Scrotal Groping in Los Angeles.

I'm writing this from Los Angeles. I'm out here visiting my brother Artie in Hollywood. I am looking really hot because I have a photo shoot scheduled for May 7 with a stylist and a hot shit photog. My 32 year old body is prone to puffiness around the waist, and diligent workouts are called for. I had some free time while Artie was at work, so I went to 24 hour fitness in Hollywood at the fancy new ArcLight cinema. It did seem kind of sinister, learning that they are closed on Saturdays and Sundays at 8pm, but thank God it is a Wednesday, and I can get another workout in. How a company can defy the implied promise of constant openness inherent in their own NAME is beyond me, but many concepts in LA make no sense to the New Yorker. There's no asterisk with fine print included in their corporate logo, but if I were to compose one based on my experience today, it would read something like: "*NOT REALLY OPEN 24 HOURS, BUT WE FEEL SCROTAL CARESSING IN THE MEN'S LOCKER ROOM MORE THAN MAKES UP FOR THIS INCONVENIENCE, SORRY LADIES."

I was minding my own business on the conveyor belt jogging machine when the sexiest, most handsome male pervert sidled up and engaged me in a conversation about my penis length, which I found tittilating. I followed him to the Men's Locker Room. I'm guessing he was 42. Curly brown hair. Italian, Built. Hairy. His legs were a bit gawky but I forgave him that because of his curly hair.

Now, I'm not familiar with Gay Lifestyle even in Manhattan, so I'm a total fish out of water in LA. I haven't set foot in West Hollywood since I swore off gay neighborhoods in 1999. Still, I'm no fool. I'm thinkin', "Another loverboy." I prefer working out in peace, but ok he was incredibly hot...maybe i'd at least record his number into my cellphone.. Next, I'd call and make plans to share a 6 pak with him at his apartment, chill for awhile, chat, then fuck. Nope. We were on the stairs to the men's locker room and his hands dove into my sweaty jockstrap. Faster than I had anticipated, he was invading my personal space without consent. I didn't even know his name, and I was too close for comfort. I'm a big Deb Van Valkenburgh fan, but nothing could have prepared me for this, so I immediately removed his hands, shoved him away and said, "Back off, PAL." "What's the matter with you?" "What. I don't understand," he responded. And I felt violated.

I reminded him that we were in public, and if caught, we'd be busted. Our names would end up on a national database with sexual offenders and defrocked priest child molestors. So I went home, feeling exhilirated, having just avoided a rape.

If you're not a sexy person, you'll never understand that feeling of objectification by a sexual preditor. This isn't the first time I've felt it, and trust me, it is not pleasant. I prefer consensual fun behind closed doors.

If that guy only knew the kinds of things that I write about in this blog, he'd have chosen a different tactic. Eh well...another loverboy.