Be Bold

[references casual sex, and surviving car accident]

Once, in the San Francisco Bay Area, I'm leaving work on a Friday night. That day being at a dungeon where I've had a notably fun session with a client. Kinda in the mood, I have this yearning for excitement and satisfaction—but figure I should just get to bed: I have six hours of physically demanding art modeling poses the next day starting 9am, and then plans for a date with a woman whom I've promised playtime with. So I bike to the nearest subway thinking, let it go. I board and sit with my bike. Coming through the downtown Berkeley stop, a lot of people get on, including one with a bike who stands over by the door as the car's now full. He looks fresh faced, tall, stands quietly without slouching, dressed in a nice button-down. He's also wearing not a bike helmet, but a vintage Euro-style military helmet. This hits my radar.

I'm intrigued, yet don't feel like shouting across the crowd, so decide I'll try talking to him once we all transfer a few stations along, ‘cause I assume he's another student going out for a night in San Fran. Meanwhile he just catches my gaze a couple times and smiles nicely. Suddenly I'm at the stop, starting to exit, and realize he's not. I'm leaving the car, thinking, "oh, crap," and passing him he calls clearly to me as I walk my bike through the door, "nice handlebars, by the way." They are notably tall riser bars, and get attention. 

I stand on the platform as people hurry on, think, I don't have to go right to my stop—I can ride home from wherever. Why not? So I get back on and sit across from where he now has space to sit. I say, "I decided that train's too crowded; I'm not really feeling it. And thanks, I have fun with these handlebars." He says, "Can you just sit up all tall and proper with them, like Mary Poppins?" and we're in a dynamic conversation; it's just zinging, total fun. We approach Lake Merritt station and I see he's exiting. I say, "When was the last time you saw Mary Poppins?" Words are just coming out of my mouth. He says, "I don't know; do you want to watch Mary Poppins?" It’s before streaming services so I'm thinking, "Is there a video store open, can I make this work?" But it’s too much to pull together—so I say, "Do you want to get a drink?" I barely drink, and have never before proposed going to a bar, but it's the socially possible thing.

I know that a dive friends like is near; we head to Baggy's by the lake. We're there over four hours, continuing lively talk. Turns out he's picked up the helmet to take to his Aikido and sword-fighting teacher, who's also a welder, and they'll use it in welding a suit of armor. Yes, that kind of DIY nerd. I get tipsy, ‘cause I barely drink, but don't go beyond that, and I treat him to another; say, "It's cool, I made some money today." He asks how and I say, "Well, I'm part-time a professional dominatrix," and he says, "I was going to ask if you wanted to make out but now I'm a little intimidated." 

We keep chatting, ‘cause we're both so intellectual; eventually we're fairly sober and ready to move on, bike to his place nearby. As soon as we come in, he puts an Edith Piaf record on; I think, “That's some charming fruitiness!" We have water and talk more, finally I say, "I'd like to give you a head rub"—when he took the helmet off his hair had this thick poof and I want to run my fingers through it. He says, "All right, but I also want to kiss you." Both these things happen, it's pretty right on; shortly I'm kind of melting into the couch. We pause a minute, and he says, "This is delightful; I was thinking at the end of work today that I just really wanted to make out with someone tonight."

Next we're on the floor, at some point I express concern his housemates might come home, so he simply picks me up, throws me over his shoulder, and smoothly strides down the hall to perfectly lay me down on his mattress. Ok, martial arts! Wow. So, it gets hot and heavy, I'm into it but keep pants on, ‘cause I feel I should try to have some sleep before returning to work in a few hours. He agrees to follow up later that weekend for more hotness; we meet for dates a few more times, and end up emailing occasionally. But that night I ride home, delirious, with one sock; his couch has eaten the other one. The gay art teacher I've modeled for repeatedly, in the morning is gracious that I'm covered with hickeys, and just says, "You look like you're doing well." I think, "Yeah, I've spontaneously whisked off with a twenty-two year old brainiac stud, when I'm a thirty-three year old transgender disabled warrior; I am doing pretty well." Consider being bold: especially on the Metro, you never know what will happen.

    Our couple more dates are good in a sexy-times way but our personalities have much compatibility too; we've enjoyed talking for hours since first meeting. Still, he gets preoccupied, drops off from responding when I message, which feels bad. I give up, except—within a few months, I get almost killed in a car accident. When I recover enough for discharge from the hospital, at home I have time to eventually contact a lot of people, including him. I write that I'm lucky to be alive, and would be glad for any support. After a few months of no word, when I can dress myself and get out a bit more on crutches, he replies, and apologizes. He offers to take me out for a nice lunch, and pick me up with a car. We both dress up for the spirit of this quirky vintage supper club; he proposes and we wear vests and jackets. He opens doors, waits for me to crutch out of the car, and slowly into the restaurant. He says he's sorry for ghosting. Showing some care, and offering a frivolous rendezvous to cheer me up, it’s our last date--a good one.