grocery store. There isn’t any possibility of bullshit relationship drama as the night only belongs to you, your allegedly-versatile latino lover, and the overwhelming smell of poppers. As dating apps are becoming more accepted by society,  it’s only fitting that sex tourism is becoming the new norm and I’m here for it (unless it’s child prostitution, that’s deplorable).  I do have one thing to say: please be mindful of the sea turtles and stop throwing your used condoms into the ocean after you’re done having your “aquatic adventure”. They. Deserve. Better.

I randomly met this French guy around my age on a mellow Friday night on Grindr. He’s got a pretty tall yet skinny body, paired with wavy hair that could defy gravity. Basically, he was serving me the Walmart version of Timothée Chalamet. It was clear that this guy was in a rush as he came off very straight-forward with his intention on being online on dating app at 11.30 PM on a Friday when most college students were busy living their outrageously stereotypical Friday night, which is usually filled with an abundance of booze and a shortage of self-respect. Seriously, the things that these frat bros and sorority chicks do to impress people they barely know fucking baffle me sometimes.

Without being prompted, my French boy told me that it was his last night in Los Angeles as he’s completed his summer program and he’s flying back to France the next morning. And I thought to myself, “damn, out of all these fine men in Los Angeles, he chose me to be his last lay?” For once, I didn’t fully regret those squats I did at 11 PM at the campus gym. I mean, I’ve never been the person that goes to the gym for the purposes of bettering my health; I go to the gym to make myself look respectable with no clothes and to check out the gorgeous men in all their glory.

When I saw him at my apartment lobby, it’s pretty obvious that he had a couple of drinks before coming to my place to check out my croissant-shaped buns. And as we were walking to my bedroom, he made it pretty clear that he wanted to get some actions in my boudoir. Let’s just say I didn’t need to ask him “voulez-vous coucher avec moi (ce soir)?“to get him naked on my bed.

When I saw his verge, I was taken aback by his excessive amount of pubic hair. Here’s a thing about pube: just like tacos, everyone has their own preference in the maintenance. Some people love the baby-smooth look, while others prefer to grow a fully-grown bush that is so thick you can hide a few pennies in there. I personally love a manicured version of how they naturally grow; I don’t mind seeing some pubic hair as long as they don’t look like Rapunzel down there. And more importantly, there’s nothing more nauseating than having pubic hair stuck between your teeth. I mean, can you imagine telling your partner that you need a timeout to floss your teeth in the midst of a hot make-out session? No, thank you. 

And to those of you who have got smaller penises (be honest with yourself, size doesn’t really matter if you know how to use your tool properly), manscaping can really help to give your partner the illusion of a bigger schlong. I mean, nothing turns me off faster than trying to search for a guy’s willy inside of a lush black-hair-noodles jungle.

In reality, I was surprised yet pleasantly comfortable with the length of my French boy’s baguette to a point that I made peace with him and his extraordinarily bushy pube. And being a stereotypical romantic French that he is, he made sure that I “completed the race” first before asking me to return the favor. But honestly, we didn’t do much other than having an extremely sloppy make-out session and a meaningless mutual blowjob, as if I was the last thing on his to-do list in the States and he merely wanted to get it over with. By the time we both finished blowing each other’s willy, he quickly got dressed as if he had a ménage à trois situation planned after our quick session. As we were walking to the gas station across my apartment, we chatted a bit about Los Angeles and how wonderful his experiences had been. I could only nod in agreement, gave him a last hug, and wished him a safe flight back to France.

I don’t know, I guess there’s something about the entire experience that made me feel very noble and validated. It’s like, I felt the responsibility as this French boy’s choice to conclude his movie-like experience in Los Angeles and represent the LA gay community to demonstrate our prowess in handling man meat. Judging from the exuberant smile he gave me as he waved his goodbye and disappeared into a maze of dark alleys, I would like to believe that I did a solid job in making his last night in Los Angeles memorable. See… did I tell you that I am a kindhearted guy? I’m so generous you should call me the gay Oprah.