For all the unknowing, easy, horny gay men out there reading this (and I guess all you other folk who were completely unaware of how fucking good all the gays actually have it, at least the ones in LA) there’s an app out there called Grindr, which pretty much serves as a GPS locator for all the fast and easy gay cock within a certain mile radius of your exact geographic location. Homosexual men have all the fun in this city, God dammit. After having deleted my OKCupid account with my last failed attempt at booty calling via online dating, I had been completely fresh out of hopes and prospects for about two weeks when discussing this hook-up app for gay men with my cousin’s fantastically flaming homo bestie over the Memorial Day weekend.
Fabulous Skank: *puckering his lips and making a Z with his pointer finger* Girrrrrrrrrrl! Lemme tell you! You need ta getcho pretty ass on BLENDR! Mmmm hmmm!
Me: *having never heard of Blendr* Umm…wtf is that? It sounds like some sort of sado-massochistic vibrator…and I am NOT down! *becoming uneasy from the thought of having spiky metal sex toys within my vajay…either that or becoming entirely too drunk too fast from all the Soju I was drinking*
Fabulous Skank:*almost offended* NO!! It’s like Grindr bitch! Eck sept it’s fo STRAIGHT muthafuckas and YO ass needs ta get on it MMM HMMM!!
Me: *my eyes widening with excitement and without hesitation* ON IT.
Within seconds, I had the app downloaded. Contrary to what all the participating gay men had been raving about, unlike Grindr, Blendr was not all chock full of hot cock. Instead, it was mostly trannies and really creepy looking men, all rocking profile pictures of themselves shirtless standing in front of the mirror having taken the picture themselves with their camera phones, attempting to look dead sexy in sunglasses and a hat, further demanding that I accept pictures of their “rock hard dick”s and insisting that this will get me hot enough to jump out of my bed and into their laps. WRONG. Now, I will not deny that I, too, am actually also creepy myself for having joined the APP (not even an internet site at this point), however, I’m definitely not there. Maybe I need to start embracing the concept that I’m really just not as down as I think I am….ooooh….
Within a couple hours of me playing predator on this app, I stumbled upon (probably) the first good-looking and NORMAL-looking guy on there, and proceeded to message him with a “Hey, asshole.” His immediate reply? “Hey, bitch.”
I liked him instantly.
Turns out, he was a chiropractor currently living in Venice on the beach. He looked Italian, he looked east-coast, he looked like my kinda guy. In his aviator sunglasses, having not taken the picture of himself (UGH thank God), Beach Blender sat with a wide welcoming smile shirtless on the sand, exposing fully and evidently just how much he worked out, which was obviously a lot considering how broad and beefy his biceps and bare chest were. Along with a rockin half-naked body, he had straight white teeth and a full head of hair, something most men on my search tried to cover up with a hat and a tight-lipped smirk.
I was hooked.
For the next two days or so, Beach Blender and I exchanged online-dating horror stories, him topping mine with his almost-hookups with seemingly gorgeous transsexual male-to-females, who would have gladly refrained from telling him so had they not had last-minute slight inklings that withholding their previous penile personas would be immoral. IMAGINE! After the initial banter back and forth and not long after gauging whether or not he was a total creep weirdo FREAK interested only in enticing me over to his place to further handcuff, maul, and molest me while wearing women’s clothing and chanting cheerily in cryptic cultic tones, I agreed to meet him over at his place in Venice to join him at an afternoon rooftop party. Harmless, I’m sure. Considering I have never met this guy before and only being able to assess what type of person he was based on our texts thus far, I decided that our encounter would be brief, affirming to myself that I’d just park up in front of his place, introduce myself, and drive off as a means to avoid any awkward run-in with an actual rampant rapist. In my tight gray lace top, spandex black jeans, and gray peep-toe stilettos, I drove down the Pacific Coast Highway en route to Venice Beach with all the windows all the way down, passing both Wiley‘s and Drummer‘s places, blasting my heat and Flo-Rida’s “Wild Ones” as loudly as I could, primarily to prepare myself for whatever madness would further ensue from here on out.