Looking for Part 1? It’s here.
We hung out at the brewery long enough to have a round. The place was packed, but we were happy standing against the wall as we talked and people-watched. The two guys who joined us were my friend’s friend – actually a co-worker – who I’ll refer to as “Dumb”, and Dumb’s friend, whom I’ll refer to as “Dumber”, obviously.
After we left, Dumb suggested we hit another bar, this one a few miles from there, but a block away from the spot where my friend had parked his car that morning when we got to the City. He and I had stopped in and contemplated getting a drink, but decided to come back later when the place wasn’t so dead, i.e. on our way back to the car before driving home.
Nothing against Dumb, by the way. I don’t think he’s an asshole or anything. As his name suggests, he’s just really, really dumb. I’ve hung out with him once or twice over the years, always when he’s tagged along with my friend and I to an event or social gathering. I think he accompanied us to a concert some years back, either in 2012 or 2006. When I saw him at the brewery I can admit to not recognizing him; he’s a lot older than I remember, or else he just hasn’t aged well. In fact, every time my friend has mentioned him, I mentally swapped out his face with that of a much younger guy with similar features with whom we went to high school.
Dumb drove us to the bar. We could have walked it, but it would have taken considerably longer – half an hour or more as opposed to ten minutes by car – and the guy seemed sober enough that it didn’t worry me. Plus, he lives in the neighborhood and knows his way around better than either my friend or I. Still, I know what you’re thinking: This is going to turn out to be some kind of anti-drinking-and-driving cautionary tale. Perhaps we had some kind of close call – or even worse, an actual accident – and that’s why I made a point of mentioning Dumb’s apparent sobriety. I mean, I’m referring to the guy as Dumb rather than his actual name! Why else might I do that?
As it turns out, my confidence in our driver was justified; his skills behind the wheel were above reproach. The conversation that took place while he drove, however, left something to be desired. Which brings me to Dumber. I don’t believe I had ever met Dumber before this outing, and I feel like I need to state that this isn’t a bad thing, necessarily. I’m not up late at night wondering what might have been, or daydreaming about the adventures the four of us could have gotten into had I been introduced to Dumber five years ago. I’m certainly not scrambling to make plans with the guy for next weekend.
Like his slightly less-dumb friend, Dumber lives in San Francisco. I’m not sure what neighborhood he might call home: The Mission, with its festivals and fairs, transcendant taquerias, and vintage clothing stores? Bayview-Hunters Point, featuring the dormant Naval Shipyard, extensive residential and commercial development, and high crime rate? South of Market, which boasts countless museums, hotels, bars, and nightclubs? I’m guessing he doesn’t live in Eureka Valley, home of San Francisco’s best-known LGBT neighborhood the Castro. I say this because he told us that before leaving his place he heard two gay men having oral sex outside his window. Or rather, because of his reaction thereto.
I have no idea as to the specific details of Dumber’s living arrangement, but I assume he lives in an apartment, probably on the second floor (if not ground level) of a typical building or complex. As he related the story I imagined that the two men were carrying on in an alley, as for whatever reason I didn’t picture the scene occurring on a very busy thoroughfare, though I suppose it could have. Per Dumber’s account, a small crowd had gathered to enjoy the spectacle, cheer on the two men, hook up, or whatever.
Being the cliché overcompensating straight male/latent homosexual, Dumber made a point of letting us know how turned off he was by the sight, or even just the sound, of the antics occurring outside his window. I’m not sure offhand how much of it he watched, although if I had to guess I’d say he watched the whole thing, jerked off the entire time, and came before immediately shutting his window and having a shameful cry in the shower.
To hear him tell it, though, he was utterly nauseated. Maybe not to the point of throwing up, but the absolute revulsion in his voice told me that he probably enjoyed the show as it was happening. Watching from a second floor window as I suspect he was, he was probably able to take it all in without fear of being seen by anyone at street level. At least, by anyone who could later identify him when he left his apartment and ask him if he was into it.
The thing that really stood out to Dumber, and to Dumb – and if I’m being honest, probably my friend as well – was the following line, spoken by someone in the alley below during a particularly climactic moment. Presumably the speaker was the guy who was receiving, though it is not inconceivable that it was instead said by one of the enthralled spectators:
“Don’t waste it.”
Everyone found this hilarious and/or disturbing, though I’m not exactly sure why. I presume that it’s due less to the fact that the speaker is speaking of ejaculation as though it were water or electricity, i.e. something precious that doesn’t deserve to be squandered on an alley floor, and due more to the fact that it was said during a sex act involving two people of the same sex. To me, though, it seems like a normal thing to say. All of these guys presumably have, or would have if given the opportunity, said or at least thought something similar while getting head from a woman. So is it envy? Do the women these guys fuck refuse to swallow? Does Dumber in fact wish that somebody regarded his cum like it was liquid gold rather than donning a hazmat suit when giving a blowjob?
Dumb warned my friend and I that if we happen to venture into a gay neighborhood we should be careful. An ominous warning, isn’t it? Be careful? Why? They’re not planning to rob, kill, or sexually assault anybody, certainly not moreso than any other demographic. It brought to mind an edition of Dan Savage’s Savage Love Podcast wherein he debunked the theory that gay men collectively suffer from greater levels of incontinence than others due to their supposed proclivity for anal sex. I don’t remember the exact quote, but he explained that the easiest way to see through rumors of widespread incontinence within the gay community was to walk through an LGBT neighborhood and note that there are no little piles of feces on the sidewalk and in the bushes because gay men by and large don’t have trouble holding in their bowel movements. See? You don’t even have to worry about stepping in anything.
Seriously, be careful? Did I detect a hint of condescension, like he thought he was imparting Yoda-like sage advice on how to navigate the urban jungle? I imagine that he went home that night very proud of himself, convinced that he’d done a good deed in helping us keep our assholes tight.
If you can’t stand the sight of two same-sex people holding hands, maybe you shouldn’t be living in a major American city known for its acceptance of LGBT individuals and culture. Still, I note that over the last couple weeks I’ve seen multiple same-sex couples holding hands right here in the boring-ass suburbs. Not people I know, either. Just random couples at the grocery store or in the park. And I realize that a public blowjob is much different than simple hand-holding, but I am certain that had Dumber seen a woman blowing a man outside of his window the conversation on the way to the bar would have been much different. And that’s when it hit me: The guy from the boring-ass suburbs is more progressive and less reflexively homophobic than the guy who lives and works in the City?
As Dumb drove, my friend mentioned the sex-positive boutique we’d gone to. He didn’t say why we were there, and they didn’t ask. But he did make a point of mentioning the two guys eating ice cream out of dog bowls. I don’t know if he brought that up because he was legitimately disturbed by the practice – though that was probably part of it – or because, knowing they would find the practice bizarre, he wanted to gross them out further.
Dumb pulled the car onto Valencia and drove a couple blocks looking for parking, which was scarce. Eventually, somebody pointed out a space on the opposite side of the street, just across from our destination. It was the kind of tight spot I myself wouldn’t have bothered trying for, knowing that by the time I made a U-turn at my next opportunity to do so it would likely be gone, and even if it wasn’t, I’d probably just embarrass myself on a crowded street as I tried to work my car into the space before pulling out in defeat and seeking something else. Dumb, however, is far more daring than I. He made a U-turn mid-block and began wedging his four-door sedan into the space, driving a few inches before reversing and twisting the steering wheel to get his rear end in place, then repeating the process. The car groaned as he put it through its paces, and finally someone – Dumber, I believe – asked if it was too tight and we should try to find a different space.
“This is rockstar parking,” I said. And then, because I couldn’t resist: “Don’t waste it.”
