Disgusting People I Have Made Out With

Gay Bar Chicken Tamale

This summer I was staying in San Francisco and I was hard up for some man action. A band on myspace was looking for volunteers to sell merch at a music festival, so I volunteered thinking it might be a good way to get fresh meat. The show was at the Eagle Tavern, this amazing gay biker bar with a fire pit.  I got there super early to meet the guy who was setting up the show. He looked like Steve Buscemi mixed with Wesley from the Princess Bride—-a weird super-skinny skeezy kind of moustache hot. I was dressed like an indie art girl with orthopedic shoes and no makeup and a cardigan. I was surrounded by bears and men in tight jeans. “Steve” seemed like the only guy who would give me the time of day.

He supplied me with a gin and tonic and we were off. I cheerfully fussed over arranging t-shirts while an anemic audience trickled in. Some bands played. I don’t remember them, but I do remember being drunk and feeling like Steve was getting more and more appealing. We had a lot in common. We were talking about art—and life—and the meaning of things. It was strangely earnest except for that I meant none of it and was just fascinated by his repulsiveness. The skinniness, the bug-eyes, the moustache. It was so intriguing.  Near the end of the show the tamale lady showed up and I bought a chicken tamale. Me and Steve took turns biting into it and chewing with our mouths close together. He put his tongue in my mouth and slid his hands underneath my coquettish cardigan while I straddled his knee. Abruptly the show ended and I had to sell some cd’s and t-shirts.

At the end of the night he tried to convince me to take the bus to his place, or to meet up another time. He sent me 2 myspace messages the next day and then kept a steady stream of them coming for two months thereafter, in increasing tones of desperation and anger. I’m not sure why I didn’t want to meet up with him again, except that he wasn’t really my type at all, just the most my type (a straight man) in that particular context. Also I showed his myspace to my best friend and she said he was “revolting” and she laughed at his art. I didn’t tell her what I did because I didn’t want her to make fun of me.

it was mediocre at best, but it was the afterwards that was shocking. after we did the deed, he got off the bed and started doing a dance with his junk sort of swaying in the non-existent wind.

An anonymous contribution from “Kelly”

i deal a lot with volunteers at my job. it’s a good thing for the organization that i worked for. however, some volunteers get frisky. one day, i had a volunteer really eager to come in and do work, which is great because usually i have to drag people in by their hair and duct tape them to a chair. so we’re talking, and i said, “oh i’m new here, and i don’t know any bars to go to, do you have any recommendations?” and he starts listing off bars and then tells me that anytime that i want to go out drinking to call him. so i had gotten done with work, and he was still around and i was like, “hey, let’s go for a drink.” so after multiple drinks, dinner, somehow we ended up at his place. the entire night, he’s talking about how i’m his type of girl and how he really wants to see how crazy i am… yadda. i’m really drunk at this point and at his place, i threw down the gauntlet, i mean, after all he wanted to see how crazy i am. i grabbed him and started kissing him. the mixture of vodka, parliament lights, and mexican food on his breath should have prevented me from going any further. seriously, i blame the alcohol. so we end up in his bedroom and i’m starting to realize what i got myself into. i’m going with the flow and before i knew it we were having sex. i mean, it was mediocre at best, but it was the afterwards that was shocking. after we did the deed, he got off the bed and started doing a dance with his junk sort of swaying in the non-existent wind. i proceeded to get dressed and leave. i was disgusted by the dance. i mean, who does that? thankfully, he kept volunteering and making googly eyes at me while in my office. i went back a couple more times after that because i was horny, bored, lonely, and/or drunk. after the second time of him not being able to get it up, i decided it was for the best that i stop visiting him. my boss then hired him to be one of my workers. talk about awkward, especially after i started dating someone who would come in for “closed door meetings”. my bad.

from "this isn't me"---old man confessional

I’ve been stringing along this older man, he’s like, middle-aged or something and he seems interested in me because he got drunk and stuck his tongue in my throat one time but I’m not as into him because I’m fucking this other guy meanwhile the man I really love doesn’t even know I exist except for like last night when we were having dinner at our friends house and he said “pass the pepper” and our fingers touched when I passed it to him.

anyway, i went on a date with the older man and we didn’t even get that wasted just a little wine and i totally took off my panties for him.  the thing is, i don’t like him. I mean, he’s a nice guy but I just have my heart strung up on so many other dudes. i don’t have any feelings for him. i want to fuck him, but he seems like a bind. he’s always holding my hands and massaging me and shit.  i don’t want to date anyone who actually might care.

after a night filled with earnest kissing and hand-holding, i accompanied the older man to his apartment. we took off enough clothes to be comfortable in bed, but then he kept touching me and the more he touched, the more clothes i wanted to take off. he was naked too, and incredibly hairy. his chest hair was really wiry, like so wiry that it made my pubes feel like velvet by comparison. he had no discernible smell, my friend says that is what happens to old dudes. I missed the feral stench of man, but i was still willing to explore the situation. we kept making out naked and i was REALLY horny and i kept making him touch my pussy by saying things like, “touch my pussy, it’s so wet!” so that he slid his fingers in and out of it while i sucked on and bit his other hand and ground my ass into him. 

anyway, i was all set for Casual Fuck to happen (or maybe it would have been “earnest fuck” but on my half it was totes casual), but i don’t really like him so i didn’t want him to go down on me and i really really didn’t want to go down on him (no smell!) and i just wanted him to fuck me and get it over with so i could try to have an orgasm and then run home and eat candy. I was like, “do you have a condom?” and he was like, (and this is the worst): “no, i don’t.”

I was like, WTF. I didn’t have a condom either because I’ve only been giving blowjobs and fucking girls lately. The fuck train derailed, we kept fooling around a bit and in a moment of crisis he totally put it in me for a minute even though A) I told him not to, B) i have herpes, thanks, C) it felt really really good though, D) how dare he?  I was like, “get it out of me” and the makeout subsided into sleep but he was too clingy and i couldnt sleep because i didn’t want to cuddle. 

we ended up waking up at 5 am and having awkward coffee then he walked me home where i took a major shit and masturbated while thinking about the guy i actually wanted to fuck. 

From Megan:

When I was seventeen I was a singing waitress at a popular chain diner. One evening a young guy walked in and my friends and I swooped in to wait on him. He was British, 21 years old, a soccer (“futbol”) player, and told us he was a model who had come to the States to get a nose job. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with his nose and told him so. He invited me back to his hotel room. I called my mother and told her I would be staying over with a friend.

He smelled strongly of cologne already but soon disappeared into his bathroom and doused himself with even more of it. He sloppily kissed me and we made out for a while before passing out on his bed with all our clothes on.

The next morning he related a sob story to me about how he was running out of money and that he feared the recovery from the nose job would be painful and he was sad no one would be able to take care of him. I called my parents, who had a history of caring for my wayward friends. They agreed to let him stay with us while he recovered from his nose job.

Over the next week, he continued to attempt making out with me as he dripped blood and mucous all over the house, left bloody rags and bandages around his room, and continued reeking like cheap English cologne. He moaned and complained loudly that he was in pain and that he missed his friends and his soccer team. I averted his bad breath and bloody nose as much as I possibly could until my parents drove him to the airport to send him back to the UK where he never should have left in the first place.

He was the second person I had ever kissed and even to this day, at thirty years old, the memory of him disgusts me so much that I can still recall the smell of that cologne and I start to gag.