Free Sandwich Guy
Cross-posted from bad_sex.
I was in Austin for a poetry event, and there are a couple of cool sandwich shops. When I went to Austin last year, I started collecting stamps toward a free sandwich at a particular shop, so when I returned to Austin this year, the sandwich shop was one of my first stops.
The guy behind the counter was totally cutiful. Brazilian. Early twenties. gay but not Gay. He gave me the hard sell on a milkshake. There was some sales contest he was trying to win, so not only did I buy a shake, I convinced all of my friends to buy shakes, too, thus winning him the sales contest, and, apparently, winning me a place in his heart. Well, maybe not his heart. But a place in his groin just sounds weird.
I go back the next day, a stamp away from my free sandwich. "Hey, you're the guy from yesterday." Sandwich Guy says.
I confirm.
We small talk about weather and different clubs in town, when he says "You're in town for some businessy thing right?"
And I'm about to tell him that, actually, I'm in town for a poetry competition. One that I've just lost hardcore, and am currently in a minor depression, but he rolls right over me saying "Chicken Caesar Wrap with bacon and cheddar, right?"
I confirm.
After eating my delicious sandwich, I head back to my hotel, where I take out my wallet in order to find the little credit card thing that will open my room, when I notice a phone number written on my sandwich card. Classy.
At around ten o'clock, the friends that I'm in town with go out to an after party. I am not feeling particularly partyish, but I do have that phone number.
"Hello?"
"Hi." God, what am I supposed to say? I don't know his name, he doesn't know mine. I can't very well say Is this the Sandwich Guy? "Is this the Sandwich Guy?" Okay, maybe I can very well say it.
"Oh. Yea. Hi. This is the uhhh...business guy?"
Business guy? I've been wearing purple shorts and slogany t-shirts all week. I don't have the business paunch. I'm certainly not a business anything. "Yes. I'm the business guy."
"Cool."
Silence. Silence. Silence.
"Soooo...how long are you in town for?"
"I leave tomorrow."
Silence. Silence. Silence.
"I've never done this before." He says. And I'm not sure whether he means giving out his phone number, or...something else. But, either way, I'm not sure I believe him.
Turns out, he means that he wants to meet me for something akin to sex. After many minutes of painful phone silence, he tells me that he's always had a fantasy about meeting up with a businessman in a nice hotel, fooling around, and then leaving. "But I only want to do it with a guy who's not, you know, gay." Riiiiiiight. One of those straight businessmen who fucks strange men in nice hotels.
"Well, I'm married." I say. Surprising myself with the lie. "My wife lets me fool around with guys when I'm on the road, though. She thinks it's hot."
"Cool. Your wife sounds...cool." And then more silence and awkward sex talk, and then "Could you...could you wear dark socks for me?"
Oh for..."Sure."
So I'm standing outside my room in dark socks. Several of my friends are walking through the lobby below me. I wave at them. I call my roommates to make sure they're having enough of a good time at the party that they won't be back at the hotel anytime soon. They won't.
Sandwich Guy walks slowly up to me. His eyes never leave the floor. "So...what do you want to...you know...do?"
So Sandwich Guy doesn't do anal, or oral. And doesn't feel comfortable touching guys. He wants to jerk off while watching me jerk off. You know, I can jerk off by myself, and I can certainly think of hotter fantasies while jerking off than watching him jerk off.
"Your socks are hot." He says.
They're socks. Blue socks. There is nothing sexy about my damned socks. Just as there is nothing sexy about watching him jerk off. He has a nice enough looking cock, but his ass is about 90% bone, and he won't even take off his shirt. "Do you..." He looks at the floor. "Do you like my ass?"
I do not. "Yea, you've got a great ass. Do you work out?"
"I'm gonna....I'm gonna." And he does. On my damned shoes.
"Well that was" fast, awkward, gross, disappointing, a waste of my night "good for you?"
"That was amazing."
No. Really, it wasn't.
I was in Austin for a poetry event, and there are a couple of cool sandwich shops. When I went to Austin last year, I started collecting stamps toward a free sandwich at a particular shop, so when I returned to Austin this year, the sandwich shop was one of my first stops.
The guy behind the counter was totally cutiful. Brazilian. Early twenties. gay but not Gay. He gave me the hard sell on a milkshake. There was some sales contest he was trying to win, so not only did I buy a shake, I convinced all of my friends to buy shakes, too, thus winning him the sales contest, and, apparently, winning me a place in his heart. Well, maybe not his heart. But a place in his groin just sounds weird.
I go back the next day, a stamp away from my free sandwich. "Hey, you're the guy from yesterday." Sandwich Guy says.
I confirm.
We small talk about weather and different clubs in town, when he says "You're in town for some businessy thing right?"
And I'm about to tell him that, actually, I'm in town for a poetry competition. One that I've just lost hardcore, and am currently in a minor depression, but he rolls right over me saying "Chicken Caesar Wrap with bacon and cheddar, right?"
I confirm.
After eating my delicious sandwich, I head back to my hotel, where I take out my wallet in order to find the little credit card thing that will open my room, when I notice a phone number written on my sandwich card. Classy.
At around ten o'clock, the friends that I'm in town with go out to an after party. I am not feeling particularly partyish, but I do have that phone number.
"Hello?"
"Hi." God, what am I supposed to say? I don't know his name, he doesn't know mine. I can't very well say Is this the Sandwich Guy? "Is this the Sandwich Guy?" Okay, maybe I can very well say it.
"Oh. Yea. Hi. This is the uhhh...business guy?"
Business guy? I've been wearing purple shorts and slogany t-shirts all week. I don't have the business paunch. I'm certainly not a business anything. "Yes. I'm the business guy."
"Cool."
Silence. Silence. Silence.
"Soooo...how long are you in town for?"
"I leave tomorrow."
Silence. Silence. Silence.
"I've never done this before." He says. And I'm not sure whether he means giving out his phone number, or...something else. But, either way, I'm not sure I believe him.
Turns out, he means that he wants to meet me for something akin to sex. After many minutes of painful phone silence, he tells me that he's always had a fantasy about meeting up with a businessman in a nice hotel, fooling around, and then leaving. "But I only want to do it with a guy who's not, you know, gay." Riiiiiiight. One of those straight businessmen who fucks strange men in nice hotels.
"Well, I'm married." I say. Surprising myself with the lie. "My wife lets me fool around with guys when I'm on the road, though. She thinks it's hot."
"Cool. Your wife sounds...cool." And then more silence and awkward sex talk, and then "Could you...could you wear dark socks for me?"
Oh for..."Sure."
So I'm standing outside my room in dark socks. Several of my friends are walking through the lobby below me. I wave at them. I call my roommates to make sure they're having enough of a good time at the party that they won't be back at the hotel anytime soon. They won't.
Sandwich Guy walks slowly up to me. His eyes never leave the floor. "So...what do you want to...you know...do?"
So Sandwich Guy doesn't do anal, or oral. And doesn't feel comfortable touching guys. He wants to jerk off while watching me jerk off. You know, I can jerk off by myself, and I can certainly think of hotter fantasies while jerking off than watching him jerk off.
"Your socks are hot." He says.
They're socks. Blue socks. There is nothing sexy about my damned socks. Just as there is nothing sexy about watching him jerk off. He has a nice enough looking cock, but his ass is about 90% bone, and he won't even take off his shirt. "Do you..." He looks at the floor. "Do you like my ass?"
I do not. "Yea, you've got a great ass. Do you work out?"
"I'm gonna....I'm gonna." And he does. On my damned shoes.
"Well that was" fast, awkward, gross, disappointing, a waste of my night "good for you?"
"That was amazing."
No. Really, it wasn't.