[Continued from "Alameda Guy (Part 3)."]

A couple of times I went to Alameda Guy’s side of the Bay via BART.  The first time he and his friend picked me up a the Lake Merrit Station so we could begin our evening.  Alameda Guy’s friend was HOT:  Tall and very good-looking, very much out of my league.  Actually, I don’t even play the same game as guys that good-looking.  Normally I’m very nervous around men who look that good, but meeting him with Alameda Guy meant there was absolutely no reason to even attempt to flirt.

The three of us attempted to go to dinner.  The East Bay is pretty sleepy and downtown Oakland just doesn’t have much going on, even on weekends.  The restaurant we wanted to go to wouldn’t let us sit, as it was just 9pm, their closing time.  We settled on a pub that had a live band that made it too loud for reasonable conversation.  We ate and moved on.

We stopped at a liquor store where Alameda Guy bought a case of beer.  I reminded him that I don’t drink beer; he told me the liquor store only had rather cheap brands of vodka and that there would be something better where we were going.  We drove to a mostly industrial area of Oakland and parked.  Then they grabbed the beer and we walked around the corner.

There were a lot of motorcycles.  A lot.  And quite a few people milling about the front of a nondescript storefront.  At the door Alameda Guy paid a cover charge, though I wasn’t altogether sure why.  Inside it was dark and cramped.  To the left there was a band and to the right there was a bar.  Past the bar the narrow room narrowed farther to accommodate two bathrooms on the right.  Beyond the bathrooms there was no door; it appeared that the wall was simply missing.

The missing wall allowed access to the outside, which was a fenced-in area only somewhat larger than the cramped inside space.  Jammed into the “yard” was a fully-ablaze fire pit, beyond which was a boxing ring.  The boxing ring was why we were there.

We were at the East Bay Rats Motorcycle Club’s clubhouse for Fight Night, a Fight Club-style amateur boxing event.  We, however, were mere observers.  We never got too close to the ring, and certainly didn’t participate in the fighting.

These are East Bay Rats hotties at the clubhouse. Yum!

I’m not a big fan of boxing, but maybe that’s because I’ve never seen professional boxing live.  Because that night it was thrilling to see people hit each

other.  Someone would step into the ring where the announcer/referee put out the call for a challenger.  Once there were two willing fighters in the ring the participants would agree on wearing gloves or going bare-knuckle, number of rounds, etc.

Then they’d fight.  The fighters weren’t nearly as graceful as professional boxers I’ve seen on television, but they tried.  They tired easily, they stumbled, they didn’t make contact all that often, but they were in the boxing ring doing their best.  There was one fighter who Alameda Guy said he’d seen several times at the fight nights, and who Alameda Guy had never seen win.  I rooted for him that night, but he once again lost.  I respected that he kept trying.

After there were no more willing fighters the action inside heated up.  There was an amateur strip competition on the bar.  In the bar and on the bar, which had two poles between its surface and the ceiling.

By this time I’d had several vodka and sodas.  I became a fully-participatory audience member.  No, I did not enter the competition.  There were several lovely ladies who did, however.  They even showed us their boobies.  My favorite had some tattoos, thigh-high stockings, nice small breasts, and a big round booty.  She also happened to move the best.  I’m not the only one who thought so because she won the prize of $100 (I think) based on audience applause, including my loud whoops.

After the ladies were dressed the party petered out.  The three of us walked back to the car and Alameda Guy and I were dropped off at his bachelor pad in a converted Victorian on a sweet little street in Alameda.  I assume we fucked and that the fucking was good because fucking with Alameda Guy was always good.

Several months later I would have an encounter with a hot guy who arrived via motorcycle to my house.  He was wearing a leather jacket that had the East Bay Rats logo on the back.  I told him about the fight night I’d been to and because the Bay Area is so small he was there, too.

I swear.  True story.

[I think this is the end of this story.  He disappeared and claimed to always be busy when I contacted him.  Then we finally met for drinks.  I was under the impression is was difficult for him to get away from his kids and work, and that things were tough considering the pending divorce.  Over drinks he told me he was seeing a new woman.  I was happy for him and told him I hoped she was geographically more desirable than me so it was easier for them to get together.  No, she lived in Marin County which is significantly farther away from Alameda than is San Francisco.  He had to cross not one, but two bridges to get to her.  All things being equal, I was more conveniently located.  Obviously all things were not equal.  I told him that he didn't need to bother with the niceties of drinks if he had no interest in me and I left.]