An Open Letter to Creepy Pee-Daddy
To some degree everyone has a fetish; some might call them preferences, while others are more honest with themselves. Fetish connotes that a particular sexual or erotic taste lies outside of the ‘ordinary’ realm, but adhering to an active socially accepted preference is still a fetish.
On a recent trip to San Francisco, I spent my last night in town out with my local queer friends indulging in a few drinks and catching up. It was a three bar kind of night and our numbers dwindled with each change of scene. A night out in San Francisco, a city where just about anything goes, can get pretty interesting without walking more than a few blocks.
The first stop of the night, Blackbird, was a cute new quasi-hipster bar with modern interior fused with a bit of vintage flair. Ten of us had gathered and enjoyed a few libations before deciding to shift to the next bar. The second bar was 440 Castro and Mondays at 440 are daddy underwear night. My two friends who suggested the dive assured me that not everyone was older and dumpy and that frequently, a handful of eye-catching 30-somethings could be found carousing in their skivvies. As I’m generally game for most anything, especially after a few drinks, our now posse of four meandered a few blocks to 440 bar.
The bar was exactly what I expected with 40-50 year old hyper gays flubbing around in their Hanes tighty-whiteys. I’m not actually sure if there were any good looking guys in the entire bar as when faced with this situation you start playing ‘shiniest fish in the fish bowl’ and quickly make the most out of the otherwise mediocre. We bought a drink and made our way to the back of the bar where a few people were amiably gyrating to whatever terrible pop music was blaring from the ceiling. Older gay men in underwear showcasing their finest pot bellies is a fetish and I can now definitively state that it’s not a genre that does anything for me!
The two IPAs I had enjoyed at Blackbird were demanding evacuation so I made my way to the dingy pair of dimly lit bathrooms in the rear. One was a private stall with a lengthy line and the other an open door trough urinal, which I’ve only ever seen in gay bars and once at a high school gym! Next in line for the trough cave, I noticed a disheveled 45ish guy standing dead center chatting up the younger guy to his right and actively eye fucking his urinating member. Young guy finished his business and made haste vacating creepy pee-daddy’s viewing station. I stepped up to the show and tell stage, unfurled my manhood and attempted to pee while trying not to think about the creeper next to me salaciously watching! NOT A DROP! I’ve never been pee shy in my life but clearly the instance of a half naked Ron Jeremy ogling my goods dammed up the floodgate. With no luck I zipped up and re-joined my friends.
While the trough might be more efficient than individual urinals, I really can’t get behind them! To creepy pee-daddy, please at least try to be discreet when visually molesting those next to you at the trough… even on underwear night when it seems like everything goes!
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