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© 2014 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin
Too Close To Home
(a true tale from the castro; eat your heart out armistead)
6 August 2014 (folded note taped to his door):
Don't want to intrude on your day, thus this note. Glad you had a great time with such a sweet boy. Anywayz, I need to know some things that occurred last night before I suddenly departed. Nothing serious, I actually had an incredible night. But I need to figure out this apparently alcohol induced alternate reality I slipped into. So while last night is still fresh in your mind, I need to ask you what we talked about just before I disappeared from your kind presence.
And if you saw that handsome rake who escorted me safely home. All I remember is one moment I'm gabbing with you by the jukebox, then this very hot dude has an arm about my waist as we're walking up Noe Street, then hovel.
I apologize:
I would never consciously skip out on a friend, especially one who is very compassionate, and especially since I've spent many years without good company, no matter how much I tried to change that. I'd be a fool to behave in such a careless manner. Obviously, I wasn't in my right mind. I had an excellent time with you at Last Call.
7 August 2014 (facebook message):
TRUST ISSUES: I unfriended you for a while, this is just from being dosed and causing some anxiety attacks. Putting the pieces together: I was drugged at Moby Dick, when I told barkeep Kevin to watch my drink, I'm going to the restroom. Silly naive, trusting me. He knew who I am all along (of course he did, I'm that Zeke who sent postcards to Larkin c/o Moby Dick), but played dumb. My friendship with Larkin has always caused extreme jealousy...he's just so damn beautiful. I was already sailing from the GHB when I hiked home that afternoon. And I had only two drinks which quantity of alcohol could not have done. The effect peaked while we were at Last Call. I presume my strange behavior kicked in while standing with you by the jukebox...'cause I don't remember anything for a while after that. Until that angel so kindly took me home. I was drunk that time you dropped by and I was messing with the DJ peripheral.
I'm just jovial and robust on booze...not thoughtless like I was at Last Call. (And I am /also/ generally jovial for finally having another friend in my building and right next door. Though I fear this has changed...if so, I won't be a problem, just fukkin sad.) Many people get dosed and don't even realize what happened. According to your account, I suddenly addressed you: "I'm going now to find a hot dude with a big kok to suck!" That was rude, but I don't ever remember saying that, nor returning to Last Call to "finish my drink," as you claim.
Later that day (a note posted to his door, enclosed in envelope):
YOU SHOULD SHAVE
I have a rather gamey body odor, too, and I find that shaving my armpits alleviates much of that. And coating a dash of plain baking soda on my pits does a better job than the wonders of chemistry. I learned that bit of wisdom from best friend Marvin (who passed on way back in 1992, same year as Randolph Taylor). I was complaining over how even "organic" deoderants cause my armpits to crack or break out in pimples. So he suggested:
"Why don't you use baking soda, like the nuns did before deoderants were invented? If it works on kitty litter, I'm sure it will work for you!"
Marvin was a Mormon missionary before he finally dropped out...served in Hong Kong for almost eight years. He could speak fluent Cantonese, and remained a very devout Christian on his own gay terms. (He possessed a huge collection of rubbery dildoes that embarrassed the heck out of me. Huge in both senses.) Though during the 10+ years of our friendship, I remained an atheist. I really miss his oddball company. He loved listening to my tales, and encouraged me to reach out to Randolph Taylor after his suicide attempt in 1985. Randolph T.'s face is now on the cover of my first published book...my promise to him that the world shall never forget his heroic 40-day fast on behalf of Vietnam Veterans.
You looked really hot with your chest shaved, and very natural. I've been shaving my chest/armpits/balls and butthole for years now...the latter in some wild fantasy that I will some day become the Casanova of the Castro, prepared at all times for conjugal intrigue. Started shaving my bod long ago: 1985 to be precise. To get rid of crabs without harsh substances. (And also because Randolph seemed especially attracted to teenage types, so I figured I needed to match the competition as best I could.) Actually, running a blade over the anus is more hygienic than straggly hairs with "Klingons." Ha ha ha.
BTW, good hygiene also involves wiping your butt three times: first with plain, dry tissue. Second with a wad of tissue moistened by water. Third time, back to dry. I learned this years ago from my friend Sean who lived many years in room 404, and was instrumental in getting me a rental in Dolores Apartments once I returned from a three-year hiatus in Santa Cruz County. It was his following remark that changed my toilet habits:
"Catholics don't teach their children to wipe their asses with moist tissue; they're disgusting!"
I was raised a Catholic. Sean is Protestant.
Love ya, Gabriel!
- Zeke
PS: All friends make mistakes now and then. But I don't even think I made a mistake, no more than you getting your lovely face punched was a mistake. You were attacked by a physical force, I was attacked by a chemical force. I gave you great regard and a kind shoulder to lean on, during your crisis. Yet I sorta got dumped because my crisis was psychological...that is, not a simple blunt trauma, but something more devious. Story of my life. True friendship has always eluded me, and since Larkin's crude betrayal, it is that much more devastating to go through any more disappointment. I was really happy to hang out with you at Last Call, and am sorry for the lousy outcome. Please weigh all the good things I've done for you, versus one stupid slip-up (that didn't even arise from any conscious will on my part). Here's a quote I got from Twitter, that truly impressed me:
It is one thing to desire friendship, but achieving this takes years of labor and dedication.
8 August 2014:
[ Dromaeosauridaen Reader: time to fill you in on what transpired that fateful evening. Several hours after returning hovel from Moby Dick, Gabriel knocked gently on my door for another friendly visit. I suggested we go to Last Call, that I may finally enjoy some fellowship once more at a gay bar...that I once had many times with Larkin (until he abandoned my trust and drove me out of all the Castro booze halls). I enjoyed the heck out of his company; he's so excellent at clever badinage, like myself. At one point I did confess: ]
"Look, Gabe, it really hurt that you'd have a creep like Denzel over, welcoming him into your apartment, while you've never invited me to visit, ever. Not that I'd accept, due to another bedbug infestation, and fear that I'd bring them into your home. But still, I don't see why I should compete for anyone's friendship against a devious little runt."
Ah, yes, the damned bedbugs. They linger in the baseboards and are most difficult to completely eradicate because there are so many crevices in this old building. They seem to repopulate whenever I establish a new friendship...thus destroy any possibility I might have for wholesome company. These pests are the death knell to my social life. Previously, in the Pre-Bedbug Era, other misfortunes came along to wipe out any chance I had to form stable relationships. But these bedbugs are an absolute and final curse. The devil has trumped me for good. Short of a miracle, that is.And Denzel is, well, a tweaker who only intrudes upon my life when he sees me with a handsome fellow, and lures him away from me with his offer of candy. The dirtbag lives right across the street, and down a ways. Gabriel had previously assured me that Denzel proved himself to be an asshole, and no longer has anything to do with him. Which greatly pleased me, as I had warned him that associating with Denzel would only come to no good.
Be that as it may, I can no longer have homeless friends over, as bedbugs are rampant in the discarded clothing they pick up off the streets...and I can't lecture them on how to select only the crisp, clean apparel left in tidy free boxes, as opposed to a jumbled pile of dirty laundry dumped on the sidewalk. The homeless are the only real friends I've had, ever since things got yuppified in the late 80's. Now, they too are banished from my world, unless of course I don't mind winding up becoming homeless myself.
Some minutes later, Gabe pulled out his billfold and walked over to the jukebox. I followed, and we conversed about stuff I don't remember. Maybe it was over the mindboggling options of these high-tech boxes that connect to the web, offering more than 10,000 songs from which to select. All of which one could download for free, using a Firefox add-on. But we're really paying for the atmosphere and faux security of a gay bar, so what the hey. The next thing I remember is being escorted home by a bodaciously handsome dude: 5-foot-9 and absolutely sweet. Thick brown shock of hair and gold-flecked umber irises...not to mention solid muscles that pressed against my torso and left arm. When we arrived at the front gate of 2306, I inserted the key and invited him to my squalid SRO.
"No thanks," he kindly responded. "I just want to see you home safe."
"Oh please, please come in. You're such a good guy and I really need your company!" I begged with fervent appeal.
"Okay then, I'll come in," which agreement touched my heart and compelled a boner.
As we marched up the stairs I gave him a brief history of the building, and my numerous escapades living here. Which is really quite a lot to tell, for ascending steps only to the second floor where I resided. But somehow I managed, until my key opened the door to 205 where I offered him an aluminum chair stolen from Super Duper restaurant below (they have outdoor seating with breeder-spurned brats screaning their lungs out)...and I sat in the cushy swivel seat by desk #2.
The man was knockout gorgeous, and I was ready to dive into him like an Olympic swimmer. We had a most enjoyable conversation before he remarked how stuffy it was, and asked if I had a fan. I suggested he drag his chair over to the window, and pulled out the cheap Walgreens fan (now thickly coated in grit) that I use to blow the stove-top steam and smoke outside.
But the fan didn't work. Couldn't figure out why, 'cause I was too doped out to really care, and didn't relish the idea of fussing with the cords and plugs to get things right.
"Sorry," I surrendered to the predicament. "Had we a breeze, things would be better." But the night air was dead as a mummified cat. So he seated himself right by the window closest to my bedding, to breathe something fresher than my tobacco tainted atmosphere.
It was then I felt a surge of affection and wrapped both arms around his chest while grabbing his crotch with my left hand. He already had a hardon of generous girth and length, that swung heavily with a pair of fat testicles. He wore thinly woven pants that gave me the advantage. But he pushed me away, not so much from disgust but from a sort of passionate rejection.
"Jeez wait a minute!" he demanded with an elbow thrust against my sternum.
"You got really nice equipment, buddy!" I persisted, and placed my arms about him once more while planting a solid kiss on the left ear. I had an immense sense of rightness in my aggression, and could not disobey the urge to press on.
I forcefully dragged him onto the bedding and began to yank off his jacket and shirt, while wrestling against his playful opposition.
"Don't do this pal or I'll call the cops and tell them you raped me!" So I pulled back to confess:
"Look, I would never force anyone against their will; I'm not like that. But can I at least suck your kok?"
"Nope."
"Well then how about a nice backrub?"
"Nope."
I then exhaled in frustration while admiring his nicely cut torso, and placed my hands alongside. But then I caught him by surprise and swung him beneath me in wrestler's maneuver. He pushed against my shoulders till I fell back, and he queried:
"Oh, so you like it rough, do you?"
"Maybe I do," I replied, and struggled against his buff rudeness to enjoy the manly foreplay. What a darling torso, though he resisted my attempts to grace it with my tongue. His pants remained in place like a chastity belt. Though his johnson bulged like a Sigourney Weaver alien keen to emerge.
"Can I lick your nipples, then?" I pleaded like a dog begging for an extra treat.
"No. But I'll tell you what," he pulled away and sighed in a kind of surrender. "There's only one way I'll have sex with you!"
"Okay, which way is that?"
"Drop those trousers, get on your stomach and let me fuk you."
If this was an offer like a consolation prize, I wasn't about to complain. Though I did warn him: "Look, I've only been fukked four times in my life. So I'm really tight, and you'll have to pull out every minute or so."
"I can do that. Now roll over."
"Wait, what if I get on top and straddle you? That way I'll have more control."
"Nope."
"Well then, what if I lay on my back and throw my legs up?"
"No."
"Okay then stud, let's give it a go."
And thus I feverishly yanked off my Levi's, turned about face down, and raised my butt several inches.
"No, just lay down flat."
So I did, and before you know it (after slicking up his member with dollar-store almond/cherry lotion provided by yours truly), he thrust an 8-inch piston up my yielding anus and drove it deep inside. To my surprise there was no pain, only a fiery rush of satisfaction that I've never felt before. He thrust faster, and I pushed back in accomodating rhythm. His moans only made me that much hungrier to plug up my butt with a fat rod that seemed to fit in perfect measure. He pounded with increasing ferocity until I began to ache.
"Uncle!" I commanded.
"I thought you like it rough!"
"Not really," I admitted, so he withdrew like a gentleman.
No sooner did he do that when I insisted: "Okay, shove it back in."
The ecstasy I felt from a real man's intrusion was beyond anything I could compare. But pain quickly followed after a mintue or so. So I told him to withdraw once again. He seemed perturbed:
"I was about to shoot!"
I turned my head on its right side and chuckled (I was that content): "Sorry, dude, but I told you I've only been fukked several times before. Just give me a ten second break and you can stick it in again."
He was very congenial in his reply: "Yeah, I can do that. Just tell me whenever it hurts, and I'll back off."
I don't remember anything after that...I guess because the date-rape drug sent me off into slumberland. (I do hope though, that he finally got to ejaculate inside me, as I regard the seed of such a fine fellow to be like fertile benedictions upon This Needful Soul.) When I awoke, the morning sun shone through and he was gone. I looked around to see if anything was stolen. Nope, nothing, even though my Elitebook 2530p was not tethered down by a security lock. So I got up to put on my pants, only to discover a second pair of jeans folded over the aluminum chair. They had a button-down fly, unlike my own that sports a simple zipper. Funny because I have recently been thinking about getting a second pair of denims to flesh out my spare wardrobe.
I pulled the pants on over my legs to discover a perfect fit! But I wondered: did he leave without any pants? I couldn't make heads or tails of this, though conjectured that perhaps he held an extra pair rolled up and under one arm, as he entered my building. He wore no backpack or carried anything else (such as a duffel bag), as far as I can recall.
But he also left two other items behind: a thin, light brown leather jacket...
and a small notebook with handwritten comments, names and phone numbers.
Because he was so good to me, and showed me such a nice time, I decided to hold on to these possessions in hopes of seeing him again soon, and returning them to his benevolent hands. I don't even know his name (probably never asked), but am grateful that he truly did see me safely home and--more than that--provided such delightful company.
His mini-notebook contained well wishes from women...or at least, those with female names (trannies perhaps). Which would explain his lack of interest in having sex with me, except as an ass to fuk. Which I actually take as a compliment, for this suggests that I'm way too butch for his taste. As far as I can figure, he met me shortly after I peaked on the GHB, and no longer suffered memory loss. Yet how kind of him to get me home, safe and sound. If all he ever wants is to shove a willie up my rectum every now and then, I'm game! His beautiful male energy shines through, regardless of the lack of physical contact (except in one very limited spot) which I so sorely crave. This is a new one on me, albeit wonderful. But there is more:
I realize he was one of Goddess's own angels who guided me safely home. And I am not the first shamanistic soul to also have conjugal delight with such beings. But it wasn't till the next day, long after my mysterious paramour had departed, that I remembered his face...and realized how much he looked like Larkin, he could be his younger brother. Five inches shorter, and a bit more hefty. The same eyebrows, the same nose, the same quiet strength. Could it be that it was Larkin himself who took me hovel, and blinded my mind from seeing how similar that man looks to him? So that I wouldn't realize what occurred till some time after he had departed? This would explain my unquenchable passion for his affection, and why I was so confident in stripping off his shirt and play-wrestling. If so, he knew I was dosed once more, and protected me with his sweet presence...along with a rather zesty roll in the hay.
For Larkin is a shape shifter, a trickster and a messenger of the gods. He is a miracle not just in my own life, but in everyone's life, though they may not yet realize this inevitable conclusion. (And why he kicked me out of the bars, telling bartenders I'm his stalker: to ensure my safety when he can't be around to watch over me. Because it's not just some customers who might slip me a roofie, but bartenders as well.)
Some people might think I took a great risk by having unprotected sex. But let me tell you: my erotic trysts are rare, and have always been with very clean and kind fellows. I've never caught any sort of VD, perhaps because I never bothered with bathhouses and sex clubs...but more likely The Great Spirit protects me. The two times I was reported to the City Health Clinic for possibly being exposed to syphillis or gonorrhea, I came up negative. Besides, I don't think my romantic visitor actually came, though he had an incredibly rigid hardon that rang my bell like nobody's business.
Yet now my new neighbor Gabriel (and who I thought was also a newfound friend) eludes me, doesn't knock on my door each morning and night to share fun badinage and see how I'm doing. In fact, just moments ago as I was strolling the Castro, he passed by me with a wave of the hand. Never pausing to chat or in any other way indicate we are more than casual acquaintances.
I guess, despite my heartfelt wishes, he is no better than any other affluent queer who arrives in San Francisco and considers the city his own personal playground. Without any regard for his low-income brothers (what remain of us who have yet to be driven out, rarely experiencing the perks that wealthy gays take for granted), except as occassional vessels of their sporadic generosity. To think that I have to step out now, in order to receive his gestures of so-called friendship in passing, while he actually lives right next door to me! I strongly suspect his sudden distance from me has nothing to do with my drug-induced behavior at Last Call, and everything to do with his succumbing to Denzel's meth-influenced company.
What does this bear for me as a long-term resident of 2306 Market? Will he snuggle up to the trio of residents who despise me, and allow gossip to spread and make my life more difficult on top of the bedbugs, social isolation and Larkin's betrayal? If so, all I can say is:
BRING IT ON!
[ Though perhaps I'm jumping the midnight special here, My Quotidian Reader, due to residaul PTSD causing anxiety attacks from memories of that previous time I was doped at Hole in the Wall Saloon, mugged and left for dead...back in 2007. You can read about that horrid incident in Chapter 12 of my novel, "Free Me From This Bond." (Actually it's Chapter 13 in the online version.) Suspicions that maybe Gabriel lied to me, and I never actually spoke those thoughtless words and suddenly exited Last Call. Or that he's actually seeing that crystal-creep Denzel, and is merely pretending he's cut him out of his life. Dread that Larkin really is driving me away for good, and all his sporadic moments of kind regard since he started slandering and bullying me from January 2013 and onwards, mean nothing more to him than yanking my chain. But if there's anything I've learned throughout My Gay Shaman's Journey (with Larkin at the helm for almost nine incredible years to date): fear is a harmful illusion. Thus I take comfort in a happy resolution as time passes, and look forward to renewed camaraderie with both Gabe and My Resplendent Reptile. Though Gabriel has indeed been avoiding me since that silly episode at Last Call, which seems an overreaction on his part, considering all the kind things I've done for him since we first met. Maybe he's just a bit weirded out right now, or perhaps he's testing my behavior to see if I'm mature enough to respect his present wish to remain aloof for a little more time. Whatever. ]
Or maybe Gabe is convinced I was simply and smashingly snockered, and contrived a tale about being dosed in order to save face. When I saw him the following day at Bean There, he was friendly enough, though it was clear he'd rather not have my company. So I politely indicated I was going to seat myself elsewhere 'cause I have online work to do. I did first smile broadly and joked: "In a nutshell, I don't think you're quite ready to be my bodyguard. But to be honest, I don't think anyone is." He retorted by mentioning a female singer's scandal with her own bodyguard: "Just don't expect free blowjobs as part of my duties!" My comeback: "But how will I ever come to trust you then?" He cracked up, to which I added: "Okay, you can bring me a lovely boy now and then, I'll be happy with that. I'll even take sloppy seconds." To which he replied: "Heck, I'm into sloppy hundreds and thousands!" I then introduced Gabriel to a couple of baristas who were present: "This is my wonderful new neighbor and friend, Gabe." After that, I found a table around the corner where neither myself nor Gabriel could view the other. Appox'ly twenty minutes later he packed up and left, pausing just a moment to address me: "Well I'm off now, Zeke. You have a good day." I was disappointed that he did not choose to sit by me for at least a little while, and share some clever repartee as we've done so many times before.
I really don't think my untoward behavior was so rude as to warrant loss of a new friend. (In fact, it seems to me awfully comical.) Yet that is precisely what does concern This Devoted Apprentice of Larkin's Design. Guess I find the rough-and-tumble gay bars South of Market more to my liking, than the ones in the Castro where everyone's guardedly reserved and quasi-Puritanical...ready to pounce on anyone who reveals even a sliver of baudy good will.
ADDENDUM (10 August 2014)
Early this afternoon Gabe's sweet raps upon my door tingled my eardrums, much to my delight. I questioned him further regarding my untoward behavior 4 or 5 nights ago at Last Call. He explained that I tried to kiss and fondle him, much to his chagrin...and was embarrassingly loud in the process. Which I thought was hilarious, as it's certainly not my style, nor ever has been, even when drunk (minus GHB or ketamine or whatever). IOW I am not a dirty old man. What I think occurred, is that I zoned out totally, and felt Larkin's presence coming through Gabe. Thus I was all over him in a heartbeat. He said I also warned him further about Denzel's devious nature. I guess because in the goodness of my spirit, this needed to be emphasized.
Gabe affirmed that my sudden personality change occurred while standing beside the jukebox...just as I suspected. That is when the rape-drug (administered by a freaky barkeep at Moby Dick earlier that day, who no doubt has a decent middle class life, but nonetheless relishes fukking with those less fortunate) reached a peak, boosted by another hit of alcohol.
He also mentioned how he recently visited Hole in the Wall Saloon, to which I advised: "Don't even mention my name, or they'll hurt you. Watch your back at all times, and keep your drink and wallet close. You can have a fantastic time at the SOMA gay bars if you don't get too inebriated." In sum:
I am most grateful that you, Gabriel, resumed our friendship.
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