TALES FROM THE LIST

BY PAIX ROBINSON

Featuring Illustrations by Brady Drose

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MR. SUNSET GOWER STUDIOS

PART 1: 2009

July 2009

Dear Journal,

Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. Totally hooked up with someone old enough to be my professor, or at least a thesis advisEr, or yes, even my father…

…if he had slept with a girl in college, gotten her pregnant, and spent the next twenty years being the “cool dad,” and  also the “gay dad”. Sooo basically me in twenty years if Summer had kept the baby. Hella deep.

I have zero understanding of how I get myself into these situations. Okay, well..that's a lie, or not really a lie just a slight omission. I remain baffled at the reality in which I choose to place myself. Bringing about the elements that give cadence to these random ass How to Make it in America meets Sex and the City hoe type confessions.

When instead of working in the industry, having a laugh and amazing sex, going to “awesome parties and drinking awesome shooters,” having notable sex, smoking cigs out of tenement windows fantasizing about the unrealistic two night stands one will never find in either major city.

This particular WTF confession began a few weeks ago. I know! I know! Why didn't I say anything sooner? Because I thought it nothing at first and didn’t even wanna give it the power of a pens retelling.

I’ve been trying not to let them in. If I don't write about them, then they don't exists right? If history is nothing more than the stories we choose to leave behind, then the power of the penis is denied its place in my rolodex of trial and tribulations, and thus non-existent as far as I'm concerned. No hurt, no pain. Just a thing that happened once to which will soon be forgotten, like all the rest.

Anyway, I was on set minding my own business rolling a rack from the office to the stage with Norah Jones in my ear and food on my brain. I was pushed passing stages 10-11, which coincidentally was the same sound stage that my mother used to film Soul Train on back in the day. 1971 to be exact, making me feel closer to my dreams.

Not to mention a cool familial, nostalgic, legacy kinda stamp of approval to myself, or at least a cute antidote when in conversation with casting or production folk.

I wanted to get as much done as soon as I could just so I could get a coffee and smoke a cigarette or two to curb the hunger and feel like I fit in with everyone else on set, smoking and talking about the woes of TV/Film production life and how we can’t wait to leave Los Angeles, but have been here since the first season of Dexter. I unloaded all the garments I was entrusted with and looked around for the Production Director to see if the coast was clear. All good. I bummed a cigarette from one of the actresses still in hair and makeup and walked over to the smoking section between Dexter and Scandal. While en route to the cool kids section of the lot, I spotted a very attractive older-daddy-gay that spotted me in unison, I think. I couldn’t tell if he saw me so hoping I still had his gaze I suddenly made eye contact for three seconds and, then smiled whilst looking away. And that was that.

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About two weeks later I was in Starbucks to use the bathroom, and grab an overpriced but oh-so-good Chai Tea Latte. When whom did I spy with my naturally slanted eyes!?

It was He, the hunk from stage 10. I saw him before he saw me, of this I was sure. I averted my eyes quick enough for him to believe that he had the first look. I stood in perfect eye line and acted as though I was leaving, very slowly. Without making eye contact, I walked and stopped just beside him, as if I was missing something, and began rummaging through my bag.

“Hey, I’m sorry I never do this. I just have to tell you how beautiful you are,” he said, as I continued to stay in character.

I blushed, right on cue. “Oh my God, no. Stop.Most of my friends tell me I look like Jafar,” I rebuffed. I never know how to take compliments, ever. I’m not there yet, and honestly don’t want to be.

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“ Oh please, I know all the guys must tell you that”, he insisted.

“ Not really, no one talks to me, seriously.”

“ Seriously? ”

“ Seriously.”

“ Well their loss, I think you have a very interesting face, and that smile c’mon!”, he urged.

I had him right where he wanted to be. The mind game of making him believe my balls were in his court, when in actuality he had fallen prey to my earlier efforts of romantic comedy grandeur was a sign that Hollywood works and Frank Abagnale Jr. is bruh.

Ah you’re sweet, thank you. You just made my day,” I said as I stopped looking for the erroneous item that was never lost to begin with.

“You headed out or in?” he asked. As if I didn’t know he had seen me walking out of the Starbucks prior to our “run-in.”

“Out. I need to get home. I have a work event later tonight and I can’t show up like this. My boss might not even talk to me then-and that’s just sad,” I chuckled. All lies of course! I was going home to roll a blunt with my favorite cousin, and watch some insane movie we’ve seen probably seen 100 times before.

“Ah well I’m glad I could make you smile at least once today,” he said as I walked backward and made for the door, again, slowly. I said thank you again and that it was nice to make his acquaintance. He smiled and slid his hands in his cargo shorts, which I won’t hold against him. I hate cargo shorts, but I knew he worked Production so I took it as function over fashion and therefore mildly acceptable.

I lingered outside for a few seconds looking lost and bewildered by the passing tourists and famed street freaks, yet I was completely content with the turn of events. Plotting my next run in with him on set, and how that could turn into something more, I heard him from behind me.

“Hey?”, he said half in and half out of the Starbucks.

I turned around just as I started to cross the street and head towards the bus. “Sorry again, this is also something I never do, but would you like to get some dinner or a coffee that’s not Starbucks sometime soon?” he asked.

I was floored. Totally was not expecting such a quick turn around, pun intended. “Of course,” I responded. “I literally have no life so anytime is fine. All I do is work, so a date with someone as sexy as you would be the ultimate,” I said with as much certainty as someone who dates with enough confidence to say something like that and mean it. I don’t know where that came from. It was like I burped and what came out was perfectly timed TV-MA one liners. He laughed at it, of course.

“Oh gosh, now I’m the one blushing,” he then said with a coy chuckle. He reached for his phone and I reached for mine and then resisted. I gave him my number and relinquished the idea of taking his. I thought, “Self, if he’s really tryna go on a date he’ll call you.

He called three days later. I could tell he was wearing a smile, and I’m sure he could sense mine as well. We made plans to go out that night. He offered coming over and making me dinner, but I told him that my roommates were having band practice at our place and I would take any excuse to get out of the house for a few hours on the late side. First off: my “roommate(s),” that I speak of was def. my grandmother and this so called “band practice,” was nothing more than hours of financial crisis regurgitation on CNN with Rachel Maddow and Keith Olbermann. I mean, I love my Grammy, but I wanted some Showtime after-dark, or at least some heavy Degrassi drama, cuz ya know, “It goes there”.

I was completely useless for the rest of my work day. All I could think about was my date with Mr. Mcsteamy and the embellishments I needed to maintain to get there. I couldn't remember if I even gave him my real name to be honest. Still unsure, but that's beside the point. That day was one of the longest bus rides ever. The city of Los Angeles via public transportation is already death by traffic but that evening was especially anxiety ridden. I had never been on a date, like a gay date. I had been on dates for sure, but not with a guy. No one, male or female, has ever asked me out with the intent to actually sit in a public place and have a light and somewhat naughty conversation over an overpriced meal and Edison bulb lighting.

This was kinda a big deal. I tried not to treat it as such, but my libido was on high alert. What do I wear that says I'm old enough to fuck but not old enough to legally drink? Eeek.

Ugh and what do I do if he wants to have sex? Or worse if he wants me to fuck him. No one's ever given me that chance. He’s older so I think it's safe so say that I'm the one who would spread eagle.

I dashed in the house, kissed my grammie on the cheek  and immediately jumped in the shower. I had about an hour to prep and I had no clue how to accurately prep for a gay date. One thing I knew for certain, my asshole looked nothing the hairless baby holes in porn. It was too late to wax, so there I was one leg on the bathroom counter, ass up and face between my thighs- in front of the mirror- shaving my butthole for a man I didn't know the name of.

I called Katherine for reinforcements. She’s currently in the Netherlands being a boss ass bitch, and studying, of course. If anyone could give me the gust of both inspiration and understanding it would be she. I could have totally called Trevor but I didn't want to alarm him just yet. Besides,  Katherine was the Queen of gaming me up with a needed dose of reality, while aiding my never ending desire to live in fantasy.

“Well, it sounds like your game. I mean, I’ve never shaved my asshole for a guy I didn’t fuck wit soooo..”, She said.

All I could say was, “ Oh my God I know you hella right.” And then, she continued in full Town-like ( *as in The Town, Thee Town. Oakland. See ‘510’)  lament,

“...and honestly, no! I’ve never once had to shave my asshole. Fuck you! If you wanna eat my ass, go for it-I don’t care, but don’t expect me to have my ass perfectly pristine and basically child like- cuz that’s what you want- you basically want to slob on the child version of literally my butt hole-and you mad cuz it’s not prepped and ready to go on a Tuesday? Not even late Friday? No. Not my problem. I was perfectly fine when you were eating me out. Your bad buddy….”

“Seriously Katherine! How did I go from seventeen, fuckin the closeted cross country player who used to cheat for me in Honors Chem to now twenty, getting all too kinds of ready for a maybe late thirties-easy-early forties Hollywood daddy from Weho to the Castro, in cargo shorts? Him in cargo shorts. Not me, oh god no.”

She confessed, “I honestly don't know. I also don't know why you would fuck a guy in cargo shorts.  You are certainly an opportunist, so the question is should I be surprised really or should I say fuck it and love you regardless while wait for the story after? Haha.”

“You hella right. I dumbass feel you. However the butthole is like the whole thing with gay sex. It’s literally called butt love.”

Haha, yeah I guess. I dunno, don’t do anything you don’t wanna do or... if you do it, then FUCKING DO IT.”

“Ayyeee!”

I had him wait outside when he picked me up. Couldn't have my grandmother catching wind that a man twice my age was taking me out for a night on the town.

I had no clue where where he was taking me and probably should have steered the conversation to a underage friendly location. We drove into West Hollywood, “Fuck! How do I spin this?” I thought to myself.

He drove past a few gay bars and landmark spots and halted in front of The Abbey. He asked if I wanted to hop out while he searched for parking- a gauntlet type task in these mean LA streets. I told him, sure, and started to leave the car, checking the contents of my bag in a fake panic.

“Oh shit..OMG you’re gonna hate me…” I uttered balancing my guilt with naïveté, “…I didn't really know where we were going I totally didn't bring my ID.”

I bit my lip while telling lies! He tried not to act like it wasn't the corniest line and obvious I might add, to say what? That, I'm not twenty-one or I am, and I'm irresponsible walking out the house on a date without an ID?

“Oh no it’s totally okay I should have said something, What about Culver City?, there's some cute dinner spots- sound good?

Making it seem like it was his bad, like a gentleman.

When we left Weho for Culver he took the side streets. He asked a lot of questions and was so sure of them. We bounced a few social opinions around- the good and bad sides of the dating scene in LA a la 2009 being one of heavy and agreeable debate. As if I know any fucking thing about the dating scene in LA a la 2000-anything. We drove down streets that I had driven down with my cousins just earlier that week. I thought of how I would explain the situation in a seconds time it would take for one of them too see me in his passenger seat, and wonder what the fuck was going on-and already knowing at the same time. We stopped at a light near my bus stop for school and that was weird. Awkward reminder that after tonight, no matter what happens, I’m back on the bus tomorrow.

We drove on and passed the departing bus, and I tried not to look any of the passengers in the eye. Mostly out of my own shame. After my period of silent revelry, we floated non important topics around. A few current events, the weather and my obsession with people watching. Something we shared in common.

“That’s kind of why I got into film” He said. “All these people and their stories. Kind of makes you wonder if you’ll ever see, read or tell the same story twice ya know?”

“Oh we all tell the same stories,” I smirked, “At least until we die. And then it’s someone else’s turn to hopefully tell it better than we did.”

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Can I just say I love fake me. He’s totally real me, obviously. But he gets to say all the shit that I would never actually say in public. I have a whole new found respect for “ Make That money, don't let it make you,” quote from The Players Club.

I steered the discourse back to film, and shooting.

He took me to that (posh for LA) place across the street from the Pacific theatres and next to Honey Kettle Fried Chicken. It was hella Swanky. Neither of us were dressed in as tip top shape as the other patrons, but I was with a 6’4”, older white gentleman so it didn't matter. As the Maitre D walked us to our table near the window all eyes were on us. I didn’t have to imagine the scenarios and characters they projected onto us. It was obvious. Considering it wasn’t the location that a sexy ass parole officer would meet his twinky charge for a routine check up, unless this scene was found via tube8.com.

We sat and ate and acted like the only pupils at our table were that of our own. In all fairness, I can't even play the victim of some objectified situation looked at from across the tables through the palm branches.

I was living out exactly, and quite frankly the only scenario that could have been deduced from our character profile. If I had saw us I would have thought, “Oh he’s for sure the sugar daddy.”

And again with the fact that I kinda didn’t care. I almost liked it I dare say. What? I call it getting it out early so I’m not spending my mid-twenties or gawd forbid my thirties hoping that some coked out-hate fuck from Wall Street is going to-at best-buy me things from All Saints, in secret.

We had dinner as two not so close friends catching up after a long project across the pond. After an hour or so traveling down down the industry road we journeyed on to some deeper shit. If anything that’s when the truth came in. Not that everything I had said wasn’t truthful. It just came under the guise of forced impression.

Such topics got our nature springs rising and we got the check. He had put enough of two and two together to gather that if he wanted me drunk, we’d have to go somewhere cheap and local that wouldn't card.

He drove to El Cholos, near my grandmothers house off of Olympic. We didn't even make it out of the Truck. I went balls deep and just reached for it while he was changing his shirt. He looked surprised when I grabbed it. “Oh sorry, I just wanted to touch it,” I said. “That’s fine,” He asserted.

He leaned forward with my hand still on the bulge in his cargo shorts. With both hands he reached for my cheeks and brought my chin towards him with soft admiration.

When he kissed me, he did so gently on commence. Light, no tongue, definitely sound. He enjoyed my lips like he took to licking off ice cream from his own. He tasted the skin around my mouth and down my neck, stretching one hand around my waist to touch me, and unbutton my seat belt. Well played.

I introduced the French into the equation and he gladly did the math. He toyed with the tip of my tongue with his, and proceeded to slide his tongue down my throat to where he licked the roof of my mouth.   “Okay. New.”- I thought. Not unheard of, just felt so intentional. It struck me as odd even as the second in-the-moment thought occurred to say, “ Da’Fuck you know about making out with gay men?” Sure, I had been sexually indulgent enough to pubescent urges to tickle the fancy of many, many girls and now, this is the other team they speak of. Whole new rules, new field, and new set of balls.

I didn’t want to always have that one experience to fall back on or worse judge every single dilly wacker that comes after as a trite and thankless measure. I licked the roof of his mouth with a movement that mimicked my own curiosity. He liked it. He continued to kiss me and reached for my crotch in the process. I let him keep his hand on my bulge for what felt like three tongue tussles, two lip smacks and one more roof tickle before I placed my free hand on his and pushed it deeper into the indigo grooves and genital meat.

All of this, still in the front seat of his truck, parked curbside facing north beside Ocholo’s. Classy, as Katherine would say. I can’t recall who moved to the back first, but it was inevitable. I straddled him with one knee in the seat divide and the other on the raised median

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I knew I had to suck him off, I had to. I was in the backseat on top of him, and again whether or not it was he or I that got us in such a compromising position, there was only one way out. I did what I saw in the movies.

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I arched my back up and brought his bottom lip with me on the rise, looking down only to reposition my hand on this chest, grabbing enough skin and shirt to let him know I’m paying attention.

Sitting back in what without vehicle obstruction would be a deep lunge on one leg, attitude in the other, something like a Pocahontas on a mountain top I imagined. I kept one hand on his chest and the other searched to unbutton the cargos.

I took him in my hands at the base and stroked a few slow times. Gearing up my own confidence and his. Couldn’t help but think of Voldemort the moment I brought his penis into my mouth. Couldn’t help it. I did however notice how much more there was to play with. I brought my other hand down from his chest hair and chin to help me with the task readily in front of me.

I held him with both hands and served myself every inch until my tonsils flared to enjoy. I brought it back out with fresh salvia made and took it back in with a slower start. I felt my esophagus expand like a baritone. Letting the echo of my chamber pulsate around the head and shaft while I gently moved the base. I kept that in motion and rhythm.

Listening to cars zoom near and far, I used the beats of their passing to guide my neck. Three minutes in with mouth full, I look up to see if anything I’ve done thus far has sufficed. Like a scene from The best Herbal Essence experiences, my vantage of his sprawling face muscles and overzealous vocal agreements were all I needed to be reminded I was on the right track, in the correct direction, full speed ahead.

He put one hand on my head, like they all do, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t mind giving you porn star treatment, however that did not mean I wanted to be treated like a porn star. Only under my rules was it okay to play that role. I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t really.

I didn’t want to fuck up the mood, and I was doing so well with what was offered best not to give up now over a little hand placement. Instead, I moved my body in isolation to a rising pulse making it pleasurable to get his dick sucked but uncomfortable to keep his hand where I didn’t want it. I didn’t know know long it was suppose to go for. The last time I was given the chance to suck some dick, the guy came so fast I really didn’t get to do much but get it wet for a bit. I’ve often described that experience as akin to “trying to eat a bag of skittles underwater.”

I figured bigger dick equates to a longer blowjob. So I kept going until told otherwise. He kept me there for a while, and I could taste some. He leaned up and brought me with him. Held me in his arms as his erect penis left a magical trace of pre cum on my vintage tee, like a snail track, only seen in the light when the lamp post hit it just right.

“Now it’s my turn,” he said.

Initially I thought, I totally just sucked your dick longer than I have any other dick- wasn’t that your turn?, I was so lost.He meant it was his chance to prove his allegiance to my pleasure trove of untouched wonders. I didn’t want him to think “this happens all the time,” but then again I wanted him to feel like “this ain’t nothing new but ooooh daddy that’s wassup,”.

He made a growl sound and spoke, “wow, you have a beautiful cock. ”

I vomited in my mouth a little bit. Figuratively speaking, in amazement that people actually say that.

Cock. So vulgar and unabridged like the distance between fucking and sex. Not to be coated in palatable tone. Up until that moment the only other times I had heard the word cock was in vintage porn with killer soundtracks and the best carpets always in mustard orange, British men being crude or HBO’s Real Sex 98. All of which said by white men. Not that it matters just a fact, if only for me. So my recognition to the word was like a weird wake up call- be careful what you wish for kinda thing.

He blew me for a coo minute and it definitely felt good. Much more than what my first head experience was. I didn’t, or couldn’t rather give him the chance to do as much as I did. I didn’t like the lack of control.

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Giving myself to him and his oral services like that didn’t feel as raw and enticing as when I was behind the helm of the interaction. So I switched it up. I straddled him again, and pulled his cargo shorts to his ankles. I could feel his erection searching for a place to burrow, and I allowed it to find comfort in between my two modest gluts. I swirled and wound the arch of my back to give his dick tip something to play with, teasing him with my skinless rear. I could feel the head of his penis brushing beside, against, and onto the tiny stubble of hair like tiny knives moving to to beat, and that tickled. Such a new sensation I had never felt before. I brought my back upright and re-positioned his penis next to mine and used my hips to grind them together, kissing him passionately all the same.

We didn’t have a condom and that was a good thing. Giving it up on the first date for the story is not something I should be jotting down, at least right now. He claimed he didn’t expect so much to happen first night, and I believed some of it. Also acknowledged his confidence in the notion and reality of  second or third encounter. Not having protection did not deter me from giving him pleasure and it sure as hell didn't stop him, He slid his hands wherever they could glide, shoved his tongue in just about every known nook and even some unknown crannies I wasn't expecting.

He kept telling me how beautiful I was, most notably after long stares into my eyes, while cradling my head in his hand, like forreal tho. It was kind of unreal. No matter the praise he gave me, or the amount of touching head cradles he didn't seem to be content until he came. Obviously.

I will never forget the moment he came in my mouth, I was both relieved and taken aback. One, at the amount of the load, considering I had only really been in close contact with my own.

And two, there was no ‘heads up’ or even the iconic “oh my god I’m cumming!” thing that happens, or what I thought would happen. I mean, the nerve! I kept my cool and held it under my tongue for a few seconds, made some incoherent sounds.

He rummaged in the trunk for a bit and grabbed me a rag to dispose of his man juice. We relocated to the front. “ Wow- that was hot!” he said, still breathing somewhat heavily. “Yeah, not bad for a weekday,” I responded. “Do you still want that drink?” he asked, “Ya know... I think I’m good!”

He drove me home as the Top 40 played on. A couple of top charters mixed in with a few oldies. One of which hit too close for comfort. Nelly Furtado’s Promiscuous Boy. “Of course,” I said to myself. “Of fucing course.” He wanted to walk me to the door, which was sweet, but totally wasn't gonna happen. I was lucky grammy wasn't already on the porch waiting for me. Thank god she was not. He turned the radio off,  and let the car idle in front of the house for a bit. We filled the silence with tentative plans to talk on the phone and further plan our next rendez-vous.

There was no mention of seeing each other at work, or his place, not that I wanted it really, just odd that every option he suggested was either my place (which ain’t happening) or somewhere random in town. My curiosity took the lead as I blurted, “Ya know, I’m sure your place isn't that much of a bachelor pad- more than happy to head to yours and cook for you.”

To which he candidly responded, “Yeah, I’ll ask my partner, but I think the house should be empty in a few weeks. I'll let you know. Talk soon.”

To which I amply closed the door. Seriously? WTF.

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