Blowfish on Sunset

The shag rug was put to good use earlier this evening. Candles were burning in stylish fixtures placed about my Hollywood apartment. Debralee, my bullemic roommate was out at Avalon drinking Vodka/red bull and pill popping for the next several hours, so I settled into bed with a guy named Chris that I had met today at an audition. He was really forward in the men's room, and I REALLY have to hand it to a gay guy who starts talking to me in the Men's Room but only asks for dinner. He acted exactly how I'd want my little brother to act, if I had a kid brother. We agreed to meet at Blowfish on Sunset later on that night. About an hour after dinner, and after a goodly amount of blowing in my apartment, I was balls deep when we finally stopped. "Hey stop" he yelled, and his body stiffened. "Get away from me." He yelled.

I pulled out and ran to the opposite side of the room and stood engarde until he stopped shaking. Later on, I realized that at that moment what he really needed was to be held in my arms for awhile, but as he did tell me to get away, I had to oblige. All I could do was look on with a very sympathetic gaze and quietly ask him what was going on. It was then he told me that he often gets childhood flashbacks when he's having sex with men. I told him that I always got childhood flashbacks whenever I had sex with women, forgetting that a snicker at my own joke was bad form.

It turns out that years ago as a child, he had been touched in an area normally covered by a swim suit, and at the moment, trusted me enough to spill the gory details. For another hour, I nursed a severe hardon while brewing a kettle of Rooibos Tea, and helping this young man down from an anxiety attack while he pointed to a Donny Osmond doll all the places where his Dad had touched him. Tonight, I learned some things about fathers I did not want to know.

All of Chris' youthful angst is really an early 20's condition that I don't think I have time for. I'm going to have to stop fucking 21 year olds.