Sometime in August of last summer, sunset was falling over Orange County as I perused Grindr. Like a mosquito, my feeding habits are at dusk and dawn, and I was determined to get it in (literally—I’m gay, after all) before it got too late, because I have a nasty habit of dozing off in my Kiehls Rare Earth Pore Cleansing Masque ($24.99).
“Top, 23” messaged me, “Yo.”
“Sup,” I replied.
“You host?” he asked.
“You bet,” I said.
When guys want something, they go for it, and gay courting lasts about as long as it takes the Starship Enterprise to reach warpspeed. Plus, he looked like Latin America’s answer to J. Cole, and I’d never fucked a rapper’s doppelgänger before.
“J” showed up at my doorstep, flat-bill, sweatpants and all, and I led him to my bedroom. I know what you’re thinking—“white boy had a brown fantasy,” but let me be clear: my cock munchies are color-blind. The only thing I fetishized was fucking like there were “No Role Modelz” to speak of. Which, at first, we did.
It was enjoyably rough, kinda like crossfit. But with every position swap, a Facebook alert sounded from my phone. At first, I tried to pay it no attention, and as we picked up pace, so did the cyber groans of my iPhone 5…until, finally, our rhythmic flesh-on-flesh pounding was in tandem with my data notifications. For every smack, there was a “beep.” Three thrusts into doggy, our sex playlist was the default “Aurora” text-tone on loop. At long last, I succumbed to the siren call of my iDevice, un-skewered myself, and checked my Facebook. Turns out, all that beeping was the sound of *mad hate* cumming my way.
Minutes before my encounter with J, a Facebook friend posted a status bashing Israel and Operation Protective Edge. While I lean to the right on most issues of Israel, it had, admittedly, become more and more difficult to defend blatantly racist actions of the Likud regime. Still, I don’t think calling Israelis “Nazis” and “Zionist pigs” either constituted constructive criticism or served to catalyze peace conversations. So, when I commented on the status attempting to justify some of Israel’s security concerns, I wasn’t prepared to get (anally) fucked by the Internet…with no lube.
Inadvertently, my comment set off a shitstorm of hate. People with noticeably Arab names, top-liberal-arts-college-kids trying their hands at Facebook activism…everyone was fucking me. If my comment were an asshole, it would have been torn wider than the portal in Interstellar.
Nothing kills a boner like the Middle East, but I was still hard, so went back to fucking J and tried to forget about it. But Israel had awakened the zealot Jew in me from its Sabbath slumber, and my fierce cultural Judaism was overwhelming me during what-should-have-been an extremely hot fuck-sesh. The room became blue and white as psychedelic Jewish stars floated around the walls and Hebrew moans escaped my lips. I domed him to images of the Iron Dome. There was a fucking dick in me, but the only thing I could think about was Israel. My Semitic genealogy had heeded its call to battle; the promised land had won over a fresh-out-the-closet gay 20-year-old’s libido.
Neither of us had cum yet, and I wasn’t going to, so I apologized to J for having to cut the hook up short. There was a long night of comment wars ahead of me, and I just couldn’t give him the attention he deserved. Leaving the conversation open-ended, I didn’t rule out the possibility of hooking up later in the evening, but, like I told him, I just needed to “Facebook about Israel right now.” I spent the rest of the night on my computer, and fell asleep knowing that I had successfully fulfilled my annual requirements to be a reformed Jew.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
I jolted out of my bed, convinced that my Israel comments had had a Magic Treehouse affect and teleported me to Gaza City. The reality was only a little less frightening. Apparently, my language when kicking J. Cole out had been extremely “suggestive,” and I was now face-to-face with the consequences of blue-balling—J had, in fact, broken into my bedroom.
My window screen plummeted to my comforter as he hoisted himself out of the backyard and table-topped his way onto my bed. “Hey,” he said, “You still horny?”
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!” I screamed.
“…I called you,” he said.
I checked my phone—he wasn’t lying. I had 10 missed calls, and numerous text messages of the flattering sort, asking if I was awake, if he could tear my ass up, and baiting me for sex with “kush.” I explained to him that I hadn’t answered because I was sleeping, but he couldn’t understand why I was upset.
“Dude…you’re acting crazy,” he said.
“I’m crazy? I’M CRAZY? You BROKE INTO MY HOUSE so you could smang it……….but I’M CRAZY?”
Ushering him out of my window, I politely told him to get the fuck out of my house before I called the cops. Hurt, he told me to “lose” his number, to which I loudly retorted, “LOSE MY FUCKING ADDRESS!”
Petrified, I laid awake in my bed for the rest of the night. No rest for the chosen people, I guess. From now on though, believe me, the only stance I’ll be taking on Israel is #CecilTheLion.