Booty calling the wrong number

I am sure that there are forces in this world keeping me from getting laid.

It is as though some mischievous maker of fate is looking down at me from the Cosmos and having a gay old time. Even though I am inconsequential in the grand scheme of human events, something has taken an interest in my earthbound carnal tribulations.

I have resolved to enjoy the thrill of copulation once again. Having put too much thought into sex, I want to let instinct take the wheel.

It has happened rather quickly.

I was “cruising” a familiar website when I chanced upon a guy I had gone out with before. The sight of a tall, attractive man with piercing blue eyes jogged my memory. Back in the day, I had been slinging lattés for the caffeine-starved denizens of Davie and Denman. A regular customer, my shifts were spent playing eye tag with him.

Anyway, I encountered this particular bloke for the first time in a long time. He asked me what I was up to. As it was, I had made plans to venture out. I was joining a friend of mine at a somewhat notorious watering hole known as PumpJacks, or PJ’s to those in the know.

My libido reeled when he asked me to come over and watch a movie.

That lecherous self-involved demon within me wanted to cast off my plans and come a-runnin’. However, since I am still trying to exorcise my flaky tendencies, I had to resist. Perhaps later on in the evening we could take in that movie.

Of course, when a guy says, “We can watch a movie at my place… and cuddle” that is code for “non-committal, zero-expectation invitation to knocking boots.”

I had never walked into PumpJack before and had no idea what to expect. I knew two things for sure. The bar catered to an older clientele and to those with a penchant for leather chaps. Would I feel comfortable in my new surroundings? Probably not, but then I rarely do.

Entering what I was half expecting to be a fetishist’s wet dream, I was relieved to find the place was jumping with “common” queer folk. I only saw one man beleathered.

It came to me then the realization that I actually felt comfortable. I could handle waiting for my friend all by my lonesome. Besides, if I found myself not having a good time, I could simply leave and meet my movie date a little earlier.

Infused with an alarming degree of self-confidence, my body gravitated to a handsome man in a black cowboy hat.

That night, my mouth began to speak before I was even aware it wanted to do so. I introduced myself, and the next thing I knew we were engaging in light, flirtatious banter. He was even so bold as to cup my buttocks with his hand. He was damn sexy and I wanted nothing more than to be in his company for the entire evening.

Yet, the plans I had made with my other nightly suitor could not be ignored.

I told cowboy that I was going to get another drink. My social ineptitude kicked in when I returned to find him talking with some other men. Were they friends? Were they lovers? Could I sneak back into the conversation and once again recapture the cowboy’s affections?

I decided to take a quick smoke break from my dilemma.

When I returned, he had vanished. No trace of the cowboy or the horse he rode in on.

Finishing up my draft special, I gave my internet booty call a ring from the last remaining pay phone in Vancouver.

My entire body was humming. My tongue began to exercise itself in anticipation of a welcome visitor.

Arriving at his building, I buzzed the number I thought he had given me and waited. A voice came from the intercom. I told him it was Trevor. To this, he simply replied, “Ummm… Who? I think you got the wrong place, man”.

Looking down at the number I had written, I realized I had scribbled down the wrong one. I looked at the apartment directory and realized he was somewhere within the 500 apartment units listed. I started pressing any buttons that sounded like the number I thought I had written down.

Finally, someone who seemed to be expecting me, allowed me into the building.

Traveling up the elevator, pleased that I had found him, I tried to regain my cool. Making my way down the hall, the man waiting for me in the doorway was not whom I expected.

We looked at each other awkwardly.

I asked if he knew who I was looking for, he said he didn’t and the next thing I knew I was cast off once again into the night.

I am perhaps the only person left on the West Coast without a cell phone. Since telephone booths have gone the way of other dismissed cultural relics, I could only venture back home… in the cold, drizzling rain.

All is not lost though.

We have made arrangements to meet again and I made a point of copying the exact buzzer number for his apartment. We shall see what comes next. If only the fates would refrain from interfering.

I shake a mad fist at the Cosmos!