the Frenemy's alter-ego, 'Victoria Anne Sanchez,' 'Tori', arose from her coma some time ago. Surely, that occasion was not so much a miracle as Marlena's possession by the devil, or Erica Kane getting away with murder; in other words, it was an awakening not even worthy of "Knot's Landing."
the Frenemy's soap opera recommenced inauspiciously when, after another break-up with the sex toy formerly known as Luscious, he pulled out his back-up dress, his emergency heels, and a wig of dubious origins - of a color that never occurred in nature - bought some press-on nails longer than his sexual history, and hit the nearest West side bar. He went out again this evening - and I anticipate a late night phone call filled with lascivious giggling and the purr(ing) growl of an alley-cat ... in heat.
But the heat is on, you see ... I spent Valentine's Day - post Mount Gay - at my first chocolate gang-bang. I found the men online, and drove the Frenemy's car 'cross town to the Medical Center - a haven for professional homosexuals and chocolate gang-bangs. I see this because I turned down the previous invitation to a similar event in the same area - possibly the same apartment complex.
I knocked on a door reminiscent of the front door of a crack den I used to visit regularly ... and, as happened once or twice when I knocked on the door of that crack den, the door swung slowly open and a naked Negro was standing there with a wry smile. The naked Negro was the host of this chocolate bang, and he offered me Kool-Aid and bid me take off my clothes. The place smelled a bit of incense - with hints of Marlboro Reds and a gym sock you'd find beneath the bed of a 15 year old boy.
I was thinking thoughts about the size and shape of the naked Negro's very round butt when he strode away to introduce me to the second part of the party. Technically, it was a threesome at this point - and the fourth man didn't show up 'til half past four ... orgasms. Nonetheless, I could not think of a better - post bitter break-up - way to spend Valentine's, or VD - as my (single) friends and I call it.
There were, of course, some moments that fell flat - nearly, or actually ... like running out of lube and using Warm Vanilla Sugar on places Bath and Body Works should never go. Or banging the aforementioned naked Negro while he was busy texting ... while he continued texting.
And then there was the yoga.
It was something between Cirque du Soleil and a Bikram yoga class; the naked Negro showered, dressed in a red jock-strap, a neckerchief, and a beret - positioned himself in a head-stand - and turned on a club mix. For the next hour and a half, before unceremoniously throwing the three of us out, the naked Negro rolled, flipped, dipped, and stripped - tying himself up in the curtains and dancing his way out of the jock-strap and neckerchief, putting on what I could, at the time, only describe as a nude drag show.
Something good(?) came out of it, though. The 5'2," 40-something with whom I wound up spending the next two nights and a third, very warm and comfortable day has more than his share of charms. He is retired military - living on a comfortable income, which he appears to spend largely on non-perishables such as bottled water and the complete series of "Bewitched" and "Starsky & Hutch." His willingness to have sex is paralleled only by his oral skills - kissing and otherwise. But, as we know, there are always draw-backs - in this case, narcolepsy. It took me a full minute to realize that he was not actually being really generous but had instead fallen asleep on my penis. Mount Gay would not get out of bed. Knob Bob can't stay awake to finish the act.
It is a step up, right?
I find myself reflecting on a patronizing but hopelessly accurate statement the Frenemy makes regarding my recent romantic (and sexual) experiences - that I am new to dating, that these are 'training wheels' relationships ... and yet, though I am loathe to admit it, I cannot help thinking that the rusted bikes I'm riding now are just not quite the right fit.