That moment when you meet someone for the second time but you don’t remember until you see them…
That just happened to me with my favorite Turkish bottom that I can’t remember. I think his name was Udall or maybe that was a park near my parent’s house growing up (yep, Morris K. Udall Regional Park).
Fuck! I mean, I know what you’re thinking, “Didn’t you see his pictures?” Sure, I saw his pictures. Hairy torso, 5’8, bubble butt, beard, goofy smile, bottom – I should have remembered… But then again that breakdown is like 75% of the men I have sex with, so this one wasn’t exactly jogging my memories.
OK, back to the hookup.
Today’s lesson is multifaceted. Foreign men are hot. Not being able to speak/read/write in English… Not so hot. In fact, infuriating. The conversation starts out very direct and blunt, which is great. But then I realize he’s failing to understand simple English sentences.
Example: “Come over?” apparently means “Where do you live?” in Turkish. This translation makes things very confusing when he says “Come Over?”, I say “OK” and then he says “I have bike”. I clarify that I’m at the gym and can’t host. His response… “Come Over?” I think you see the cycle I was dealing with.
Despite these hiccups in our conversation, I soldier on between bicep curls because, like I said, these type of man may be my Kryptonite. I somehow make it clear that I’m traveling to him. He agrees. I hastily shower at the gym (ugh) and make my way to the blue dot location sent through Grindr.
My phone battery slips to 2% because I text “Apartment number?” and apparently that google translates (yes, I’ve resorted to translating to Turkish to make things easier) to “Please call me 8 times. When that fails, go ahead and FaceTime me twice.” I don’t answer. I take 2 cleansing breathes to avoid the aneurysm from rupturing in my brain. I imagine how I’m going to hate fuck this Middle Eastern muscle stud and….my phone dies.
FUUUUUUCK! Defeated, I walk home, convinced I need to reschedule. But life returns to my phone, blood pumps to my dick and somehow his Rosetta Stone lessons kick in – I get an address!
I start my 15 minute walk to a part of Queens that no ones wants to go unless they’re meeting gorgeous men who are ass up and hungry for cock. I wait on the corner because the address is hidden and the path isn’t clear. Five minutes pass by and now I’m convinced I’ve been cat-fished.
My blood begins to boil, and out pops a head from a hidden path that reveals itself like “The Secret Garden”. I enter the basement apartment that looks like a combination catch-all storage room and an S&M chamber. Seriously, his bed is behind a chain-link fence in the corner of the living room I’m assuming is for a dog.
Why he decided that was the spot for his bed is beyond me.
It’s at this point, I look at the man I’m going to make love to (aka bang bang bang!). He grins and BING! “We’ve fucked before” I say. I jog our memories while I use his bathroom. This is a stall tactic because I can’t remember if I enjoyed round 1. He’s an artist who lived in Williamsburg. His room filled with painted mannequins… We fucked twice and he smokes rolled cigarettes (OK! Now I’m just showing off to make sure you know I remember him! Did I say “creepy mannequins”?!).
I come back to the living room to find him nude and who cares who is what, when, where, why, what language.. I need him. I fumble for a condom as he tells me he missed me (WTF? You didn’t remember me 4 minutes ago! I go with it).
He snorts one of the 4 bottles of poppers on the night stand and we make magic. Don’t worry, I still had a moment of clarity, fuck the hell out of him and make him squeal.
Lesson Learned: Maybe I should start a Blog about my hookups, so I can better remember the men I’ve slept with…
Grindrfella’s blog can be found here.