**The Blow Job is an ongoing series that I started writing in 2008. You can read Part 1 HERE, and Part 2 HERE**
BJ didn’t need any turning. Nothing I could ever do or say was ever going to convince this straight, sports-loving, vagina-chasing frat survivor to love cock any more than he already did, and it would turn out that he loved it at least as much as I craved it, though coy as he was, I eventually learned that he worshiped the mighty penis more often and with more religious fervor than I could have ever aspired to, even in the most sordid of my debauched dreams. BJ was homo by stealth, a gay ninja that struck when least expected, or whenever he started talking about working out or men’s boots.
I’d grown up repressed enough to take it as a compliment when, upon learning that I was an unrepentant homosexual, middle-aged women out shopping with their mothers commented that I didn’t look gay. I’d had co-workers loudly proclaim that they’d never have guessed that I loved, loved, LOVED kissing boys and all their boy parts, right before they swore they had the perfect guy they’d like to set me up with because he was single and nobody could tell that he was gay either. If I knew then what years of heartache and therapy have since taught me, I’d have broken out in obscure show tunes and used the words fierce, divine, and work (pronounced “werk”, while holding the e) at every opportunity, and for no reason at all, except to make sure that everyone, be they clergy or muscle queen, would never mistake me for a breeder – not that there’s anything wrong with that sort of thing.
No wonder I couldn’t get a fucking date to save my life and my sex life for the entirety of my early 20’s consisted of intimate knowledge of my left hand and the video rental counter at Circus of Books. When gay guys tell me how proud they are that they’re not part of the gay scene, my inner drag queen, Moesha LeFuree, wants to remind them that it’s not like they can write themselves out. You’re in, whether you like it or lie about it, and BJ liked to lie about it, until you got to know whatever version of him he wanted to show you on any given day.
The first time I got to peel BJ’s onion of multiple personality disorder, I was minding my own business while casually eavesdropping on his conversation with his co-workers at the café of drowning sorrow. I’d already been at his counter for hours, sketching and trying to come down off an unusually stubborn sugar high. I finally gave up and decided to take my weary body home upon remembering that I hadn’t touched myself since lunchtime, but as I got up to leave, BJ stopped me.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he snapped.
“Um, home,” I shrugged.
“No you’re not. Sit down.” BJ commanded, sliding another piece of pie before me.
I never took BJ for a dom top, but I remember thinking to myself that from then on, when I saw a Craigslist ad for a take charge, DL, str8 young jock, it was probably the mating call of the guy serving me cake.
I did as I was told, and diligently consumed the refashioned sticks of butter on my plate, but I didn’t dare to eat too quickly, lest BJ force me to devour something else. I had limits, dammit, even if they were solely physical and had nothing to do with class or good taste. Before I knew it, BJ and his co-workers were closing up shop, because, as it turns out, time flies when you’re on a sugar high to oblivion. BJ locked the front door and turned away the last of his would-be customers, and I thought that surely this was my moment to vacate the seat that had grown frail under the weight of my expanding over-indulgent ass.
I ventured a glance in BJ’s direction. I had learned from the little bit of BDSM porn I’d watched with uncomfortable intrigue, because three rentals at Circus of Books meant that the fourth one was free, that once roles were established, they were not to be altered until a scene ended in an orgasm couplet, the first taken and the second granted. I was clearly not the dominant one on this night; I was too tired and too high – BJ knew what he was doing and wielded his chocolate syrup bottle like that seasoned drug pusher I saw on The Wire before he got whacked for snitching on the Barksdale crew. I was in no state to tell anyone what to do, and I was discovering that I kinda liked taking orders.
I moved my left foot.
“What’re you doing?” yelled Master BJ.
“Nothing, sir. Sorry, sir. I moved my foot with intent to exit café without permission, sir. I apologize, sir.”
BJ looked at me for a long time. I think he might have been puzzled.
“Some of us are going to Fubar,” he finally offered. “Wanna come?”
“Fubar?” Did a straight guy that I was just playing out an S&M fantasy with only in my head mere seconds ago just say “Fubar”? Was this a joke? Was BJ really that evil? Did he really mean that he, a straight guy, predisposed by evolution to gravitate to the female chest for sexual sustenance, liked to kick back after a long night of drawing espresso and cutting pie by driving over the hill to fucking Fubar?!
Please me a moment to ‘splain: Fubar during my mid-twenties was not only a gay bar on the outskirts of the geographical epicenter of all things gay in Los Angeles, it was the gayest of gay bars the Divine Mother had ever conceived of, and that likely during a hallucinogenic trip while lounging in a sling and holding a fruity martini, probably dubbed the Ethel Merman. Straight women went to Fubar, but only when dragged there by their single gay friends who had every intention of ditching them the second they worked up the nerve to talk to somebody who’d give them the time of day, or out of pure anthropological curiosity (read: they got tired of looking for unmarried, emotionally available heterosexual men in LA and figured they’d see some actual penis that didn’t cost them twenty minutes of vapid conversation, albeit on a go-go boy who may or may not be getting fingered by a random bar patron for a twenty dollar tip). I came to love the place, naturally, but it wasn’t ever going to be a place where actual straight guys ever went to on purpose if they hadn’t lost a bet. Hell, there were moments when even I felt uncomfortable in that bar, like when the really coked up queens figured it’d be cute to go number two in the urinal inside one of only two bathrooms in that den of iniquity, neither one of which purported to offer anyone the slightest shred of privacy, let alone dignity.
But these were all adventures that I, nay we, had yet to embark on. For now, I knew only of the great Fu’s reputation, and I’d only ever visited the place that would become BJ and I’s home away from café twice, and even one of those was on an ill-attended karaoke night that to this day I dare not speak of. Besides, BJ was still straight as far as I was concerned. The only useful thing I learned in college is that guys I’m interested in of questionable sexual orientation are not actually gay until they either say so explicitly while confessing their undying love, or mumble it while my penis, preferably engorged, is in their mouth, though I tend not to give too much weight to the latter because, though generally accepted in extreme cases, confessions obtained under duress are frowned upon under international law.
“So, are ya coming or what?” asked BJ of a vacant stare that betrayed none of the existential maelstrom raging behind my bulging eyeballs. I think drool might have made the mysterious journey from my mouth to my lower chin, but we’d had some rain that month so I could have always explained it away as residual environmental moisture and changed the subject while BJ got lost counting syllables.
“Yeah”.
And so it was that BJ became my first gay besty, but not before he made me work for it…
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