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(One Night in West Hollywood, Three Bars… with Colin C from Berlin)

A few years back I was in LA for a brief visit. I didn’t know anyone, and even though I hate going out on my own, somehow I convinced myself to get out of the hotel and be social. Not really knowing where to go, or being bothered to do any research, I headed to West Hollywood, parked on Robertson, and wandered.

1) I started at Motherlode. It wasn’t that it looked particularly appealing, but it seemed to have a biggish crowd inside, so I propped up the bar and ordered a drink. As usual in the USA, my vodka-cranberry (or maybe it was vodka-grapefruit) was way too strong so I started sipping slowly until I got used to it. Soon a guy with a thick Latin sort of accent started chatting to me. It was pleasant enough but there was no click. I finished my drink and popped to the loo before heading out to find a new bar.

The Latino guy followed me in, took the urinal directly next to me and asked “do you like to party?”

“I guess so,” I said. Then I thought for a moment and added “wait, is that supposed to mean something?”

“Nevermind,” he laughed. I’m still so naïve about these things!

2) Next I went to the Abbey, the sort of Cheesecake Factory of gay clubs. It’s a beautiful place but it’s just too much, you know? And I think they do actually sell cheesecake. Anyway, I ordered another too-vodkaey vodka drink and soon I spotted a cute lad across the room. He was stocky in a very compact sort of way and with a face that was the very definition of handsome, which just about forgave him for his dreadful fashion. My grandmother would have called him “spiffy”; my mother would have called him “JCrew”. He looked like a Mormon missionary gone rogue… hmm actually that sounds pretty sexy!

We made a bit of eye contact and then he disappeared. Five minutes or so later I had this sense that someone was stood right behind me, but before I could turn around, someone had stuck their hand down the back of my trousers and shoved something in my crack. (Are you a bit disgusted reading this? Yeah, so imagine how I felt!)

I didn’t even bother to see who it was, instead rushing to the toilet so I could find what he’d put down there. I went into a stall, dropped my trousers, and found a crumpled bit of paper in there. Written on it was a phone number. As I left the toilet and J Crew was right outside with a grin on his face. I said nothing and just left.

3) My next stop was Fubar. I don’t remember if it was Big Fat Dick night or some precursor to it, but whatever it was, things turned up at this point. I was by now sauced enough to not notice how bad the drinks tasted, the men were much less vile, and erm, Christina Aguilera was there. She didn’t even leave the dancefloor when a Britney song came on.

Things got hazy by this point but I remember playing Ms Pac-Man with someone, I remember seeing someone on the dancefloor with his dick poking out of his zip and flopping to the music; and I remember seeing guys with beards well before beards were trendy. And I remember leaving alone, eating a cookie in the car, and collapsing into my oversized hotel bed satisfied at least in that the evening was memorably different.

See more of Colin and read his story in Elska Magazine issue (02) Berlin

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