“Hey Dad, look at me, think back and talk to me, did I grow up according to plan?”
– Simple Plan –
How comfortable are you talking about sex with your loved ones? Do you spill the T about your personal conquests with the same people who changed your diapers years ago? I personally find it excruciatingly awkward to talk about my sex life with my parents. Even if I weren’t into taking a penis up my butt, I would not be comfortable with my parents thinking about a vagina belonging to a girl my age. I am perfectly fine with my parents assuming that I am still a twenty-something-year-old virgin, which we all know is not the case. For whatever reason, I rarely talk about my personal life with my parents. So to those who know me in real life, please don’t tell my parents about this blog. I don’t want to die of embarrassment just yet.
Our family continued our great American road trip to the city known for its queer culture and eccentric tech billionaires: San Francisco. My parents still had no idea about their beloved son’s sinful rendezvous in Vegas, and I was determined to keep it a secret. But here’s one thing about lying: that shit is motherfucking addictive. It always begins with one small lie, and it eventually snowballs until you’ve turned into a lying machine. When you tell a lie without getting caught redhanded, it exhilarates you so much that you want to keep lying, again and again. Because that’s the whole point of lying: omitting the truth to avoid the consequences that, most likely, will make you feel shitty. You’re tempted to keep testing the water by slowly magnifying the scale of your lies just so you can feel the same dopamine rush. In a way, lying works similarly like drugs do, and I had turned into the biggest lying addict on this trip.
My family and I decided to stay in a hotel near Union Square because we loved the vague smell of piss and marijuana. After we checked in at the Marriott, my family wasted no time and went their own ways to do some shopping sprees. Unsurprisingly, I decided that the family shopping event was the perfect distraction to sample some local meat. Finding a penis to suck in San Francisco is like throwing a piece of meat into a pond full of hungry piranhas. You just need to log onto one of your preferred dating apps, post some degrading tantalizing pictures of yourself, and indicate your keenness to suck a dick. So when I logged onto Grindr, I immediately received many interests from guys who wanted to get down and dirty with me.
While my family was doing their part in boosting the economy, I was doing my part in stimulating the sexual health of the SF gays.
Arranging this hookup, however, was not as easy as I thought due to the following obstacles:
- A small pool of guys who were available to come within ten minutes of prior notice.
- Time-constraint.
- The lack of privacy (I was sharing a room with my dad, and honestly, the last thing I wanted was for my dad to see me getting dicked down on his bed).
- The absence of any material I could use to shove clean water up my butthole.
Somehow, I managed to find a thirty-something-year-old guy who was 200 feet away from me, could meet me on short notice and was kinky enough to boink me in my hotel lobby bathroom. I could tell that this guy, like most SF guys, was intelligent from the way he carried himself in our conversation. He told me he worked at a law firm while pursuing his Ph.D. degree, and he had some spare time to meet me after work. In an alternate universe, I would go after him and asked him out on a date. However, in this particular situation, I ain’t got no time for mushy shit as this covert operation called for efficiency.
My fellow public bathroom sex enthusiast arrived at my hotel lobby ten minutes after agreeing to meet me. He looked pretty dashing in what I would call a typical SF boy attire: a North Face windbreaker, a pair of slim cargo pants, and running shoes. He threw his gorgeous smile at me, and, for a second, I almost got distracted by the idea of a Winter Wonderland themed wedding. I took a second to recompose myself with a deep breath. While introducing myself to him, I tried to remain focused on my mission by reminding myself that an epic romance never begins in a Marriott lobby bathroom. Maybe the back alley behind a gay bar, but definitely not the Marriott lobby bathroom.
The lobby bathroom was one of those bathrooms that strangely had way more stalls than needed. It was not the most cost-efficient bathroom, but it’s definitely useful for random hookups. For a bathroom as grand as it was, the premise had zero patrons, which significantly helped my chance of taking the dick without having to worry about getting arrested. My fellow afternoon quickie enthusiast and I entered one of the stalls and immediately started to devour each others’ lips. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t take long for our ding dongs to be out in the open. Because I was aware of my inability to quickly bust a nut under a strict time constraint, I decided to perform the oral service first. My boy clearly did not mind the initiative as he nonchalantly laid his back against the wall, ready to be serviced. Like a stoner in Chipotle, I promptly stuffed his burrito in my mouth like my life depended on it. Some call me thirsty; I call myself economical.
Plot twist. It only took two minutes of my oral sorcery for my date to nut in my mouth.
For once, I was elated that a guy only lasted this long.
I knew that I didn’t have much time to get aroused and finish a full performance. I’ve always been a “go big or go home” kind of person, and I would be devastated to reach my time limit without completion. And let’s not talk about walking back to my hotel room to see my family while trying to hide an erection. So with a heavy heart, I had to decline his offer to demonstrate his oral prowess. At the same spot where he deposited his seeds down my throat, my SF lover gave me a warm hug and kissed me goodbye. Was I slightly disheartened by the short duration of our hookup? Sure, but I guess they didn’t call it a quickie for no reason. Right after we went our separate ways, I immediately chewed a mint gum to mask the smell of man seeds on my breath. I quickly rushed to my hotel room, worried as hell that my parents would find out a random guy had been using my mouth as his fleshlight. To my surprise, I was the first person to come back to the hotel. It turned out that my family had not returned from their shopping sprees. Mission. Fucking. Accomplished.
Overall, there wasn’t anything particularly mindblowing about the quickie. I didn’t know if it’s because I had done way too many bathroom quickies, and the novelty of it had worn off for me. Sorry for the lackluster sexperience story! Quarantine has been messing with my sex drives, and it’s difficult to tap into my salacious side these days. So, instead of ending this chapter with the usual comedic gold, here are some introspective shit that hopefully might help you see “sex talk” from a different perspective.
Do I wish I could be more open about my personal life (my sex life, in particular) with my family? Yes and no. Obviously, I have made some questionable decisions, and my family certainly doesn’t need to know every detail of my cringeworthy moments. On the other hand, I often wonder if a “sex talk” with my parents would change anything. There were moments when I watched some sex talk scenes between parents and their kids in those coming-of-age movies. And I thought, “how can one moment be so awkward and endearing at the same time?”
There’s a certain level of trust involved when parents believe it’s appropriate to have an open discussion about sex with their children. It’s similar to teaching your kids how to drive, except the subject matter is not taboo. For most of us, sex is an inevitable aspect of our lives. Without proper knowledge of it, sex can be a traumatic experience that can severely damage one’s view of themselves. So, if you are a parent, I suggest you try to create a safe space for your kids to talk about sex. Help your kids understand the importance of knowing their self-worth and respect their bodies and their partners’ bodies. Because without “the talk,” your kid might not comfortable telling you about how he’d been sucking some strangers’ dicks in a hotel lobby bathroom.
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