Castro in the Morning

We sat in the morning sun.

It was strange. I had been on Castro Street a countless number of times. Never, on an early Monday morning. I had been to this coffee shop a countless number of times. Never, like this before.

We sat upon the bench outside the coffee shop. We spoke quietly, as it seemed appropriate for this morning. Not because it was a quiet Monday morning in the Castro, the first I had ever experienced; but, because this is how one talks in a situation like this.

Quietly. Like the Castro on a Monday morning.

In a slow frenzy I attempted to soak it all in, the exact distance from my feet to the curb, the number of trash cans lined up across the street against the Bank of America building. The curve and feel of his hand in mine. I wanted to remember every detail. Every, fucking detail. I wouldn’t let it go. I must remember the feeling of sitting on a bench, outside a coffee shop, in the early morning light.  In the Castro… with him.

For him, it may of been just coffee on a Monday morning. A cool nonchalantness wafted about him like a smokey haze.

I was engrossed in memorizing every spec of paint splatter on his black framed glasses. Every blemish, every hair in his beard. Embarrassed by this, I would glance down at my venti sized coffee from the “bearbucks” and click my thumb upon the edge. I would force down the thoughts of Christmas tree shopping, of late night kisses after nightmares pulled him from sleep. Telling him he was safe. Ignore half-created images of long road trips and hikes up into unexplored mountains. Damn it! I counted the street signs.

We sat in the morning sun.

We spoke quietly. It seemed appropriate for this moment. We didn’t speak of future plans, other than abstract shapes and cloudy references. I memorized how many buses stopped across the street and how many people got on those buses; on their way to work on a sunny Monday morning in the Castro. I attempted to memorize every detail around me, so I would never forget. Never, fucking forget.

We sat on that bench, outside of that coffee shop.

I can now tell you how many trees line that street. As I held his hand. I cannot; tell you anything about us. 

Ghost on the Bridge

As I stood at the base of the south tower on the Golden Gate Bridge, I was mezmorized by the bay of San Francisco stretching out in front of me.  I watched the late afternoon fog toy with the city, darting in and out of the buildings and hills. Yet, I soon felt an unknown force pulling me away from the show. The approach up from the south side of the bridge was packed with tourists from around the globe. Everyone seemed to be in a family pod, stopping for photo ops on their journey over the bridge. What forced me to look away from the million-dollar view was one lone man. 

He looked out of place because he walked slowly up the bridge. He had a slight build even for his mid-twenties Asian frame. In place of a camera to snap pictures, like everyone else, there was a massive bouquet of very expensive flowers in his arms.  Maybe it was the explosion is color that caught my eye, amongst a sea of Golden Gate red, and Nautica black windbreakers. But, I don't think so. I was forced to watch this man.  All time stopped. Just him and me alone on the bridge. Even though we were alone, he never once noticed or acknowledged me. Like I was a ghost on a bridge.  

There was another ghost he was focused upon. As I can't always see ghosts I just asumed this was who he was talking too as he leaned against the rail. He spoke out loud for a minute, but I couldn't hear a word, with me being a ghost and all. He then hurled the massve bouquet of flowers over the edge of the bridge and in a spinning whirl all the tourists appeared again as they gasped and screamed the something had gone over the bridge side. The crowed peared over to watch the falling flowers. I, on the other hand, watched as a human soul went through a catharsis. A cleansing. Only shared unknowingly with me. 

Still locked into place, at the base of the south tower, I watch as this person quickly sped down the bridge.  He was just a dot in the crowd when I came back to life. 

You've Been Here Four Hours

Today as morning greeted San Fransico, I was thankful that the hotel is across the street from two essentials.  A 24 Hour Fiitness gym, and a Starbucks. Once the roommates finially awoke; we headed to the Castro for breakfast. This meal was followed by a quick trip to Mr. S Leather for a shopping trip. A quick trip.  A shopping trip that ended up lasting four hours.  Four hours in a leather supermarket. Trying on everything. 

It was odd, I ran into an amazing amount of fellow bloggers, twittererers, and fellow  Instagramers. And, after a credit card charge around $400 and four hours I was spent. Literally and figuratively. 

I slowly entered the hotel lobby in the late afternoon. Weighed down by the bags of clothes and new toys. Ready for a long nap.  After a trip to China Town for some "authentic" cuisine, and a little light bar time, bed called my name.  Good night, San Fransico.  See you tomorrow.  

StevieB in the Holy Land

Alright, I made it to San Fransico. I quickly realized that I should always vacation with a corporate HRish like Lesbian.  As three gay men on vacation it has always falling on me to make reservations, figure out subways, you know... general herding of cats sort of thng. This trip is completely different. The power lesbian has made the reservations, booked the room using points,(luxury Marriott on the sixteenth floor... Insane view of the city) even seeking out information when the subway ticket kiosks have turned sentient and are having bad hair days. This is the first trip where I can put away my alfa-male, Papa Bearness and really relax. From now on, I will only travel with a lesbian. 

That being said, yesterday I made it to the Castro. I had been away too long. I've said for ages that I want my ashes scattered in front of the bear Starbucks. I feel a deep conecton on that street, even though I don't know why. It's the way that, I'm sure, others feel when walking inside a church or temple. As part of my holy sacrament, I bought new Pumas. Trust me, it was an act of gay transubstantiation. 

Today beings a pilgrimage to Mr. S Leathers. Because, Papa Bear needs a reward. Of some sort.  

StevieB is Huge in Russia

Inside the Blogger.com site, where I write this abomination of a blog, there is a handy page that gives me a ton of interesting data. Like how many people have visited my blog. And with bloggers leaving the blog world in droves, It's interesting to see who reads blogs anymore. Yet, this handy page lets me know that 207 viewers clicked upon my Stevie-blog today. So..... thanks for that. Some times I feel that blogging has gone the way of iPods without phones in them.

The analytics page of my blog also calculates what sites are referring traffic to my blog. Just a Jeep Guy is always the number one site, followed by Patrick and Homer. So.... thanks guys.  A fun bit  is how search engines were used to find my blog, the number one search people use to find me is:  "Gay Muscle Worship" I'm not really sure why? Every time I attempt to research the Google search, I get sucked down a gay muscle worship rabbit hole and forget what I was doing.

The very best analytic is Traffic Sources. This breaks down where in the world my blog traffic comes from. Number two on the list fluctuates between Germany and Russia. Around three hundred views weekly come from either one of these countries.  And, as much as I'd like to think that I'm huge in Russia (Привет , я хотел бы тереть мои огромные пенис на ваш плотный, мускулистый живот.)  I fear it's actually just web crawlers, looking for data.

I think this mostly because of the massive amounts of spam comments I receive. Most read like this...

Its like you learn my mind! You appear to grasp so much approximately this, like you wrote the e book in it or something. I think that you simply can do with a few percent to force the message house a bit, but instead of that, this is fantastic blog. A fantastic read. I'll certainly be back.... 

Then they go on to link their creepy website about psychic love readings or something.  The joke is on them as there were fifty of these comments on my blog post, The Lumberjack Horticulturist where I whined about seeing the cutest Otter-boy ever just to let his flannel clan hotness slip way. So the commenter is correct, I do grasp so much approximately to this topic. 

Five hours for Ginger

It just may have happened. That Autumn just might have arrived to my city. Yes, I'm aware that it's only the second week of September; but, last night we had snow.

Okay, it was not real snow. Just a bit if sleet turning from rain as I drove on the highway. For five hours last night after work. Observing my fellow highway travelers freak-out over the snowy substance and braking their cars down to a perceived safe fifteen MPH. On the highway, during peak rush hour.

I had gotten off of work at a reasonable four o'clock, and that morning I had looked forward to a long Stevie-centric gym time. That was until I checked my phone and a guy I have been chatting up  proposed dinner. "No way!" I thought, it's rainy. And since I'd been fighting off a cold, I have missed a lot of quality gym time.  This was around the time that mentioned that he was located in Colorado Springs, Colorado, seventy-one miles away. "No, thank you!"  Then he dropped that he is staying at the US Swim Team's dorm, located within the US Olympic training center.... That he would be sneaking out.  "Uh..... I'll be right there."

The drive normally is around one hour for mere mortals, 45 minutes for me.  Yet, the added bonus of our weather change had me pulling up outside of America's high altitude Olympic training center, in two and a half hours.  Visions of Greg Luganus, Michael Phelps, and most importantly Tom Daley ran through my head in that two and a half hour slow-rolling traffic.  The visions were correct. Tom Daley, better. Ginger.

Dinner was amazing. There was a promise of cross training; he would teach me about Game of Thrones, and I'd educate on Doctor Who.  After dinner, and a little roadmance, we returned to the Olympic dorms. And, after my joke about a gay version of the Munich massacre wasn't acknowledged, I dropped him off around the corner with my Jeep's lights off.

My life as it has been lived with dignity.

Two hours and forty minutes later my dog greeted me at the door. Wondering where the hell I'd been. I wondered the same thing.

Escape to SF

I am just ten days away from my much desired vacation to San Francisco. An escape from the beginning of Autumn in Colorado, and the real world, to amazing SF. This does not mean an escape from school. As my online class still calls for homework to be done, I may pointed out as the idiot in the middle of the Folsom Street Fair, on a laptop writing upon Rome's power structure during the Medieval era.  But, if I do have to do homework, it might as well be in the middle of a gay street festival.

It truly is my body's policy, that within ten days before any vacation I must get a terrible head cold.  I feel as if there are fifty tiny chickens attempting to peck their way out of my head. It's my body's way of making REALLY appreciate my vacations. Every time I have a hotel booked, I get sick two weeks before my check in date.

With battling the tiny chickens, and the due dates for school swirling around me; I am still determined to have a great vacation. 

Deadlines in a Leather Bar

I'm not quite sure how I missed it. It was on the syllabus since day one, along with all the other assignment due dates.  "Saturday, September 6th. Outline for the big research project." Due at midnight, Saturday night. As this is for my online history class, I had logged in several times over the last couple of days to complete other assignments, yet somehow missed this deadline. Until noon Saturday, right as I left for work. In a panic I emailed the professor to tell him that I would miss the deadline. That, however didn't sit well with me. I grabbed my computer bag and headed into the office, knowing that I wouldn't be done until ten that night.

If all went well, I would be able to kick the kids out of work at ten. Knowing that all coffee houses within the tri-county area close way before ten on a Saturday I would show up at Jim's bar and use his office for a study hall. This was for his wifi and his comfy recliner. I chose this because I knew that if went home to write an entire paper in two hours it would never work, dogs to be walked, doughnuts to eat. If I were to pull off his major cue of ignoring a paper, then cramming it into the very last second, I'd need seclusion.

At ten the plan started to move. I hopped into the Jeep and headed to Denver's finest leather bar. At 10:20pm I walked through a field of leathermen in a Polo shirt ( I blended perfectly with my school bag and khakis) to make my way to the office. Right at 10:30pm, behind schedule, I cracked open the MacBook. A proposal for my history research project fell onto the computer screen. The topic will be how Catholic monks saved classic Greek philosopher's works be transcribing them and saving them from obscurity.

As the security cameras displayed the Saturday night craziness of a leather bar ramping up to full swing, I clicked away. Attempting to ignore the party going on right out side the office door. Until 11:55pm when I  clicked SUBMIT on my paper outline. I was in the Professor's dropbox before the deadline.

Flirt Grenade

Yesterday was one of those days where I had to be at work at five a.m. A new phone system was being installed and apparently only Steve speaks IT nerd. I really don't, but I'm the only manager that can sooth the creepy IT guy by agreeing to his twisted theory that the Doctor Who episode  Terminus was the real Big Bang that started the universe, therefore the Doctor created himself.  Now.... I know, you're not following this, but it got the phone system installed with extra care.

The important point to grasp was that I was at work at five. Followed by chest day at the gym; then a small romance with a Wendy's Asian salad afterwards. Class brought a "surprise quiz" which I aced because three of the questions were the same question about Cultural Relativism. No, not three questions on the same topic, the three questions happened to be the same question repeated three times. The strange part was the stunned look on the Professor's face when I bought it up to him.

Needless to say, after all that I was ready for dinner. This is why I wandered into a chain restaurant called Tokyo Joe's looking like a sweaty homeless person. If they wore fifty dollar Under Armour gym shorts.  Even in my sleep deprived state I couldn't help noticing the amazingly hot dude working the counter. I stared at his skin-tight tee-shirt as I ordered. Then, as he handed back my HRC credit card he caught my eyes and said he had the same card.  I mumbled something about "every bit helps the HRC" and turned to waddle off to the soda machine.

It was like a flirt grenade. Three....Two....One....Boom! Fuck!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The hot muscle-bound twenty-something hit on me?! No. Yes. No. Yes?

Okay, I am now changing all my online profiles to read that I exclusively date guys who look like they work at Tokyo Joe's.

Waiting In The Concourse

The issue with dating again, if there is just one issue, is the complex dance of ritual required. These movements to attract just the right individual; this being a complete painfully long blog post of its own,  just to begin the hallowed and celebrated rites of gay mating.

First off, is the sorting of the guys pinging you on Grindr.  Are they coming in for a hard landing on the trick tarmac, or deplaning into the potential dateable concourse. That was a horrible analogy; let's forget I attempted to compare dating to air travel. But... they both require a whole body scan to look for foreign substances, and there's the joy of having your luggage searched by a stranger wearing rubber gloves. They both have very long lines, sometimes delayed for hours before take off. And, they both have the distinct possibility of falling from the sky in a mangled mass of bloody flesh and twisted steel.

Yet, my argument does hold merit. That a lot of energy is expelled in the messaging back and forth. On the positive side, I can easily sort out the around five-thousand guys who have the "NSA, right now" philosophy.  Not because I object with the philosophy, it's just that Daddy has stuff to do, and my day is too planned out to drop everything and meet up with a blonde with shows me his bunnywabbit pink anus.  As I write this, I have five hundred words due on the Arab-Byzantine wars, I don't have a free moment to bring Nasty home for a holiday. Also, I'm an old fashioned girl.

That being said, the planned outings are very nice. Getting a new shirt, freshening  up the haircut,  putting a new layer of Just For Men in the beard. And.... in case you're listening to other bloggers out of the streets, my beard looks completely natural when it's dyed. I asked my Mother and my Pastor, and out of anyone they wouldn't lie to me. With all that being said, I'm VERY new to the whole dating thing. The last "first date" I had, occurred on the same day that the first iPhone was launched,  June 29, 2007.  I am, and the world, is a different place in the years that have passed, We're on the verge of iPhone 6, and Steve 4S.  It doesn't help that the few guys I've had this strange "first date" experience with were seventeen when the iPhone launched. Yet, it seems they have been out on more dates.

It's a strange gay dating world out there in Denver, Co. Yet, I plan on diving into the dating pool.