We didn’t bother asking each other’s name that night fourteen years ago. No need. We weren’t fixing to make conversation in that nasty little homemade sex club in the warehouse district of Santa Monica where if you had to pee, you did it in a bucket of bleach over in the corner.
I’d broken a four-year fast from cocaine that night with my friend Bob, and after Bob and I went our separate ways, I headed off to this club I’d only heard about because I was all sexed up and it was nearby.
The director of a film I’d produced was there sitting in one of the few chairs in the place. We’d always hated one another, but I was high so I ended up blowing him anyway while others watched. One of the onlookers was Billy. After John squirted, I spotted Billy. He was perfect in my looks book—about four inches shorter than my six-foot frame, a natural body that looked built from work and not weights, thick black hair, dark eyes, and the very necessary mustache.
Yeah, I saw all of that in the lowlight of the club, and I walked over to him, cupping his crotch with my right hand. That’s how gays say hello, sometimes.
He cupped back, and we started kissing off to the side of the one-roomed club. Cupping became groping, our dicks now out of our zippers, and being all high, I took all of my clothes off and pulled him down on top of me while I was flat on my back on the dirty cement floor. He laughed, played along, and I soon had positioned his perfect bubble ass on my face where I rimmed him while he jerked me off.
I wiped my mouth with my forearm when I stood back up, smiled at him, nodding a Thank You, and split. When I got home and needed to jerk off again to get to sleep from the cocaine, I thought of that butt of his, that beautiful round butt.
He didn’t pass my mind until we met again a few weeks later at a party the night after Thanksgiving. We never noted November 17th, but that’s really the night when our lives would forever change.