Story 20, Edited & reposted (part 1)

It’s just a run of the mill Monday happy hour. I assume it’s going to be like every Monday happy hour, slow, dreary and full of queens who think they are at Cheers. Word to the wise, if you go on a date with someone to a bar, well don't. If everybody knows their name, they are probably an alcoholic, but I shall digress. It’s James, the cameras and me, with our three customers who are drinking their sorrows away thanks to the two-for-one drink special that happy hour brings. One of the three guys is in the corner of the bar talking to himself the way he normally does this time of day. He is obviously Jewish because he is always arguing with himself. Today, he is arguing politics with his other personality. The rest of the people in the crowd are one awkward couple made up of a big old white guy with his little gaysian boyfriend. The gaysian is an interesting species. They are those little Asian guys so tiny that you could probably fit him in one of those bags people carry little dogs. The guy looks about 19, but I’m sure he is in his mid-thirties. Asian people are lucky in that way, they look youthful for so much longer than my people. I’m probably around 15 years younger than this gaysian man and I’m the one who never gets carded. When I go to Macy’s the sales people always are quick to suggest eye cream to me. It's the life of a fair skinned, light haired man. While they say black don't crack, we get the short end of the stick and start crackin' way early. Often people guess that I am 30+ which at times can at times be hard on the moral. I guess that is what botox is meant for.

About three hours into the slowest shift of my life, a group of people, most of whom have jacked-up teeth, walk in. About 16 or so young men and a woman come in. They all appear to be in their early 20s and all very lean. The first guy comes up to James, smiles, showing his lack luster teeth and orders a vodka-lemonade. This guy’s teeth are all jagged and his smile also has a slant to one side kind of like Tom Cruise’s and the mismanagement of a Dudley Moore . He orders Lemonade in Brit talk translates to 7up in American. The next guy starts off “gin-n-tonic, also where can I buy fags around this bloody place?”

James laughs while frustrated, laughs again. “Sweetie, the only fags in this bar are the ones sitting at these bar stools, and I don’t know what they are running for these days.”

The Brit is not amused, gives James a backhanded smile to show his disdain for him and then tosses down a nice, shiny penny. Then a blond girl, who looks like Baby Spice with her tits hiked up to her chin. This one, we will call Eliza Doolittle comes up to order vodka, coke-light. Brits always order drinks with Vodka or Gin in them and these drinks also are often accompanied by “lemonade” or 7Up. At this realization of the British invasion, we know that while there are a lot of people now in the bar, if they are all British then we aren’t making any money tonight. The British are not known as generous tippers when traveling in the U.S.

Soon, the group of British are dancing on the empty dance floor to the cheesy music we always play. They appear to be having the time of their lives and are turning the dance floor into Soul Train before my very eyes, but instead with white people who are thin and have bad teeth. They dance surprisingly well, when compared to the usual tone deaf dancers that normally occupy the floor. I watch them almost wishing that I could be one of them, even though I am rhythmically challenged and actually have two left feet. Then, one of the boys in this group comes up to me to order a drink. He is about my height. I say that I am 5’8, but I’m really 5’7 and ¾. The quarter of an inch seems to really make a difference in my self-description. Anyways, he is a slender man, with beautiful dark brown hair, straight hair that is just long enough to go behind his ears with hypnotizing crystal blue eyes. He has the firm skin of a young man, but the muscle tone, and chiseled facial definition of a man. His accent is one that unlike the other Brits of his group. It’s not grading, doesn’t sound like a broken fog-horn every time he talks. I actually can understand every syllable that comes out of his mouth. He sounds more like princess Dianna, and less like scary spice. What I don’t understand, I pretend I do. I tell him that I am not the bartender, but he can order a drink from James. He nods, stares in to my eyes slightly longer than comfortable, introduces himself to me as he casually looks me up and down, “Christopher, too bad.” He then is on his way to get his drink.

There is another hour left of my shift. At this point I am wondering what it’s like to be a British person visiting the US. I also start to wonder what it’s like to talk with a British accent at all times. Even telling someone to fuck off, or describing diaria somehow sounds classier with a posh British accent. Being from Southern California, everything I say sounds like a run on sentences and my pronunciation of things must sound just down right annoying to people. I use the word “like” and “dude” as adjectives for nearly everything and always end my sentences with question marks. This is the way that most native Southern Californians sound. I try to change these habits, but still every now and again sound like a mix between an 80s valley girl and Sean Penn in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High.” I start to wonder if they, as foreigners truly hate Americans they way the San Fran hippies always try to tell us they do. Just then, I realize that I will be going to London in one month.


After a 10-minute drive of over-thinking and awkward groping, we finally reach the top of Twin Peaks. I park right in the middle of the currently empty parking lot. We are the only ones up there. As we I glance out the window to look for the view I was going to show him, all I can see are clouds. I reach for the door to get out of the car and he asks me what we are doing. As I look over at him I shrug and try to explain how there normally is a beautiful view and that I do not want to look like a creepy axe murderer who takes him somewhere secluded to take advantage of him.

Christopher grabs my hand and moves it on to his pants to touch what feels like a whole other arm growing under the zipper of his Levi’s. He instantly pushes his lips on to mine to start the most passionate make out session I have taken part in, to date. While making out, all I can think about is how this would be more comfortable not in my little Honda Civic. It maybe be more enjoyable to make out with someone and not have a gear-shift poking me in the abdomen. I now also have a one track mind now, again intrigued, yet alarmed, all I can think about is the abnormal and currently unknown growth in this boy’s pants.

As he takes his shirt off to reveal his slender, white body, I can see every ligament in his body. I can see every rib under his smooth, vampirishly-white flesh. As my eyes start to work their way down to his little black fuzz-trail. Just then he asks me the question.

“Mate, are you a pitcher or catcher?”

I have never heard it asked quite that way. I don’t really understand the question.

He holds up the condom and asks again, “pitcher or catcher? We don’t have to have sex mate, but it sure would be fun.”
Now he unbuttons his pants to reveal the largest hard-on I have ever seen. It is so massive I am bewildered. I don’t understand what someone can do with that. The thing is between the size of a ketchup bottle and maybe a 40-ounce beer can. I can’t help but stare at the freakish thing for a few minutes while being both amazed and dumbfounded.

After 15-minutes of the most intense sex that one can have in a small car, within the given time period, it feels like pizza oven in my little car. My windows are so fogged up that they look like they are covered with that white frost-spray shit people put on their windows around Christmas. He puts his hand-print on my back window like Leo does in “Titanic,” to remind me that he was there.

Christopher has about 30 minutes now to get to his bus and I don’t even know how to get to the train stations. He is now trying to untangle his clothing that is now all mushed into this little ball in the corner of the passenger’s seat. To completely untangle himself and get his things in order, he opens the passenger door and steps out buck naked as he puts his tity-whities on gets his massive penis under wraps. He tosses the condom wrapper on to the floor near his feet. While he is tucking his stuff in, a minivan with Wisconsin license-plates framed by several metal Jesus fishes pulls in to the spot right next to us. It is filled with a family that looks like they are on their way to Walleyworld. There are 3 children under the age of 12 in the back seats who have their faces plastered to the window, they are staring in aw at Christopher’s white, nude body and start to scream really loud. They are screaming like they just met Freddy cougar.

The dad driving the car looks like John Goodman, shouts out, “fucking perverts you should be ashamed of yourselves.”
One of the 3 kids who is this little girl, around the age of 5 starts crying now. Then the mother who is in the passenger seat starts to shout calmly. She looks like Michelle Phillips with long, stringy brown hair. I can’t understand her words at first. After a few seconds, I realize that she is repeating, “sodomy is not the way of god and only leads to hell. Burn in hell heathen.”
They instantly back right out of the parking spot that they have been in for the all of 20-seconds. As the car is about to drive away, I notice that they have a sticker on their front bumper that says “Jesus is my co-pilot,” and that the mother is now holding a cross that she is holding towards my car like that will help us. She then throws tiny red bible at my car which luckily lands right under my tire where it belongs.

Christopher gets back into the car and we drive to the bus station. The drive to the station is quiet for a few minutes and then we both just bust up laughing uncomfortably loud for the next 5 minutes straight. He makes it with 3.5 minutes to spare and hands me his email address which he quickly writes on the back of my car registration. He tells me that he I should make sure to drop me a line when in London, hops out of the car and runs to his bus. I smile and drive away knowing that I will never see him again.
(to be continued)