Apparently, I do porn now. I ended up on an alley just off Oxford street with my pants down having my dick (and other nether-regions) orally stimulated en plein aire. CCTV and all. Since when did such behaviour became ‘normal’ to me? Let’s back track a bit.
As soon as I got back to London, I stopped by Geordie-Mo’s flat to pick up my luggage. I had left it there because I couldn’t be bothered to drag it all the way to Birmingham and back considering I was barely gonna be there three days. I was also making plans with a friend of a friend to potentially meet up later that evening. I hurried to my hostel, checked in, left my bag in the locker provided, and quickly changed outfits (I was really sweaty and didn’t have time for s shower). I headed towards Shoreditch for my first taste of east London (among other things).
Upon exiting the tube station, I met my tour guide for the soiree: a tall, slender, aptly dresses Greek with a properly sexy British accent. Let’s call him ‘the kid’. He took me to a pizza place in the same building as Shoreditch house. We requested a table, but were told there was a 35 min. wait. We wrote down our name on their list and left to grab a drink at a nearby pub. We clicked right off the bat. Conversation flowed effortlessly. I have to say my friend had been right in stating me and ‘the kid’ would get along.
We finished our drink and headed back to the pizza place for our table. All in all, I had big expectations for the night and, coming from New York, I’d been wanting to try the ‘over the pond’ version of our famous pies. Again, not disappointed.
During dinner, I put ‘the kid’ through my usual boot camp of ‘questioning authority’, being ‘progressive’, and coming out. Basically, trying to break down whatever preconceived notions we have grown up with. He handled it well and long enough for me to notice I was doing it and to tone it down.
After dinner, he took me to a nice bar around the block that reminded me of ‘Apotheke’, a quaint little speak easy in New York with divine drinks. We downed a couple expensive libations and continued bar hopping. All in all, I was very satisfied with the east London nightlife.
We ended up at his place. It was late, we were drunk, and he suggested I spend the night rather than paying a 30+ quid cab ride. My alcohol induced amnesia prevents me from remembering the exact sequence of events, but I ended up sleeping on his bed and we kissed. No sex.
The next morning we payed in bed for a bit over an hour cuddling and kissing some more. He was soft. We got dressed and headed our separated ways. I had lunch with a friend. He had lunch with a client. We decided we’d hang out again upon my return.
Lunch with my friend was nice. I was running ubber late so, sadly, it only lasted half hour. After, I walked west along the Thames doing a bit of exploring, but also looking for the Tate Modern and Hayworth gallery. The Tate was great. Same stuff I’ve seen before, but they also were featuring a fantastic photo exhibit by a woman who’s name I forgot, but I’ll get back to you on that. I was supposed to meet my sister later that day so I skimmed through the rest of the rooms and headed off to the other gallery.
After walking for what seemed like ages (I never imagined London being this vast), I finally found Hayworth gallery. There was a Tracie Emin exhibit. I paid the pricey ticket (12£) despite being a bit reluctant to do so. It was worth every pence! I love this woman. I love her art. I love her pain.
I finally got back to the hostel. I took a shower, went on the internet, and waited for ages for my sister to come. She’d never been to London. I was planning on taking her to a nice dinner and a few bars. Unfortunately, her cheap boyfriend, and his even cheaper brother, who they were gonna stay with, spoiled my evening. We ended at Nando’s just down the road from the Victoria station. The whole time both men were complaining about money and Europe. The brother was married. His wife, a wonderful Polish girl who I connected with, saved my evening.
After being incredibly annoyed by both Neanderthalian siblings, I opted to instigate a bit by talking to the Polish girl in English about topics I was sure would hit soft spots. Being well aware that any primal male will revert to marking his territory when threatened by a more intelligent, better looking, younger specimen, I turned up the volume. He noticed. I ignored.
We finished eating and after a short, very futile attempt at finding an open pub around the area (because God forbid we venture into SoHo!) they left. I was annoyed at the waste of both my and my sister’s time. She didn’t speak up, so whatever, there was not much I could do. I was done feeding pearls to the swine.
I hurried back to the hostel to try and find someone to go out with. I phoned my mom and bitched about the evening. She saw my point. I saw this Korean girl who looked and dresses somewhat cool enough for me to consider her a possible candidate for the night, but to be honest, I was desperate, and I would’ve gone out with a crippled, albino, midget if need be. The Korean girl was with some pseudo, hippie, lezzy from Alaska, and a Korean guy she’d just met.
We took the bus to soho. Grabbed a drink at a Spanish pub and then went to good old ku bar off Leicester square. Ku bar was the first gay bar I ever went to in London the very first time I came and since then it’s always been a safe spot. I started to buy doubles. I wanted to get wasted fast. We met a French guy, a Puerto Rican, and a Brazilian. Hung out with them for a bit. Followed them to “heaven” (the club, not Jesus’s home) and then left them since they weren’t allowed in. They were incoherently drunk. We didn’t go into “heaven” either, instead we went back to hell.
Ku bar was kind of empty. There was this one guy (Coif), however, that I had seen when we first came and had made eye contact with. I bought more drinks, danced myself silly, and hung out with him and his friends. They invited me and my posse to an after party. The Koreans politely declined. The lesbian followed. At some point ‘coif’ asked me if I wanted to go with him to this place off Oxford street where you can rent a room to fuck. By this point we had already kissed. For some reason, I figured it would be fine. We ditched his friends and the lesbian and walk towards my slut closet. The place was closed. Coif grabbed my hand and took me to a nearby entryway. He pulled his pants down and so we began. He knew what he was doing. He’d done this before. We kissed, he sucked me, he rimmed my asshole and asked I return the favour. I have an issue sucking stranger dick. Asshole, on the other hand, not so much. In my head it seems ‘safer’. He wanted me to fuck him, but despite the fact that we didn’t have rubbers, I still wouldn’t have done it. I shot. He swallowed. He shot. The floor swallowed.
We walked over to get some food. Coif kept talking about his relationship with his ‘granny’, which I didn’t mind, and made me think he was a nice guy. He paid for my food. We left and walked to the bus stop. We were going opposite directions so we bid adieu.
On the way back, I didn’t think much about the incident. I think I’m relaxing my ways a bit. Whether this is good or bad I’m not sure, but it is what it is. I definitely need to monitor myself a bit more, but also, I think it’s a good thing that I’m not getting as much anxiety as I used to. There’s a saying in Spanish that goes “un clavo saca otro clavo“, it translates to “one nail takes out another nail”. I haven’t been thinking much about SF boy. I think I’m finally detoxing from his toxic bachelor ways. My newfound sluttyness must be helping. Also, I think I like a Mexican.
the.applied.process. 