Lane and I have been dating for almost a year. Almost every night, he stays over in my house near Sunset and San Vicente, or I stay over in his apartment on Hacienda, about five blocks away.
But we still cruise. On Friday and Saturday nights, if we don't have a dinner or party to go to, we go to Mugi or to the Faultline.
On Sunday afternoons we go to the beer/soda bust at the Faultline.
Of course, we never bring anyone home directly from the bar. Only disgusting sleazoids stoop to hooking up, or what we call "tricking. When we meet someone, we make a date with him for 3-4 days later, then go out to dinner or to a movie, and finally, bring him home to "share."
Tonight I have a sore shoulder, and I don't feel like cruising. After dinner I tell Lane that I just want to stay in and watch tv.
"Do you mind if I go out by myself?" Lane asks. "I'll come over afterwards to spend the night."
"Only if you bring me something," I say. "Or somebody," I add as a joke.
He drives off at 9:30 pm, after the Golden Girls. I watch tv, read a book.
12:00 am. Sometimes we stop at the French Quarter or the Hamburger Hamlet afterwards, but we're always home by midnight. We're not night owls.
1:00 am. We're absolutely always home by 1:00 am. Did he forget about me, and go home to bed?
I walk the five blocks to Lane's apartment. No light in the window.
I knock. No answer. I let myself in, and sit on the couch and turn on the tv.
1:36 am
I hear a car pull up, and go out to the balcony to look. It's Lane! With a rough-looking sleazoid!
He's tricking? And without me?
Fuming, I wait for them to get up the stairs. I pull the door open before Lane has a chance to put his key in the lock.
"Who's the sleazoid?" I snarl.
"Here you are!" Lane exclaims. "We stopped by the house, but you weren't there. You asked me to bring you something. Well, here he is!"
"It's not my birthday."
"Ok, your St. Patrick's Day present. Erin go bragh!"
I look the Sleazoid over. Tall, a bit chubby, a short beard, wearing leather chaps and a white t-shirt that reveals a hairy chest. A tattoo of Hot Stuff the Little Devil on his skinny arm.
"Is this a trick?" I ask coolly.
"Oh, no. We stopped at the French Quarter on the way home. Dinner first makes this a date, right?."
"I'm Mal," the Sleazoid says, loping over to the couch and sitting with his legs spread. Very nice basket, probably sock-augmented "Short for Malachi. I was raised ultra fundamentalist. Then I was Episcopal, Wiccan, Shinto, Sufi, Baha'i, Zen Buddhist...."
"Let's put these zucchini sticks in a bowl," I say, grabbing Lane and dragging him into the kitchen.
"What gives? You bring home a trick..."
"A date!" Lane corrects me.
"Technically, I guess. But obviously not to share!"
"We went to your house to surprise you!" Lane exclaims. "You can ask Derek if you don't believe me. I thought you would like Mal. He's into all those weird religions, like you are."
"That Sleazoid, as you call him, is about twice the size of Alan."
Huh?
Lane knows what I find attractive. #5, Gifted beneath the belt, trumps everything else.
We take the Sleazoid -- Mal -- into the bedroom and take turns going down on his Kielbasa (actually not quite as big as Alan, but still impressive). Then Lane goes down on me while Mal and I kiss (he's surprisingly passionate). Mal finishes by lying atop me and thrusting between my legs.
Very erotic, except for singing "Happy birthday to you" between thrusts.
By 1993, we were cruising separately on Fridays and Saturdays.
See also: Sharing the Eskimo; Victor and His Sleazoid Daddy
That first picture is nice.
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