XLVI. The Guy Who Was Drunk In Love

“Goddamn, man-child, you fucked me so good that I almost said, ‘I love you'”

– Lana Del Rey –

At what point in your relationship would you feel comfortable talking about the next steps? Or worse, confessing your feeling toward the other person? Is there a set of deadlines one has to meet in a relationship? Say, if the other person hasn’t munched on your booty by the third date, does that mean your “situation-ship” is pretty much donezo? And how long do you have to wait until “red flags” emerge in a relationship? Although I’ve had years of experience in the dating department, I still haven’t been able to figure the algorithm to a successful relationship. Yet people keep saying that I should relax and go with the flow. Well, bitches… what if the flow of my relationship brings me straight into a 10,000 feet waterfall? Shouldn’t I try to prevent myself from free-falling into the abyss of a broken heart? 

This is why people have been encouraging me to see a therapist.

This chapter has a slightly different beginning because I didn’t meet the leading man of this tragic love story on a dating app. The story began with one peaceful Saturday night at Rage. Yes, I know that the prior sentence is deeply problematic on so many levels because:
a) I really should’ve been studying for my exams because Jesus knew I needed it.
b) It’s the only place that had an 18+ night in WeHo, and everyone who has been to WeHo knows that Rage is trash. You’ll bump into a mixture of high school graduates who are desperate to get their first taste of “gay nightlife” and middle-aged men who can’t seem to move on from their party days.

Maybe that’s why I felt at home because I was a trash human being.

So there I was, crammed in a sea of wildly parched homosexuals with barely no sense of ownership of my own private parts. I was minding my own business with a high expectation of finding myself a piece of meat to play with. Still, after an hour of parading my assets on the dance floor, no one grabbed my attention. Some guys did try to signify their interest in me by “accidentally” grabbing my butt. On a side note, as much as I love getting my buns exploited, please don’t grab me by the peach if you want my attention in a bar. It only perpetuates rape culture, and you’ll have a better chance at seeing this below-average twink in his birthday suit if you buy me a drink.

It was this freakishly tall, beefy Caucasian man in the tightest solid red tank top that finally restored my faith in finding love in a hopeless place. He was, by no means, the biggest catch of the night: he’s got this dorky vibe, and he most likely had used the hashtag gaymer on his Instagram. Unlike the thirsty bitches in The Bachelor, however, I wasn’t really looking for someone to put a ring on it in a matter of weeks. But I did come to Rage for the right reason, and that reason was dicks.

So I did what most gays do when they find someone attractive: giving the other person an intensely seductive stare and hoping the other person has more balls to approach me first.

To my surprise, he responded well to my borderline creepy romantic gesture. He somehow dared to overcome the hurdles of elbowing a sea of dehydrated men with their alcohol-fueled wiggles to position his joystick closer to my bum. The next thing I knew, I wholeheartedly let him got offensively close to dry humping me on the dance floor. We were making out to our heart’s content as if no one was watching us, which, in real life, was quite the opposite situation. I’m pretty sure he was fingering my peach at some point, but the night was hazy, and I was pretty occupied to remember the things that touched my orifices. We were basically performing complimentary, unsolicited soft porn, yet no one seemed to be bothered or giving us verbal complaints. This. Was. Why. I. Loved. Rage.

To my surprise, he abruptly pulled away and told me he needed to leave because his friends were waiting outside. As we said our goodbyes, he gave me his number as a parting gift before he exited our passionate crime scene.
Another long, painful night with blue balls for me! Yay!

We started texting the next day, and we hit it off instantly. From his texting style, he sounded like a cuddly teddy bear who loved showering me with affection and attention. Therefore, he was perfect for someone like me, who was a self-proclaimed attention whore. I liked him so much that when he invited me to come to his place in the OC, I didn’t think twice to make that one hour drive to see him (ah… the things I do for dicks). After I got myself ready for the inevitable dick appointment and the possibility of heartbreak, I braved the wrath of the 405 traffic in the hopes of finding my true love. I was eager to unwrap my present dangling between his thick legs.

After one dreadful hour of alone time in my car, I finally arrived at his house. He greeted me at his front door with a warm embrace and told me to wait in the living room while he finished his meal prep for the week. Below are my initial analysis based on my first two minutes at his place: 
– Oh no… not another protein shake flavored cum. 
– His taste in fashion is very questionable. Something about the color combination of his tank and gym shorts just missed the mark. Maybe he just doesn’t have an eye for beauty, which says a lot about why I’m at his place. 
– For someone who’s in his mid-30s, the fact that his room looks like a college dorm after a rough night is slightly concerning. 

However, I tried to disregard my preliminary judgments and reminded myself of the original goal: the penis. After thirty minutes of meaningless chit-chats, the beefy daddy took some initiatives to dim the light and remove some articles of clothing from my body. I noticed that on his nightstand, he’s prepared the gay sex essentials: a towel, two packs of condoms, and a bottle of water-based lubricant. I thought, 

“Despite the clutters in his room, he’s pretty well-prepared for some actions in bed. Ladies and gentlemen, I might have found the one.”

The sex was, overall, a massive success (emphasis on the word MASSIVE). His uncircumcised tool was definitely too enormous for my taste. Moreover, I was not sure how I would be able to ride it daily without injuring my anal canal. With that said, he was pretty attentive and extremely passionate in bed. He regularly checked on me if I was enjoying myself. Moreover, he made us try different positions so we could find the best angle for my booty to accommodate his gigantic Mr. Happy. With sheer determination and a sprinkle of naivety, I gained the courage to take the challenge head-on so I could please my man. There was nothing that could hold me back, not even this oddly curved anaconda!

We continued seeing each other and had multiple sleepovers, although it was mostly on his terms. During our time being in a situation-ship, the boy barely put any effort into visiting me in Los Angeles. The dates were mainly arranged by yours truly, and every time I invited him to come to the city, he always came up with shitty excuses. Below were my thoughts at the time:

• “You’re a gay man in his mid-30s, and I’m a relatively desirable college-aged twink. In an alternate universe, you should’ve been the one chasing me.”
• “What the fuck do you mean when you said the drive to LA is long? Bitch, I made the roundtrip drive to the OC at least once a week. That’s right. The. Orange. Fucking. County. The only other time I go there is for Disneyland, and I surely didn’t need to risk getting anal prolapse from riding Mickey Mouse’s dick.”
• “That penis is definitely not made out of boyfriend-materials. I’m not ready for that anaconda to disarrange my internal organs.”

One night, we decided to meet at Rage (oh great, another shameless trip to the dumpster) to dance to the beat of our unadulterated lust. He had downed way too many cocktails to blurt out countless incoherent sentences, but I, somehow, remained relatively sober the entire night (I know, what a surprise!). After spending some time degrading ourselves on the dance floor, he took me outside for some fresh air. Little did I know that I was going to be ambushed by a dramatic heart-to-heart session. At the end of his meandering speech, he whispered to me:

“I would really love us to be boyfriends. You don’t have to answer me now. Just think about it.”

The intoxicated boy

I was perplexed. I wasn’t expecting our relationship to reach this level so soon. Moreover, with so many negative thoughts about our one-sided relationship running through my mind, there’s no way I could say yes to his proposition. Plus, he was drunk as fuck. I thought, “this is definitely not how I want my first boyfriend experience to turn out. Abort mission!” And there I was: Standing cluelessly in front of the entrance of Rage. At the same time, I was surrounded by my fellow intoxicated bar patrons, and I had zero ideas on how to respond to his outlandish offer. Out of all the options I had that moment, I told him I needed some time to think about it and went with my signature awkward smile. You can say I’m extremely good at romance. 

Eventually, our relationship died down as both parties were unwilling to bring up the dreadful conversation happening on that alcohol-fueled night. We pretty much ghosted each other as “the spark” went out, and no one was willing to rekindle it. In retrospect, we were two gay men from different walks of life. We lived in two different cities, and neither of us wanted to compromise. In hindsight, I think I did the right thing. As much as I was desperate to find a boy to claim as mine, I could not possibly bring myself to spend my entire life chasing him. Especially when he’s in a position where he was more financially stable, it didn’t make sense for me to make futile attempts to save this “situation-ship”. I would like to think I’m better than that.