Saturday evening I got on the road for a trip to the city of Frank to enjoy the company of my good friends,
Anyway, I met them at Hung Yen, this yummy Vietnamese hole-in-the-wall, that serves the best sweet-n-sour vegetarian soup – if you’re ever in town, they’re at Harrison @ 18th. There, I met John, his partner, John, Alan W. and Francis my puppy. I ordered an Ice Coffee, and nibbled on the remains of their supper, which somehow was interpreted as a full share of the bill. Well, we compromised and I left the tip, which was still a tall order for a coffee and an egg roll. Such is life, sometimes.
Frank-baby and I got into my 300m, which I am still in love with, even after its disloyalty in allowing me to crash it into some damnable Volvo, and drove over to UGH (Upper Gryphon House) the abode of which I still possess keys, all the while chatting about this web project that The Old Money Queen © wants to finance.
We picked up John and drove around aimlessly for a time, discussing the possible and the probable for this project’s success, and found ourselves atop Twin Peaks, surrounded by tourist-types and other unfortunate locals. We came to a couple of conclusions that we could successfully sell this project to The OMQ and drove Frank-baby down to the Castro to pick up his date for the evening. Ben seems to have shaved his beard, but still looked hot.
John and I went home to UGH and went outside to the balcony to smoke and chit-chat about plants and things. Plants and things. Plants and things. Plants and other things besides the first things in the previous three sentences. Plumpy came out to tell me about how he emailed me the tape he made all those years ago of the composition of “Up Your Butt with Carrots,” the main theme of the Vegetable musical I am/was writing at the time. Here’s a sample of the lyrics:
With a Rutabaga, baked potato,
Your Butt says, “oh, yeah!”
Wow! up your butt with carrots.
Back in the Sitting Room, Plumpy and I snuggled on the couch while John turned on some stream audio from one of the many internet techno stations polluting the ether. Not that I dislike electronica, far from it, but I like the sound of the words. Say it with me,
“polluting the ether.”
“polluting the ether.”
“polluting the ether.”
“polluting the ether.”
Doesn’t that make you feel better?
I was at that point struck by the desire to get a large penis inserted into my ever-so-unused sphincter. And not with a sphincter finger. Nor a finger sphincter. Sphincter Finger Finger Sphincter. Say that ten times fast. Go on, I’ll wait.
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Not surprisingly, I never really had a solid connection on a reliable top during my time in Frank, but I did know how to get one, with out going to the bars or sex-clubs. I have always had the couple of times a year to engage in the role of the bottom. What? you don’t believe me? well, piffle.
Mr. N is a phone sex line that, for a small fee ($5.00 for three days) give you access to phone ads and live chat. So, I called them up to hear who was online, and decided that there was decent enough crop of willing men to purchase the pin-code. By the way, John, I forgot to leave the money, but I figure that with the tremendously expensive lunch I bought for everyone the next day, we’re probably even 
I fell asleep at around 5am not getting lucky enough to leave the couch, so I hung up the phone and went to sleep.
(insert sounds of paul sleeping here.)
At 7:30am the next morning, I was awake and still in need of sphincter fingering with a new pelvic affiliate, so I called back up. Hmm… this guy up on Nob Hill sounds nice. Oh, wait, this dominant top out in the Sunset might be the trick, too. Mornings are almost always better for finding tops than evenings. Something about the morning ha
d-ron © that smacks me across the face, I think. I chit-chatted with them both and decided that the guy up in Pacific Heights would be a better fit, so I made a date with him for later that afternoon.
During the drive up Fell to Divisadero to Jackson, I talked with Erich and decided that we had tricked together before. He was describing how he really liked to have his C*ck sucked while gnawing on a big foot. Ding-ding. Suddenly I remembered him from those oh-so-long ago 2am connections on the futon at UGH. I was about to not get the sphincter finger after all, but an enormous bavarian sausage stuffed down my throat and some foot chewing. I could live with that. barely. My aforementioned sphincter was not particularly happy, but I held him in abeyance.
(snip the story about the act itself) except to say that his bedroom had this huge wall of window from which the entire city was laid out for all, well, him and I, to view. Glorious.
I drove back home to UGH and told them about my tawdry experience, and we continued our visit.
Later that night, as I was driving back home to Sacramento, I reflected upon why I had gone to visit – the open house the realtor held that day – my then buoyant mood went right out the sunroof.
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