Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Are You a Pitcher or Catcher?

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 and everybody knows their name, they are probably an alcoholic.  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 and when I go to Macy’s the sales people always are quick to suggest eye cream to me.
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.  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 barstools, 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 distain for him and then tosses down a nice, shiny penny.  Then a blonde girl, who looks like Baby Spice with her tits hiked up to her chin I’ll 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.  This would be the British version with white people and 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 grating, 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 diarrhea somehow sounds classier with a posh British accent.  Being from Southern California, everything I say sounds like a run on sentence 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 the 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. 
Last month, after the usual perfectly satisfying Citron soda dinner, I had fallen asleep on my couch watching the normal trash I usually do, reruns of the “Golden Girls.”  I woke up to this infomercial selling this amazing sandwich maker.  It made any sandwich into perfectly crisp triangles within what looked like seconds.  The brilliant sales comeleon/person on the screen had what sounded like a British accent, that I later realized was probably South African, but that was besides the point.  He kept on making thousands of these amazing little triangle sandwiches alongside this woman who would exclaim “Just set it and forget it?” every two minutes.  I then switched the channel and there was an A & E biography of Princess Diana.  It was at that moment, that I randomly booked a trip to London.  Two weeks later I also received a sandwich maker that I couldn’t for the life of me remember ordering or  even get to work like the infomercial showed.
For the last hour of work Christopher is studying me.  Every time I glance over, I try to barely look in his direction.  He makes sure to lock in eye-contact.  I start to wish that I was just a customer right now, off and able to mingle with these interesting foreigners.  Our eyes meet for a bit longer than comfortable, it’s even longer than it was a few minutes ago.  That is when I start to actually get intrigued. 
Finally my shift is over, I have changed, clocked out and gotten paid.  Ready to go home and start on my 10-page term paper due the following night.  My mind is already miles away from the bar.  I am off.  I make it through the now slightly crowded bar and go straight for the door.  As I am walking out of the bar, to my left, there is a group of guys chatting.  Some of them are smoking.  Suddenly Christopher pops out of this group, grabs my hand and starts telling the crowd of apparent drunken strangers how we have been an item for years. 
“I travel so much, it’s hard on him,”  he says.
I am silent at this point and while intrigued, I am unsure as to where this is going.  One of the smokers asks him how long we have been together.  At this point Christopher grabs me by the waist fairly aggressively.
“How long is it now?  5 and a half? 6 years?  We are getting married in the London next year, even though his parents don’t support it.  They don’t like that I’m in show business.  My mother though, she thinks of him as her own.”
The smokers smile, laugh and go back to talking amongst themselves.  At this moment, Christopher leans in and plants an intense kiss on my lips.  It’s the kind that you see in movies and feel incapacitated after.  He peels me off of his lips, looks into my eyes and then goes right back to work.  He then pulls away, grabs my hand as he tries to pull me back into that abyss of a bar.
As I open my mouth to speak, my voice sounds like it did at my bar mitzvah, painfully off, like a fog-horn sort of thing.  I then clear my throat and try again. “6 Years huh?  You don’t even know my name do you?” I say slowly, while still reeling from the kiss.
“Babe, sometimes it’s the fantasy that makes it fun.  Lets take the evening by storm.  You’re adorable babe.  I look into your eyes and know that I don’t want to just let you go.  You are intoxicating.  I have an evening here and must get to know what I can.  One drink?” He pulls my hand towards the bar.
He is a smooth talker.  I will give him that.  It would also be nice to have someone in London to visit who can show me sights or at least to bone while I’m there.  Everything else in the world seems not to matter now.  I have ½ beer and listen to Christopher’s story.  While he is talking, I am half listening, half wondering what he looks like naked.  Then I wake out of my trance once I hear him mention that he is a dancer.  I am even more interested now.  He is a part of this dance-troup that has traveled all over the world, tonight is their only night in San Francisco.  He just came out of a 6-year relationship back in London.  He has about 2 hours left before he needs to catch the last train back to North Bay, where the troupe is staying.  I decide to throw caution to the wind, which is out of character for me.  I ask him if he would like to see Twin Peaks before he goes, since it’s the best view of San Francisco.  He smiles and approves this idea.
As we are walking out of the bar hand-in-hand towards my car, there is a Sister of Perpetual Indulgence standing one block from where I am parked.  She is in a tight, rubber, white dress, similar to that of the nurse on that Blink182 CD cover.  The dress on this tranny is amazing it’s complimented by white stockings containing dark, thick stubble and white glitter all over his/her face.  She is just standing there, handing out condoms while holding up a makeup compact to check out her face out of the corner of her eye. 
The Sisters are drag queens that look kind of like nurses with Ronald Mc Donald white-faces that are a part of a non-profit that support STD education in San Francisco, and often pass out condoms.
 As we pass this sister, Christopher grabs one of their goodie-packs.  
“Not that we are planning to have sex, but one must always be prepared…  Besides, it will be a good souvenier for my trip.”
I smile, unsure of what is going to happen.
“I’ll take you to the best view of the city.  Twin Peaks.  Look how clear the sky is.  It will be perfect.”
“Just remember, the last bus leaves in a little over an hour.” He says.
As we are driving up the mountain that is Twin Peaks, close to the Castro area, I notice that the clouds are starting to roll in and wonder if this trip up here is such a good idea.  He seems content.  As we are winding up the mountain, he slowly slides his hand on to my waist, which accidentally makes me floor the gas for a second and nearly drive the car off of the hill.  As I regain control of myself and try to focus on the road, I begin to wonder how much I look like a creeper, driving this guy to the top of this mountain to see a view when the clouds are coming in.  Will there be a view to see?  What will happen if there isn’t a view?  What am I doing with a complete stranger in my car, groping me?  This seems like a bad after-school special.  What if he is a serial killer and I don’t know it?
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 makeout session I have taken part in, to date.  While making out, all I can think about is how this would be more comfortable in some place other than my little Honda Civic.  It maybe be more enjoyable to makeout 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.  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 dumfounded.
            After 15-minutes of the most intense sex that one can have in a small car, within the given time period, it feels like a 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 station.  He is trying to untangle his clothing that is 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 awe at Christopher’s white, nude body and start to scream really loud.  They are screaming like they just met Freddy Crugar. 
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 aiming towards my car like that will help us.  She then throws a 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 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.

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