The Impossibly Sexy Mr. Wolf

March 31, 2011

“You must admit, I am very British. I don’t say hard ‘Rs.'” -Adelle Dewitt

Oh, the drama. Thursday night, Mr. Wolf wants to have dinner. I decline because “dinner” means much more than just dinner, and I have work the next day. So Friday afternoon, I ask him to have dinner, but I get a dodgy response (and a bad lie) about how he has to finish up some work. My cousin Clark (who I had previously asked about Mr. Wolf–they’re long time acquaintances) then calls me to share that he had just missed a call from Mr. Wolf, and asks me how our night was together. “Our date from Monday?” I ask a little confused. No, Clark is referring to a “night” that didn’t happen. Suspicious. Why does Clark think there’s been another night between Wolf and I? And why is Wolf giving me poor excuses when I know he wants me?

Saturday rolls around and Wolf calls me, asking if he can cook me dinner. I’m understandably a little pissed and almost say no, but his Britishness overwhelms me, and I give in. I arrive a little late as usual, and he’s thrown some lamb chops on the grill. The exterior of his house looks as though it’s been swallowed by a jungle (in a kept yet mysterious way) and the inside perfectly fits his personality. The walls are covered with photographs he’s taken and some along with a few paintings. Everything from the floors to the way the light enters his house seems so revealing to his character.

After a delicious dinner, Mr. Wolf sits me down on his awkward couch. “I don’t know what you’re looking for…” he starts, and I roll my eyes, “but I’m not looking for a boyfriend.” I almost laugh at how direct his statement is. I want to yell “duh,” thinking, this coming from the man who upon first sight I thought would eat me alive. “Oh, I know,” I assure him with a smile. “So…is that why you called my cousin yesterday?” He blinks at me, confused that Clark would tell me. “I’m not sure I why I called him to be honest. I talked to him today though.” “He doesn’t even know me that well,” I reply, referring to Clark. “I don’t know, I guess to get his blessing or…no, that sounds bad,” he trails off. I suppose I did some similar information gathering, so I ignore it.

“Shall we go out?” He asks. I kind of just want to stay in and get rowdy, but I agree. “I’ll call a cab, but first let’s have a drink.” He shows me to his liquor cabinet, which is quite full for someone who doesn’t drink that frequently. “I have Kettle One, Scotch, Patron…” “Patron,” I declare without hesitation. “I’ve never had tequila before,” Mr. Wolf tells me. My jaw drops, and I refuse to believe him, but he tells me he only really started drinking recently. “Patron it is,” he says pouring two shots. “How exactly do I do this?” He asks. I explain the salt and the lime and we go for round two and three. “It’s not near as bad as everyone says,” he tells me as his stare locks in. “You’re going to be fun tonight,” I promise him. “Am I?” He asks. “Brits are always fun,” I tell him. He then makes a Dr. Who reference, and I gush about my Anglophila. Instead of being freaked out, he pushes me back on the couch then mounts and kisses me ferociously. The cab pulls up, so Wolf takes his lips off my beaming face.

We leave to meet Wolf’s friend, the Ke$ha drag queen, although I am scolded for calling him a drag queen. I’m not sure why; he’s wearing hair extensions, a tube top, mini skirt, and enough body glitter to drown in. It’s Ke$ha Jr.’s first night at this grimy gay bar, and I’ve had two more tequila-based beverages when K-Money Jr. has to hold a dance contest. I’m already getting bored when a wildly inebriated black man hops on the stage. “We’re only taking contestants who signed up,” our friend tells him. But to no avail. The man undoes his belt, drops his pants, and gyrates until his penis flies out of the front hole of his boxers. There’s nothing like someone exposing himself on stage to finish off an evening, so we catch a cab home. When we get back, Wolf fondles me on the couch, and I can’t stop weaving Natalie Portman’s lines from “Closer” into our banter, which I think unwittingly turns him on. “You’re impossibly sexy,” I slur. I don’t remember much else because that was the most I had drank in a while, but what I can tell you is this: best sex of my life. Period. The difference between a boy and a man is that a man knows exactly what he’s doing. And Wolf knew exactly how to manhandle me. I’m also pretty sure I yelled out “Mr. Wolf” at one point. Oops.

The next morning, we shower and hang out at Starbucks for a half hour. That afternoon, I get a message from him: “I had a great time last night. If you’re up for it, I’d like to have another adventure.” I write back, “ooo, I don’t know,” and wait a second to make him nervous. “Just kidding, let’s do it.” I look forward to it.


Welcome to the Gayborhood

March 12, 2011

“You are going to meet the most extraordinary men, the sexiest, funniest, brightest men. You’re going to meet so many of them, fall in love with so many of them, you won’t know until the end of your life which ones were your greatest lovers and which were your greatest friends.” -Harvey Milk

So there’s this boy…let’s call him The Writer.

It’s Friday night, and we’ve made tentative plans. Having not heard from The Writer, I accept an invitation from a gay couple I recently met, who are having some people over. As not to be rude, I had previously informed my hosts that I might have to leave to go to a party with The Writer. They’ve been friends with him for years, and the hosts tell me that he’s a fun guy. “You should definitely go,” they say before informing me that I am “totally his type.” When I press for more info, they give me an ominous “you’ll see.” However, the conversation does reveal that The Writer is more like 30 than 25, my original assumption. The other guests arrive, and it’s always a little awkward trying to find my footing in a previously established social group. Now, I’m hoping The Writer will call and sweep me away. I linger for about an hour trying to muster up enthusiasm to answer all of those obligatory questions that you ask someone you don’t know anything about like doctors going down an examination checklist. Finally, The Writer texts me and tells me to meet him at his house. This makes me a little nervous but mostly relieved: I have a good excuse to leave and don’t have to drive (or more importantly park) in some alien neighborhood AND I can potentially drink. But I’m also forfeiting control of my night–to someone I’ve only met once.*

Fastforward about an hour, and I’m riding shotgun in The Writer’s car while his friend, who confusingly shares the same first name, sits in the back seat. We quickly park on a quiet street in West Hollywood and make our way into not a house party as I had supposed, but a fundraising party for a gay city council candidate. Alright, I can do that.

Upon entering the party, I’m immediately separated from The Writer and left to be conversation partners with his very drunk Namesake and a woman, who calls herself Contessa. Now, I have to take a moment to share a little about Contessa because despite all of the intricate moments seeded throughout this night that come back into play later, she is far and away the craziest part of this story. Firstly, Contessa speaks of herself only in the third person and informs us that despite being both of British nobility AND an oil heiress, she has no family and thus, considers the gays her kin. She also tries to recruit Namesake and I to protest at City Hall. For what, you might ask? We did too, not that we got a coherent answer. Looking around, I don’t see The Writer anywhere and while Contessa with her pre-pubescent pink lip gloss and poorly dyed, choppy black bangs is wildly entertaining, I’m growing weary of once again not knowing anyone.

Luckily the host, (let’s call him Dan because when I first see him, he reminds me of a ritzier version of Dan from Gossip Girl…not that I watch,) introduces himself and offers Contessa a drink. She denies the drink because a) she is clearly high as fuck on painkillers and/or benzos and b) has to drive home despite living merely two blocks away. “Dan” proves to be a useful getaway mechanism, and I quickly excuse myself to bathroom.

Upon my return, I make a greater effort to socialize, this time with Dan and a man claiming to be in his early 40s but realistically is pushing 60 (despite some permanent cosmetics.) As this guys rambles on, I notice every time I look at Dan, he’s already looking staring at me. No, not staring. Full on piercing sex gaze. I shutter. Finally, The Writer returns to my side for some support. “You having fun?” I nod unenthusiastically, but the older man carries on, recounting how he and Dan met on an airplane in first class and how Dan’s ex, who coincidentally was in coach on the same flight, tried to come up and talk to them for the duration of the flight. (If I were the ex, I’d probably have just busted the emergency exit window and sucked myself through. Or drank excessively. Either one really.)

At this point, Dan has excused himself from the conversation to tend to Contessa’s shrieking, so The Writer takes the opportunity to inform me: “you’re totally Dan’s type.” WTF and “No shit” are my respective mental and verbal responses. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone ever stare at me that intensely,” I say. The older man then starts sharing stories about his position as a Greek life supervisor and alludes to frequent lewd acts with his frat boys. “The things you don’t know about in Greek life. Let’s just say I keep the old Greco traditions alive,” he says. Yeah, emphasis on old. I’m mildly appalled by this, but not nearly as appalled by what comes next; the man unceremoniously announces that he is a Log Cabin Republican. The room slows around me. I look at The Writer as if to very seriously say, “shut the fuck up.” Read the rest of this entry »


%d bloggers like this: