By Gustavo Arellano
By Aimee Murillo
By Matt Coker
By Vickie Chang
By Matt Coker
By LP Hastings
By Michael Goldstein
By R. Scott Moxley
This girl I met in San Diego calls me and says she wants to come hang out. After she arrives, I take her to a karaoke bar down the street, where we get hammered and she starts talking sexual. I drive us home ASAP.
We get to my house, she takes off her clothes and jumps in my bed. She gives me head. I shoot in her mouth, everything is good and then . . .
"Do you have a trash can?" she asks.
"Do you need to go to the bathroom?" I ask.
"No I just want a trash can."
"Let's go to the bathroom."
I grab the first trash can in my room: silver, Ikea, looks like a chain-link fence. Fuck. I go running to the bathroom and grab that trash can: full of trash. I dump all the trash in the sink and go running back to my room with it to see her sitting on my bed with her hands over her mouth. There is a red-like goo oozing through each finger and dangling its way down to my white Ralph Lauren comforter. The goo was red because she drank vodka cranberries all night long.
She threw up and then started saying things like, "I'm soooo sorrrry. I'm such a looooser!!! You hate me!"
I left early the next morning for work—actually, earlier than usual because she was still passed out in my bed. When I got home that night, she was gone, but there was a brand-new Ralph Lauren comforter on my bed with a receipt in case I needed to return it.
EXILE IN GAYVILLE
Like most homos who go out of town on vacation, one spends most of one's time in a drunken stupor, bouncing between every hot spot in the gay parts of town. Luckily for me, I was vacationing in GAYVILLE (a.k.a. San Francisco). I usually stay a minimum of five days at my fag hag's apartment (she's 5-foot-5, weighs 120 and sleeps in a king-size bed, so there's plenty of room for me—or an orgy!). But for the first four nights, for whatever reason, I hadn't met anyone worth making out with, let alone having great sex with and forgetting his name the next day. That is, until my final night.
Squinting across a smoke-filled gay club, I caught sight of a Latin in the corner staring at me. So I shimmied over and asked, "Do you know what time it is?" He replied, and I got caught giving him the once-over. We chatted for a while, and I decided to make my move. I turned to him and said, "How far do you live from here?"
Now, as indicated before, I had been drinking for four days straight. After we rode over to his house and what I hoped would be great sex, the alcohol finally consumed me. I passed out in his bed.
I awoke the next morning not in Gayville but Oakland. As I glanced over to the Latin hottie I'd met the night before, I was surprised to see he was not a young Latin guy but an older Asian man. And that's when I discovered that beer goggles hate the gays!
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