Stillness, except for the sound of waves crashing on the beach

- and Stefan and me quibbling. We're stumbling up a cobblestone path lined with palm trees that takes us back to the hotel. It's 4 AM and we're very drunk.
"Do you always have to analyze -"
"- just like back in college when - "
"- Me!? You mean you - "
... and so on and so on.
A loud THUD noise shatters the silence and abruptly ends our argument. "AHHHHHH!" we both shout in unison and cling to one another. A large coconut, the size of a cannon ball, has just fallen from a tree, crashing on the ground 3 feet in front of us. We stare at it blankly, completely shocked. It gently rolls down the hill and stops at our feet.
"Holy shit! We almost died!" Stefan says.
"Fuuuuck!" Stefan and I both look at each other, and almost instantly, start laughing.
"Like a message from God, telling us to shut the fuck up!" Stefan says. I sit down on the street, and am laughing my ass off.
"You scream like Farrah Fawcett," I say, mocking Stefan's scream. At this he mock-kicks the coconut towards me, but ends up stubbing his toe instead. I laugh even harder. Defeated, Stefan sits down beside me and joins me in my hysterical laughter.
The cobblestones are killing my ass, and the coconut feels cold and wet. But I can't get up yet. It's too precious a moment, and too beautiful a night.
( similar posts: lying on Hartford Street back in SF )
(more on Paradise: cruising, thunderstorms, sunrise )

Still in Paradise: waking up in the living room

I don't feel like a tourist anymore. Stefan and I have several local friends now - the gang at Frida's "un bar" (think Cheers except that the place is a shrine to Frida Kahlo), the zany, hypercharged Vivianna and her laid-back, uber-sexy, suprisingly metrosexual boyfriend, who we hang out with almost every night (I'm reminded of Lisa from New Orleans), the artists from back home (imagine traveling 2000 miles and hooking up with guys who live 6 blocks away from you!) , here on a long term assignment.
Stefan is in the bedroom with the guy he met last night, so I'm relegated to sleeping in the living room. It's sunrise, and I awake to the bright light flooding into our hotel room. Only a day left in paradise, I think to myself, standing on the balcony, as I lazily stretch, taking in the view of Banderas Bay. The early morning fishing boats are out and the fog is slowly lifting off the outer edges of the lagoon. One boat has a flock of seagulls eagerly following in its wake. I am reminded of a solemn Tennyson poem and a different bay, one much closer to home.
(more on Paradise: cruising, thunderstorms)

Growers in Speedos & Tropical Thunderstorms

"I live in Toronto but am originally from Mexico City," he says as his arms encircle my waist from behind. Warm rain is bearing down on us, and we're in the water. The waves are a little stronger now, but the being in the sea is still more pleasant than being on the beach.
I feel his surprisingly impressive bulge up against my ass. Who knew? "Wow, you're a grower!" I say. Oops. that just slipped out.
"You like that?"
I turn around to face him. The rain is getting heavier, the sky is a bright grey, and we hear thunder in the distance. Some of the other guys are getting out of the water. I pull his speedos down to his knees, and he does the same to mine.
At the same instant we're overtaken by a huge wave and tumble apart. Ugh. I hate the taste of salty sea water. Stefan is waving frantically from underneath the umbrella. I wave back. I'll be out in a sec, wait up!
"Wanna come back to our room, big guy?" I ask as I readjust myself in my trunks.
(more in the sun: blonds & bulges )

Cruising under the sun

The humidity is oppressive. The temperatures are fierce. We rarely stray from the shade for fear of getting heat exhaustion. Stefan and I are wearing the least amount of clothes legal.
Thank god speedos are legal. And thank god for beach umbrellas. We can't decide what's hotter though.... the weather or the men.
"Wow," Stefan says, pointing to a dark, tanned guy in white trunks, "that guy's HOT."
"Yeah, so is his husband over there," I say, "the one in the blue shorts. They're here on their honeymoon. They're from Boston, and just got married. I talked to them in the elevator."
"Oh." Stefan is only a little deflated.
"I like the blue speedo guy over there," I say. I smile and raise my drink at a guy 3 umbrellas away. He smiles back at me. Beach blond hair, and hot pecs. "I bet he's from LA." ("Orange County. Close, though," he tells me later that evening.)
"Ready for another round of margaritas?" Stefan asks, motioning the bartender over.

Driving Miss Keith, again

"Uh-huh... yep... 6 o'clock. Sure. uhh... OK. can't be late for the open bar. Got it. 80s themed? like... oh- got it. OK. VIP passes... ya, uh-huh yep.. your place? but that's across town - oh, right. nevermind. dinner? *sigh* sure. what kind? chicken. right. and, yep, I remember... no sour cream. Red? I don't have a red shirt- oh, OK. whatever you want. Miss who? do I know him? sorry, I mean, her? No that's out of our way. we can't... well, I suppose if I left work early and - Yea of course you can crash at my - but- but- no I can't hold my battery's almost dead - I'll pick you up at 5. Me too. bye, Miss Keith."
I will say this... Miss Keith made it worthwhile. It isn't every day you get VIP passes to see the Killers in a suprise performance.
(Driving Miss Keith Part 1; Missing the party )

"Catching up" with Nate

So who would I run into the other night at a going away party the other evening than Nate. As soon as we see each other we bound towards each other and he smothers me in a big bearhug. It's a little ritual we've developed, no matter whom he's with or whom I'm with. We promise to catch up soon. I ask him out to dinner, and he says sure. So long as we can "catch up" at his place after dinner too, he adds. His eyes twinkle mischeviously. All of a sudden I feel incredibly horny.
(more on Nate: twilight in the Park )

On the phone with Stefan: Bodybuilders, straight roommates and angry cabdrivers

“Hey Stefan, remember that time we picked up that bodybuilder firefighter guy and brought him back to Kensington Palace?” Kensington Palace, as we affectionately called the rundown old brownstone Stefan lived in, was a major party hub (gay and straight) during our student days. KP was a great place... so close to campus and all the bars and restaurants downtown. The one downside was Stefan lived with 2 very cute but very rigidly straight guys.
“Oh my God. We were soo drunk that night!” Stefan recalls of that evening a decade ago, adding, “He was bigger than both of us put together!”
“And when he left, he made so much noise he woke up Peter and Mallik?”
“Ugh....” Stefan groans and laughs at the same time, “That was sooo embarassing. Mallik looked so shocked to see the guy putting his clothes on in the livingroom.”
“And he didn't have money for a cab?” Just when we thought the story couldn't get better. More groans from Stefan. “Yeah... and the cabdriver came back to KP at 4 AM and yelled at us for his cabfare. Peter was sooo pissed off.”
“So whatever happened to Peter and Mallik?”
“Not sure. One got married and the other is still out canoeing somewhere is my guess.”

My Swimteam Buddy & My Girlfriend - Chapter 2

(Geez! What took so long, Andrew?). Rich, Cindy and Brian, our confused, helpless narrator are back with another adventure.

Here is an excerpt:

My girlfriend looked incredibly sexy in my buddy’s arms. She flirted with him with that same coy, girlishness she used on me. That’s what it must look like when she flirts with me, I thought to myself. I started to get aroused despite myself. The warm jets of bubbles streaming over my lower back and between my legs weren’t helping either, and before I knew it, I felt my prick getting hard underneath my shorts...

Click here to read My Swimteam Buddy and My Girlfriend - Chapter 2

And, as always, let me know what you think!

On the sidewalk on Hartford Street

'What time is it?'
'1 AM'
'Why are we lying here?'
'Dunno'
'What are you looking at?'
'The stars'
'Dude, there are no stars in San Francisco. Just fog and smog'
'Wow. Who thought the sidewalk on Hartford Street would be this comfortable!'
'I prefer upper 18th. Quieter. And less pets'
'You gonna go to Southern Decadence with me next year?'
'Sure am'
'Why did we order that third round of tequila shots?'
'Dunno'
'In New Orleans they have this drink called Purple Poontangs that -'
'Dude, we know. We read your blog'
'K'
'You guys work tomorrow?'
'Yep. At 10'
'I have to be at work at 8'
Spike, Paul and I say nothing else. Paul's arm is a nice pillow. Life is good for the moment.

At a 'straight' bar on Bourbon Street

"This round's on me, y'all!" shrieks Lisa. Lisa, the only straight woman in our gang is dressed in what she refers to as drag... a petite green dress that hides very little, a bright pink sunflower broach, and a cherry red wig ("Don't forget my hooker panty-hose!" she reminds me, pointing at her fishnet stockings riddled with holes) . She puts most drag queens to shame.
"Bartender, 7 Purple Poontangs, please!". And she turns to us all, "It's a Southern Decadence Parade special". She pronounces parade Pay-rayde.
Her boyfriend, who reminds me a lot of Billy Currington, shakes his head, and says "Noone down here cept her says Pay-Rade. that ain't southern... that's just Lisa!"
"So what's in a Purple Poontang?" the porn-guy asks. He's from Philly.
"It's a big grape slurpy with about 4 shots of alcohol in it," says hunky straight boyfriend.
I look around the table at our little group: the darling oil guy from Houston who's soft on me, the porn guy, Lisa, who's actually an interior designer, her studly boyfriend the car guy, Lawrence and Kris, and me (the blog guy from San Francisco)... all seated at a straight bar on Bourbon Street in the humid, sultry heat of Decadence afternoon.
"Here's to Nawlans, and to the French Quarter!"
The seven of us happily raise our Purple Poontangs and clink our plastic cups, about to jointly suffer from a case of deep purple tongues and brain freeze.
(more posts on New Orleans: Southern Decadence, dancing with the guy's wife)

Southern men: cute & clueless?

"My name is Andrew. I'm from San Francisco. You?"
"Houston"
"Baton Rouge"
"Baton Rouge"
"Birmingham"
"Lafayette"
"Penascola"
"Atlanta"
"Memphis"
"Baton Rouge"
"Myrtle Beach"
"Jackson"
"Atlanta"
"Coral Gables"
"Charlotte"
"Huntsville"
"Dallas"
"Lafayette"
"Minneapolis"
"Little Rock"
Wait a sec... I quickly make my way back to the cute, incredibly hot, corn-fed smiling face from Minnesota, elbowing all the cute shirtless guys on the dancefloor on my way.
"Did you say you were from Minneapolis?" I ask. Before he as a chance to reply, I add "Come with me" and lead him by the hand off the dance floor. It doesn't take long. He cums quickly, and copiously. It takes 3 napkins to wipe it off my chin and chest.
Here in New Orleans I'm feeling outnumbered, not to mention uncute, amongst all these hot Southern boys. It ain't fair, I tell ya. In San Francisco, we work hard to be cute. Hours at the gym, the salon, shopping for the right clothes... while here in the South, they're just plain cute, and don't even KNOW how amazingly, unbelievably, erection-inducingly HOT they are!

Make mine a double. On the rocks, please!

"And so there we were, stumbling out of the bar at 5 AM..." I recount to Lawrence, our good friend and New Orleans host, "and Paul is singing 'Me and Bobby McGee' at the top of his lungs, while we walk down St.Anne -"
"Uh, actually, that was YOU, Andrew. Not me," interrupts Paul.
"Anyways, someone was belting out Me & Bobby McGee, and a few people on the street joined in..." I continue. "And then, we tried to be all quiet when we got home because we didn't want to disturb you and Kris -"
"Uh, Andrew... actually, you didn't COME home. You ended up hooking up with that couple from DC and going back to their hotel room..."
"Well, OK, so I took a slight detour." I say, irritated at Paul for having such a good memory for details.
"Was that YOU at 8 AM, making all that noise opening the front door?" Lawrence asks.
"Anyways, the point is, this place is absolutely INCREDIBLE. I haven't had this much fun since..." I'm trying to think of when I had this much fun in San Francisco, "since... "
"Last weekend?" Paul again.
Lawrence laughs, and reaches for the bottle of Southern Comfort on the kitchen counter. "Some SoCo, y'all?"
"It isn't even noon yet!" I say, loving it, "Of course!"
(more posts on New Orleans: Southern Decadence, dancing with the guy's wife)
(more on Paul: I heart NY ; he leaves SF; The stately ships )

decadent - adj. marked by excessive self-indulgence

"So, what brings you to New Orleans?" the guy next to me asks. He has a friendly, southern drawl. His girlfriend, an attractive, petite blonde, is seated in the aisle row. She is resting her head on his shoulder.
I'm thinking I would have rather sat beside any of the dozens of other cute gay guys on the plane. Seriously, the boarding gate back at the Houston Airport felt like Happy Hour on the Castro in San Francisco.
"Southern Decadence," I say.
"Ahh, that's why the plane is so full of gay guys," he says, laughing. Then he suddenly stops laughing and looks at me, worried, wondering if he's said something inappropriate.
As we begin our descent into the Big Easy, I look out the window to see the Mississippi River. It looks dark, almost black, as it slowly winds its way through the lush forests and green fields, towards the city and beyond. I can practically feel the heat & humidity rising. And the excitement, as we approach one of my favorite cities in the world.
(more posts on New Orleans: Mardi Gras )

Dude, why are you taking pictures?

Did I mention Paul and I were in New Orleans for Mardi Gras this year?
We're in the Marigny watching the Lundi Gras parade the day before Fat Tuesday... It's a warm day, and the sun feels good against my torso and legs. My red cowboy hat matches my red shorts, and we're buzzed, smiling and flirting with everyone that smiles or flirts back.
All of a sudden, a woman grabs me out of the crowd and starts dancing with me. She's wearing a skimpy red bikini top and tight jeans.
"We match!" She shouts happily, pointing at our outfits. She pours some of her margarita into my empty glass as she bumps and grinds against me, skin on skin. I've never been one to say no to a good dance, so we start dancing fast and furious... her hands are all over my chest and ass as I try to spin and twirl her in the crowd of costumed people.
The tall goatee-guy with the camera is clicking away as the two of us dirty dance in front of him. He finally comes over to me - the woman's hands are down my pants at this point - puts his arm around my shoulder, and introduces himself. His voice is all lusty, and he says, "You're dancing with my wife, man... SO fuckin' HOT! Major sexual material for when we fuck later!"
"Happy Mardi Gras!" I say, drunk, dizzy and elated. I offer him a sip of my drink.