Notes: Thanks to Leanne and MAB7991 for their editing expertise.
STRAIGHT NO MORE
I was getting ready for a trip to Washington on business, for work when Bill, a guy I didn't like at all, said at coffee, "If you are in D.C. you have got to go to the Iron Rod."
"The what?" I asked, barely listening since all the guy did was bullshit.
"The Iron Rod is the best pick-up bar in Washington. You are literally guaranteed to get fucked," he explained.
In retrospect that was the hint of what was about to happen to me, but I didn't catch it. His smug smile should also have been another clue. I quipped, "Yeah and you will fuck anything."
"True," he agreed, "but this place is legendary. I fucking guarantee even an average looking dude like you will be a sure thing."
I said I already had plans but we would see what happens.
The second night in D.C. after a long boring day of meetings, a supper with clients that included a little too much booze and goggling at hot waitresses in short skirts, I returned to my hotel drunk and horny.
Remembering Bill's mentioning of that sure thing bar I figured what the hell, I would check it out, maybe even get laid.
The bar was a bit out of the way, so I got a taxi to get me there. On the drive, I concluded although I was not hammered, I was feeling pretty buzzed.
Buzzed enough to pay the ridiculous thirty dollar cover, buzzed enough to not question when the massively steroid built bouncer insisted that they keep my driver's license till I left the club, buzzed enough to sign a piece of paper just to get into the bar and buzzed enough to not notice the complete lack of women in the place as I sat at the bar and ordered a drink.
I had one good long sip of my drink before I surveyed the bar. It took me only a few seconds to realize Bill had sent me to a fucking gay bar. There was not a woman in the place, unless you counted some of the fairies wearing punk scarfs or prancing around like queer pipe blowers and poop chute takers they were. I instantly cursed Bill and texted him.
You fucker, I will get you back for this.
I decided to shoot my drink and get the fuck out of there before some queer thought I played on their fucking side.
As I shot my first drink, the bartender placed a second drink in front of me.
I said, "I didn't order a second drink."
"It is from Bulldog," the bartender said, as if that ended the conversation.
There was no way I was accepting a drunk from some faggot. "No Thanks," I said, pushing the drink back.
The bartender looked at me alarmed. He leaned in and whispered, "You don't say no to Bulldog."
"Who is Bulldog?" I asked, amused by the name.
"The master of the house," he answered, before adding, "and he loves fresh white meat."
"I am not a fag," I said.
"Oh you will be by the time Bulldog is through with you," the bartender promised with a knowing smile.
Curious who supposedly had so much power, I asked, "And who is this Bulldog?"
"See that big muscular guy with all the tats," he said, pointing to a table in the corner.
I looked to the table where a big, bald, black guy was sitting staring at me. "Holy shit, he is huge," I gasped.
The bartender agreed playing with my words, "That he is, even with his pants on."
I glanced back at him, he had his drink in the air and was clearly giving me a toast.
Not wanting to offend the man who could break me in two with his bare hands, I took the drink he had bought and raised it to him.
He gave a nod, as if giving me permission to have a drink. Trying to prove I was a man I downed the drink.
As I looked at him again, I noticed something I hadn't before. Some queer's head was bobbing up and down, assumedly on Bulldog's cock.
Shaking my head after the instant buzz from the drink, I quipped, "Looks like he already has some queer blowing him."
"Be careful what you say, straight boy, or you will end up in the hospital," the bartender said, not offended but clearly issuing a warning.
A guy who looked a lot like Matt Damon, but younger, came to the bar and said, "Ken, Bulldog wants another cocktail and another one for his new friend."
"Of course," Ken the bartender replied.
The ridiculously good-looking guy who could easily get any chick he wanted with just this looks alone, was obviously a knob polisher, which I bet a ton of woman felt was a shame, said, "Bulldog would like you to join him for a cocktail."
I was proud of myself for not saying what I was thinking, which was shit you are a cocktail (he had a cock and he takes it in the tail). But I replied, "Um thanks, but I was just leaving."
The pretty boy said, "Well, you have a drink to finish and it would be very impolite to not at least say thanks."
Every time he kept saying cocktail I had to hold back laughter, men did not say cocktail. Finally, I realized it would be easier if I just ended this personally. As Ken returned with my whiskey, I gave a nod and said to the pretty boy, stressing the word 'cocktail' as two separate words, "Lead the way cock tail."
Oblivious to my intended insult, he smiled, his voice going disconcertingly high, "Right this way."
Bulldog's eyes never seemed to leave mine as I walked over to his table, the faggot still bobbing up and down, oblivious to how absurd he looked sucking cock in public, even in a gay bar.
Arriving at the table, I took control, "Thanks for the drinks, but I've really got to get back to the hotel."
Ignoring what I had just said, he spoke, his voice soft yet strong, "Where you from?"
"Detroit," I answered, my eyes gravitating against my will to my first live queer scene.
He kept talking to me as if it were natural to have someone sucking his cock while having a conversation (which for him it probably was). "Cool, I am a Red Wings fan."
I am a diehard fan and not realizing I was being pulled into a conversation I had come over to prevent, I said, "Me too. I grew up when they sucked in the late eighties and have met Yzerman on a few occasions."
"Very cool. I loved Yzerman too, too bad he ended up in Tampa Bay, not really a Mecca for hockey," he said.
