My back hurts because I thought I was a porn star.

***Usual disclaimer about gay sex and more info than some of y’all want to know about me.

So we’re going on about day 9 of this pain in my lower back because last weekend I decided to go out and feel every oat I do not possess and I am too old for that type of foolishness.

Sean made banana bread on St. Patrick’s Day, so obviously that Friday started out so calm and so relaxed.  Yes, I was using Jameson to spike my iced coffee (also made by Sean, apparently he’s more domestic than I thought) all day, but I had no plans to turn up.  We ordered in from some Peruvian place in his hood and watched crime documentaries.  Nighttime came and we’re both like, “Hmm…maybe we should go out and have a drink in a bar.”  The closest bar was a hotel bar at the Holiday Inn, so we sat around sipping margaritas and caipirinhas with a 44-year-old straight Black man from Panama who had control of the music for some reason.  (I never knew I needed to hear JJ Fad followed by Pternsky, but cheers to new experiences.)  At some point, Sean and I both were heading toward tipsy and decided to go out out, meaning go to gay bars in Jackson Heights and flirt with boys.  And therein lies the beginning of my ordeal.

Y’all.  I don’t know how to flirt with gay men.  It’s not in my DNA and I’ve only recently accepted that fact as being perfectly OK.  I don’t pick up boys in bars and boys don’t pick me up in bars.  So my plan for the night was to drink cheap whiskey, talk shit with Sean, stuff a dollar or two in a jockstrap, and be home at a reasonable hour.  We got to some bar and I immediately locked eyes with a (dyed) bright blonde Latino getting his life on the dancefloor.  The music was calling me, his hips were definitely speaking to me, so I walked up to him.  I was excited!  Some very cute boy was showing me mad interest, so whatever I had to do, I was going to capitalize on that situation.

The way the bar is set up, you have to walk up 3 steps to get onto the dancefloor.  I walked in his direction with the intention of going up the steps to dance with him, but I never got the opportunity because he jumped down on me like a spider monkey.  Two things were off about our perceptions of each other.

One, I thought he was a twink because he was short and he looked thin in his baggy black clothes.  No.  This was one of those short Latinos who lifts everday so that little man was a fucking brick and heavy as all get out.

Two, he must have thought I was stronger than I am – because why else would you jump on someone you don’t know?  I will admit that though I have a deep aversion to the gym, my fat does generally deposit itself in a way that I can give the resemblance of being in some sort of shape.  That’s smoke and mirrors bitch.  I have the muscle tone of an Olsen twin.  I am not equipped to pick up, catch, carry, or swing anybody around who is larger than a toddler.

Given these two pieces of information, you would think that we immediately crashed to the floor, but not so!  Regardless of his weight and my lack of muscles, I have a deep fear of public humiliation and I refuse to be that drunk bitch falling over on the floor.  Y’all, he jumped on me and I definitely pitched forward because  we were absolutely going to hit the floor, but my spirit just wouldn’t let me do it.  I don’t know where I pulled the strength, but just as the back of my hands brushed against the dance floor – that’s how close we were to falling – I pulled him back up, and by then he had his arms around my neck and his legs around my waist, so this bitch is thinking I’m extra strong now after that severe ass dip to the music.  So he is ready to forreal wind it up.  I don’t know how long we went at it, but we were dipping, grinding, he was jumping on me, I was picking him up – it was so much of everything I never wanted and wasn’t prepared for, but the boy was hot and he had a phat ass and I was living my best life.

After awhile, my body finally said “pick that lil boy up one more time and I can’t save you” so I made my exit from the dancefloor but I exchanged numbers with that lil thotcrobat first (that’s a thot who does acrobatics, keep up).  When I went back to the dancefloor he wasn’t there anymore, but I amused myself with this thick Latino cub with beautiful lips who had seen me dancing earlier and decided he wanted a spin.  No, he did not jump on me, thank God.

Fast forward a couple of hours and I was in midtown waiting on my train transfer to take me home to Harlem.  The Thotcrobat text me while I was on the platform.

“Hey don’t you live in Harlem?”
Yes.
“I’m on 137th, wanna meet?”
(Interally, HELL YES ARE YOU KIDDING ME!) Sure.  Should be about 30 minutes.

Keep this in mind y’all – I’m a top, and I can be an aggressive top if it’s the right bottom, but I’m not a dom top.  I don’t smack or spit or pull hair because if somebody does that to me, we fightin.  That little Mexican had it in his mind that I’m a dom top because of the dance routine we had just put together earlier.  Our fuck session quickly went from my comfort zone to “what the hell are you doing right now, Rafi?  Who is you?”  

At one point, I was fucking his (very fat, round, perfect) ass doggy with my hands around the back of his neck because he likes to be choked.  He kept telling me to do it harder and harder and I’m like…are you kidding me?  The energy in my arms is finite, especially after the previous few hours, and I don’t have any more pressure to give this man.  So I made a 30 degree turn to the left, put my foot up on the side of his neck, and basically stepped on his head for awhile and he CAME in that position.  I caught myself in the mirror standing on a thot’s face and started laughing because GIRL WHO AM I RIGHT NOW!  Is this Macho Fucker?  I mean I did have a baseball cap on and everything, but that was to keep the hair out of my eyes, not for any trade fantasies.

We were fucking off and on from 5am to 1130am, mostly on.  When I decided I had no more to give, he put a cockring on me and we went at it some more.  Now, a week and two days later, I still cannot touch my toes.  That Mexican Thotcrobat wore me out harder than any workout of my life and I might never be right again.  The universe is either telling me I am too old for that life or I need to go to the gym.  Either way, she gotta wait until I can stand up and sit down without mimicking a pregnant woman.

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