EPTJune 12th, 2008 - Twenty-Three
I am accompanied by Amanda Austin, receptionist; Blake Gilroy, game design peer - Company of Heroes Online; Mike Doyle, producer, LIVE team. We're just infront of the front desk, doing another round of Canadian Club shots. Ceili's (pronounced "Kay-Lee's"), was our previous destination, where several of my friends and co-workers had gathered to celebrate my 23rd birthday. The 4 shots are arrayed rim-to-rim, adjacent to the "Guest Sign-In" sign afflicted with a broken base - probably the victim of a previous like night of shots.
Mike Doyle is a man's man. He likes to drink his beer, he likes his sports, he's generous with his bear hugs, he's threatening with his hand shake. He doesn't take shit from anyone. He likes to be in charge and he's a more than able producer. He used to be a lawyer. He's popular with the ladies, usually more than a few in the span of a week; not uncommon to be so popular in the span of a night.
We all down the shots. "Another year and you'll be completely bald kid".
I have a receding hairline. It's not subtle, but it's definitely not what one would call balding. Well, at least not if you're looking at me from head on.
"How old are you turning this year anyways Mike? like... forty... seven? isn't it?"
Mike is about 38 i think. And he also moves alot quicker than i thought he was capable of. Perhaps the booze may have been a contributing factor, but it seemed like in no more than 2 seconds, he had gone from his side of the lobby to mine, had me on my knees, and completely unable to breathe from his steel forearm pressed against my neck. Now, i'm not a fighter. I don't usually have scuffles at bars, and the last time i hit someone out of self-defense or anger was probably grade 6. I'd wrestled with a few of my drunken buds not uncommonly enough, but usually we tap out because of lack of endurance or taking a break to smoke a doobie; not usually because that's the only alternative to going unconscious.
It occurs to me that that's what Mike is waiting for, and i tap his ankle twice.
He lets me go and pushes me forward so i'm lying on the ground, choking, panting, and disoriented. It takes me half a minute to recover; but i manage to get up on wobbly legs and steady myself. Mike Doyle is killing himself with laughter - and seems open to an ambush. I launch myself at him moving faster than most people expect i can move, and have him down and on his back in less than a moment. It's at this point that i realized that for Mike, this is not just a not-uncommon occurence, it's a regular one. I, on the other hand, have no fucking clue what i am doing. He grabs me by the arm i had used to push him over my heel, and yanks me down on the ground beside him. I hadn't had time to even realize what had happened when he was atop my chest, completely pinning me to the floor, his right forearm supported but his left hand on his right wrist pressed against my windpipe a second time.
I tap out.
Now, on a regular day, i'm usually a pretty competitive person. I enjoy challenges and i love to win. This attitude is usually persistent in drinking, but on a typical night it's neither heightened nor lessened in intensity - i'm simply competitive. I think it was the whiskey in this case. I didn't want to give up.
I charge at him a second time, and this time he's not unprepared. Again, before i know what's happened i'm somehow on the floor again, trying to grapple and lock his arm away from my throat. It occurs to me that my chances are non-existant, my endurance waning, and that the only chance i might have is to give up. I let out my strength and the cinch closes in on my neck. I struggle for a brief moment, and then go almost completely limp, waiting for him to ease up the pressure. As anticipated, he lets up. I react quickly, gripping his shoulder in my right hand as fast and hard as i can move it, and flip him in that direction, rolling him and ending up on top. i'm ready to give it to him when he's gone truly limp, staring at the Relic ceiling unblinking. It was immidiately obvious that the lights were out. I'm too full of adrenaline to panic, but i slap his face a few times and call out his name. Amanda and rushes over to help rouse him and tells Blake to grab a glass of water.
Two minutes go by before Doyle finally comes-to. He suffers a 5 minute amnesia, remembering the beginning of our scuffle, but not what had happened in between. We make our way to Relic's Kitchen to clean up. My mouth is full of blood, having pierced by lower lip with one of my teeth; i have nice burns on both my arms from being dragged around on the carpet. Mike Doyle doesn't look that much better, still remaining disoriented and also with blood running down his chin. We give each other a huge grin and he grips me in a bear hug as Doyle does. "Not bad kid. You're OK".
My year of crazy, Chapter Two
July 4th-ish, 2008 - On the other side of 707
I arrive at my destination on Commercial avenue. It's about 10:00pm. I'm running a little late, having supposed to have been there at 8:30. I was jogging there for the last few blocks to make a hairs-worth of difference in my arrival time, and was catching my breath outside of apartment 707 before giving the door a knock.
I was a little nervous. I didn't know the majority of the people located on the other side of the door. I only really knew Heather: a beautiful beaufitul girl with a huge heart, and a sense of humour that matches my own. I think she may be the only person i know who smiles more than i do. It's a rare occurence that her eyes are not pressed tightly closed, trying desperately to see through the narrow gap she manages to keep open through her tears. I'd met her at the SOHO Bar and Grill, my dear sister's home of employement, and we had gotten on famously since that moment several months before. I had told her that i actually didn't know many queers; that no, i don't get laid every other week; that really, i can't believe how hard it is to meet new people; and no, i had never pierced one of the many gay circles that reside in Vancouver. Heather was on a mission to change this, and so invited me to this party of her boyfriend's brother's, so located on Commerical Avenue. His name is Cory, happily married to a Josè - or some other latin name i can't remember. They had just come back from a cruise somewhere tropical and relaxing, and were having a few people over. Heather said i couldn't miss it - that it boasted having some of the most unique personalities Heather had ever had the pleasure of meeting.
I finally catch my breath, toss my hair a little (but only a little, as again, i have a receding hairline), and brace my knuckles at the door ready to knock. The door opens as my hand moves forward, and before me stands a black as night african women who comes up to no higher than my shoulder, and has cornrows down to her ass. She looks like the embodiment of fertility, having a round belly, englufing smile, and instantly disarming demeanor. She must be 35 with about 9 children. She squeels with delight and moves forward, pressing her breasts against my chest, and reaches around with both arms and molests my ass. "Aren't you a gift?" She raises an eyebrow and evaluates me head to toe. She lets our a hearty giggle, further disarming as her squeal had been a moment before. We exchange names and she gives me another hug, and asks my forgiveness for her not being able to witness the fun she is assuring me is about to occur.
I move inside, eager and optimistic. The eccentric entrance had disarmed me of my nerves, and i was eager to crack a beer and get to know the people that would be my company for the remainder of the night. I'm introduced to Marcel, a fit, quiet hispanic man about in his late twenties or early thirties. I greet Heather with a sincere hug, and give her boyfriend Bryce an embrace as well. I'm introduced to Cory, who is as breath-taking as his brother. His head is shaved (this is a good thing), he has a strong jaw line, and looms at about 6'4". He's a professional masuse. My next introduction is borne to the catching the fall of a young boy no older than 4 - being chased by his sandy-haired older brother of about 6 - but i'm really no good with judging the ages of children. Then i am introduced to Fireweed, their mother.
I'm somewhat unsure of what to make of the introduction. I wasn't sure if they were joking around about Fireweed being her name; if that it was a nickname, or whether or not i should call her by it. She had an intense stare and gave off an aura - simultaneously curious, and skeptical, and certain. I spent a great deal of time with her throughout the night. She's a motorcyclist with a passion for motorcycles. She's a poet, a writer, and a professional fire spinner. She has two adorable children who encompass the whole of what really matters to her in life. She is passionate and extreme and motivated, a personality that immensely piques a personality like my own. She's a painter and a photographer and a journalist.
I'm offered some beer and some other recretional drugs. I accept the former and refuse the latter on this occaison, as i prefer to do such activities in the company of people that i am better acquainted. It's surprisingly warm out considering the time; i regret not wearing the shorts i had considered earlier - wanting instead to look better in my newly-bought jeans that fit to my recently trained body that was showing the results of hitting the gym 2 hours a day, 5 days a week, for a good 6 months. I wanted to show off my ass. But now i found myself sitting on the couch, rolling up my jeans to my knees, my cuffs to my elbows, trying to escape the heat; hoping in vain that a breeze would pass by.
A slide show slides forward on the big screen TV, a collection of Cory&Partner's past half-year of experiences. Parties and people and vacation vistas and captured cultures. Skydiving. And then, a giant cock, displayed from one corner of the screen to the other - bottom-up view. The crew finds ourselves in hysterics as Cory makes a mad dash to turn off the TV containing what i assume to be the rest of their sex-play set list.
The atmosphere of the place is comfortable and easy. The company is friendly, and open; some of us are sober, some of us are high. Everyone is in a good place. I have a slow and steady pace at the beer, wishing to actually retain some soberiety - i'm having such a good time without the alcohol, i don't want to mess with a good thing. I also occasionally have a problem with booze and excess, but that's for a different story. The kids have stopped running around and are finally starting to get exhausted. I'm sitting on the couch having a convseration with Bryce, when Bradley - the younger one - climbs onto the couch. He worms his way over to my side of the couch, and thrusts his hands forward above his head, as if about to take a dive. He aims at the hole between my arm and my lap, thrusts forward and wrestles the hole bigger. He gets his whole body on my lap, and hugs my torso.
I don't like kids. They're loud and annoying. They whine, and sometimes drool, and they can't have a conversation. The only fascination i have with them is when it's from a distance, admiring the way they think and interact with their environment - as long as i am not part of what consists of that environment. But this was really something else. No words had to be communicated between me and Bradley - his intentions were clear. He wanted to clim into someone's lap. I was his selection. I wish i could articulate better what this really meant to me, to be in the company of these people, and to have this added to the experience. I was filled with... i think i want to call it Bliss. It was a complete relaxation and appreciation; it was subtle, satisfying. It was in this moment that i decided i wanted kids.
I looked around at the people around me. I'm sure no one missed the grin that reached from one ear to the other. I glance toward Fireweed, and confusion and shock are wirrten accross her face. I quirk my face and mouth "what?" to her. She smiles and shakes her head and tells me she'll tell me later. Bradley stayed on my lap for a half-hour. He would have been planted there longer if Fireweed hadn't decided that it was time for the family to hit the hay. "That was really something, you know?" she says to me. I couldn't help but agree, i was pretty taken aback at my own response to it all, "i know, your children are adorable, and your son really touched me...". She shakes her head again. "No, i don't think you get it", she continues, "i've never seen him do that before. Not to my friends, not to his father... he doesn't even do that with me".
What do you say to that? If i had trouble describing my satisfaction before, this made me really feel like that next-kind of special.
Fireweed makes her exit and both sternly and sincerely informs me that we will meet again, that something special had occurred and she wanted to see it through. The rest of the crew also makes their way out and somewhere along the way Josè had gone to bed. That left Cory, Marcel, and myself conversing in the living room, looking out on Commerical Drive and the rest of lights of Vancouver. Marcel and i hadn't talked much yet so far, so we were really just asking the standard basic: what do you do, where do you live, what's your thing, etc. Cory starts to get the Futon ready, as Marcel is from out of town, and was spending the night there. The night seemed to be coming to a close. I went out of my way to take everything in: the warmth, the company, the exposure to something so new but so immediately comfortable.
Cory slips into his bedroom and is gone a few minutes as me and Marcel continue to shoot the shit. I see him come out of the bedroom and make his way to the kitchen. He starts the the microwave. It beeps after a few seconds and he comes around the corner holding a bottle. I can't make out what it is, but he's grinning and standing there, looking back between me and Marcel. He throws it onto the futon and takes off his shirt. And then he drops his pants, hanging out and bearing all to see. He stood there for a minute, watching us watch him. "All right. You're giving me a massage."
I was a little out of my element. Believe it or not, it's not the norm for a hot gay guy to take off all his clothes with a bottle of lube in his hand and inform you that you're about to touch his entire naked body. That being said, i also didn't hesistate - let's face it, i was all over that like a fat kid on a smartie. So was Marcel.
We make our way over to the Futon, losing most of our clothes. I only have my briefs left as i get to work on Cory's lower half, while Marcel takes the top. Everyone is lost in themselves and each other; talking wasn't necessary. After about 15 minutes Marcel and i switched spots, which to be honest, was just as good as his lower half. His back and shoulders looked like the were taken from a sculpture. I'm lost in the experience when i'm interupted by Cory rolling over onto his back. He reaches up and grabs my head, bringing it down to his lips. I'm inches away when he stops pulling me forward; he grins. "Hey. It's your turn."
We switch positions. I lay on my stomach, content and eager and curious. Marcel starts to ooze the lube onto my shoulders, and Cory puts a hand on either side of my boxers. He rips them down and off my feet. I guess we're about to get to it.
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