[Continued from "We Know Each Other?"]

I ordered another drink.  Still, no Sylvester.  After a while I came to the obvious conclusion that I had been stood up.  As I was working what I had determined was my final drink, a guy who had just ordered a round of drinks for he and his friends smiled at me.  I smiled back.

But the way he smiled at me ….  It was a knowing smile.  He delivered the drinks to his table and then came and sat next to me.  I said hi; he said hi.  That smile was still there, and the way he said hi made clear that I should remember him in some way.  He was kind of cute.

This was not the first time I was looked at in such a way.  When I was at 2009’s Folsom Street Fair, for which I volunteered and was placed in a trash/recycling/composting kiosk (of sorts), a guy walked by me and gave me a similar look to the one the guy in the bar was giving me.  According to his friend, I’d fucked the shy Folsom Street Fair guy.  Oh.

So I asked the guy in the bar, who was giving me that look, if we knew each other.  He looked at me with a smirk and said yes.  He told me his name, such a common name that I wouldn’t be surprised if dozens (hundreds?) of the guys I’ve fucked have that name.  No, not Michael, because I’ve fucked all the Michaels.  Or is it all of the Roberts I’ve fucked?  Either way, this guy telling me his name did nothing to refresh my recollection of his identity.  I told him as much.

I realized he didn’t want to have to tell me outright; he looked a tad sheepish.  So I asked, “Did we fuck?”  Even after he said yes I still didn’t remember him.  I assured him that it wasn’t him, that it was me, that I have a shit memory.  He gave me enough details – that we had fucked in my building’s stairwell, a common place for my clandestine trysts, and that I had a white box full of condoms.

The white box contains regular sized condoms, which are fine, though large condoms are nice because they fit on large cocks.  So with this guy I had brought out the white box, and we had apparently fucked in the stairwell of my building.  Still didn’t remember.  I fully admitted that I didn’t recall a fucking thing, but tried to assure him that it wasn’t due to his lack of skills (as far as I could recall), but from my lack of memory.

We talked for a bit longer.  I wanted to know if I was any good.  He assured me I was.  Good for me.  I wanted to know if I sucked his cock well.  No, I hadn’t sucked his cock.  WHAT THE FUCK?!  I suck all the cocks.  But there’s a possibility I’d sucked his just a little or not at all.  But how would I have known to retrieve the white box (versus the black one that contains large condoms) unless I’d determined within a general range his cock size?

He told me we fucked and it was good.  Then he asked me if I was at the bar “all the time.”

“Well,” I said, “this is my bar.”  He knew that I lived pretty close to the place if he’d been in my building.  Then he accused me of being at the bar “all the time.”

“Well,” I said, “this is my bar.”  He said that he’d only been in the bar twice and I’d been in it both times so I must’ve been in it a lot more than that.  This is one of those mistakes us humans make – to determine others’ behavior based on our own.  Just because he had been in the bar twice and he had seen me in it twice really could have been a coincidence, not an indicator that I was in the bar often.  It was only a determination that he and I were in the bar at the same time on two different occasions.

I assured him that I’d not been in the bar in a while, that the only reason I was in that night was to meet my date(s) who had stood me up.  I don’t think he believed me.  I think the combination of me being in the bar the only two times he (claimed he) had been there, and me not remembering him, made him think I was the resident bar slut.  Which maybe I was, but I certainly hope a good dive bar slut has done more than than I have in her bar of choice.

A good bar slut has made her way through patrons both regular and itinerant.  A good bar slut will have gotten down with at least one (but probably more) of the bartenders.  A good bar slut will have fucked somewhere in the bar and will have been invited to stay after hours, probably to fuck.

I’m a slutty bar patron, having fucked some people I met at that bar and a bartender at another bar, and having fucked after hours in yet another bar.  But I’m not any particular bar’s slut.  I’ve actually made it a personal policy not to hit too hard on the regulars or staff at this particular bar because it is my favorite.  I don’t want to not be able to go back there.

We talked about him and his girlfriend – he seemed downright miserable to be in a relationship with the woman.  I asked why he continued.  He had no answer, at least not for me, the random chick he met at a bar and then fucked in her stairwell.  We chit-chatted a bit more.  Then he said he had to join his friends at their table.  I asked if they would wonder why he was talking to me and he assured me that they knew why because they were the same friends he was with the night we originally met.  Cool, a few more people think I’m the bar slut.

He went to his table.  I finished my drink.  I walked over to his table and said goodbye and then made my exit.

I sent my would-b date, Sylvester, a kind of nasty email.  He claimed he had overslept a nap.  We’ll get together again eventually.

A couple of days later at lunch in SoMA I saw a guy whose cock I’ve sucked.  He didn’t recognize me.

I swear.  True story.

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