Living up to its nickname, finding hot man-on-man action in Santa Fe is, well…dipherent.
Your choices, for the most part, are as follows: student who repeats “I can’t wait to get out of this one-ashva town” on a loop in his head or 55+-year-old gentleman who moved here to die.
Like a Jain monk, I choose—as soon as I find myself here—to take a vow of celibacy.
“You should go online and create a profile on OK Cupid,” my good friend, whom we’ll call “Hilly,” suggests. She goes on to say that she had the experience of her life back home during Christmas break when she created a profile and found the multiple-orgasm-Asian-Energizer-Bunny man of her dreams.
I think the “OK” stands for Oklahoma and desist. Without getting into too much detail, I’ll just say that I’m persona non grata in Tulsa.
Back in the Fe—and on an insatiable rush since the awakening of her lotus—Hilly asks me to take her to a certain specialty shop down Cerrillos Road to purchase a mechanical surrogate.
We settle on a shiny, 10-speed contender. The man at the checkout not only offers to put batteries inside what will soon become known as “the Silver Surfer,” but also demonstrates its various speeds.
“One,” he says as he turns the knob, causing the Surfer to emanate a barely-there buzz. “Two,” he slowly continues.
Yes, the road to the jackhammer-like 10 is as awkward as it sounds.
Out of the corner of my good eye, I notice a congress of men floundering about in the arcade area in the back of the locale.
In subsequent days, the lack of Internet in my new place and the easy access to a fancy, fabric-covered, illustrated copy of the Kama Sutra at the office make my mind spin into a horned-up, lo-fi tizzy. As a consequence, I start weaving Hindi words into my everyday speak.
The book’s centuries-old references to nail markings, bestiality, eunuch etiquette and other practices banned in 49 states (including Oklahoma) are inspiring.
Galvanized, I return to the love boutique where Sutra staples like “the mounting of an ass,” “rubbing of a bore” and “the blowing of the bull” are an everyday occurrence, and the worth of a man is determined by the size of his lingam.
The place, it turns out, is like Mecca—but with glory holes.
Armed with a stack of ones to keep the porn going, “the line of jewels” quickly takes on a whole new meaning, as penises from all walks of life start popping into my booth like guest stars on The Love Boat.
The rubbing embrace ignited, a fiery feeling in my jaghana quickly takes over.
“Just go for it,” my inner eunuch voice instructs (what, you don’t have one?). And so, the fighting of the tongue commences in a Coliseum-worthy death match. For a second, I even think I hear a tiger’s roar, furthering the theme.
Needless to say, my dry streak ended that day. Happy as I was because of it, one head-scratching question remained: Why did that guy’s dick taste like lasagna?
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