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“Wait! Linda made me promise I’d show you his picture.” He hurried after me with his phone raised and asked, “What do you think?” The photo on his screen was of a dorky Black guy in a bow tie and three-piece suit, posing with his cat. I shifted my gaze to Malone and went with staring at him again, until he squirmed and admitted, “I realize taking a formal portrait with a cat is…quirky. But you like animals, right?”
I packed as much incredulity into my look as I could muster. After a beat, Malone put the phone away and admitted, “Yeah, okay, this probably isn’t the guy for you. But you can’t blame Linda for trying so hard to set you up with someone. You need to get back out there, Dylan. It’s been—” He stopped talking abruptly and shifted his gaze to the asphalt.
Six and a half years since my husband died—that was what he’d been about to say, but there was no need to finish his sentence. I obviously knew exactly how much time had passed.
“When the right guy comes along, I have every intention of getting back out there and dating.”
Malone shook his head. “No, you don’t. I think you actually plan to be alone forever, and it breaks my heart. You’re only thirty-four, and you have so much of your life ahead of you! If my wife and I keep pushing you to get back out there, it’s only because we’re worried about you, and we want you to be happy.”
I’d had this same conversation with everyone I knew—repeatedly—over the last few years, and it was always a little depressing. I shifted my duffle bag from one hand to the other as I muttered, “Go home and stop worrying about me. I’m fine.”
He clearly didn’t believe that, but he said, “Alright,” and took a step back as I headed to my parking space. Then he called, “Happy New Year, buddy. I’ll see you in a couple of days.” I acknowledged that with a nod.
As I unlocked my truck, I noticed a fine layer of dust had accumulated on its midnight blue exterior after sitting outside for a day. It was tempting to drive straight to a car wash and get it back to its usual pristine condition, but I knew better. Whenever I came off a twenty-four-hour shift, I needed to decompress for a while, instead of immediately busying myself with errands. If I didn’t, my anxiety would start to ratchet up, and nothing good ever came of that.
On the way home, I made an effort to start shifting out of work mode. I put on some music and exhaled slowly, though there were definitely better places to find peace than the crowded streets of San Francisco during the weekday commute.
At least it was a short drive. I lived in a brown shingle apartment building on Russian Hill, which didn’t look like much from the outside. But my loft was designed to be a soothing refuge with its neutral colors and uncluttered decor, and I felt a sense of relief as I stepped through the door.
My routine after each shift never varied—I put away my things, took a shower, dressed in comfortable sweats, and headed to the kitchen. Then I perused the neatly-labeled storage containers in my freezer and selected a mix of frozen berries, which I combined with a few other healthy ingredients in the blender.
Next, I sipped the smoothie while leaning against the kitchen counter and staring out at the view of Coit Tower. It had been built as a tribute to firefighters and looked like a giant phallus. Sure, why not?
After I finished my drink, washing the glass and blender canister somehow spiraled into meticulously cleaning my kitchen, even though it was already spotless. When I realized what I was doing, I sighed and tossed the sponge into the sink. That instantly grated on me, so I retrieved it and centered it neatly in its holder.
Later on, there’d be a workout, a nutritious meal, and probably a nap, all in the name of self-care. But right now, my only objective was to relax, and that was never easy for me. As I left the kitchen, I muttered, “It’s going to be a long day.”
Somehow, I got through the next several hours without resorting to housework to pass the time. That evening, I curled up on the couch with my tablet. My mind kept wandering when I tried to read, so after a while I switched to surfing the internet.
I hated feeling unsettled like this, and part of the problem was that I was horny. What did it say about me that it seemed like an inconvenience, more than anything else?
When ignoring it failed, I finally gave in and pulled up a gay porn site. It didn’t do much for me, so I tried another. And another. Since I was pretty vanilla, it was basically the same thing over and over—video clips of guys fucking, which just made me feel lonely.
To change things up, I clicked on an ad promising “Hot Guys Live on Cam,” and after checking a box confirming I was over eighteen, a grid with ten live video feeds filled my screen. Most of the guys were naked, and some were jerking off. Clicking an arrow on the right side of the display brought up ten different guys, and ten more after that—it went on and on.
I clicked on a muscular blond guy dressed in briefs, and his window filled my screen. His name, age, and location were displayed along the bottom, and a chat box appeared in the right-hand margin. A counter told me twenty-two men were watching him. Once in a while, one of them would type a request into the chat box, predictable stuff like, “Show me your cock,” or “Jerk off for me.”
The blond was in no hurry though, and I soon figured out why. While he talked to the camera and teased his audience by fondling his cock through his underwear, the newsfeed displayed frequent updates along the lines of, “Dale1974 tipped you five points,” and “Hard4U22 tipped you twenty points,” and so on. I assumed there was some number he planned to reach before giving his audience what it wanted.
I clicked out of the blond’s window and selected a brunet who was already naked and jerking off. Nearly fifty people were watching him, and the tips were racking up fast, maybe to encourage his grand finale, so to speak. When one guy tipped him a hundred points, the brunet called out the screen name and thanked him. Apparently that was part of this site’s appeal—being able to make a connection with the guy on camera, even if it was just in a very small way.
All of this was interesting to me, but not particularly erotic. I stayed on the site for a few minutes to indulge my curiosity, and I found myself wondering about the men who were broadcasting. I checked how much it cost to tip them and learned a hundred points only cost five bucks. The site would obviously take a big cut, so I wondered if any of the guys on cam actually make a living doing this.
I also wondered if they ever established relationships of sorts with their audience. Viewers could add broadcasters to a list of favorites, which meant they could keep coming back and watching the same guy night after night if they wanted to. That seemed like an odd blend of intimacy and anonymity.
As I kept browsing, I discovered a handful of couples. Each was promising to fuck on camera, but none of them were actually doing it at this point. Even so, they all drew large numbers of viewers. For the most part though, it was just guys by themselves sitting in generic bedrooms, either jerking off or teasing audiences with the promise of whipping it out.
I was definitely starting to lose interest, but I clicked the right arrow one more time to pull up another group of broadcasters. That resulted in nine guys sitting in front of their computers, and one who instantly put a smile on my face.
I pulled up the window of a cute brunet clearly living his best life. He was dancing his heart out while dressed in red booty shorts with matching suspenders, along with a plastic fireman’s hat—the kind you’d find in the children’s section of a party store. There was a flashing red light on the table behind him, and he was twirling a garden hose over his head like a lasso.
When I unmuted the sound and discovered he was dancing to “Baby Got Back” by Sir Mix-a-Lot, it made me chuckle. He began lip-syncing as he flung the hose behind his shoulders and shimmied back and forth, his smooth skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat.
I couldn’t stop watching. He radiated joy and energy, and I loved the fact that he was doing his own thing, in total contrast to every other person on this site. It wasn’t just that he was campy and fun. He was cute too, with his slightly long hair, big dark eyes, and lean, sexy body—not that twinks usually did much for me, but this guy was undeniably appealing.
The caption along the bottom of the screen read: Lark, 26, San Francisco. I wondered how much of that was true. He looked like he was closer to twenty-one than twenty-six, and that had to be a made-up name, not that it mattered.
I really wanted to tip him, because he’d made me smile more than anything in recent memory. But before I could go buy some points, the song ended and he leaned close to the camera. “Thanks for watching,” he said, as he flashed a bright smile. His voice was a bit deeper than I’d expected. “I’m going to take a short break, but I’ll be back live on the hour on my Gayze fan page. If you’re unfamiliar with it, Gayze is a new site similar to Only Fans, but it’s all queer, all the time. I hope you come by and check it out. My name on there is Skylark S.F., and here’s a way for you to remember it. See you soon!”
