by Kevin Sean
How the hell am I going to kick start my creativity? Besides, you know, throwing myself out of a plane and plummeting 10,000 feet back down to earth.
Desperate not to fall back into a spiral of depression or put a damper on this light-hearted picnic, I prod the conversation topic further. “Sounds like a genuine love connection to me,” I continue. “When’s the wedding date? I better be the best man, or at least a flower boy!”
Montana laughs and shakes her head. “I don’t think I’ll ever see her again! She was hot, but twice my age. And she doesn’t even live in the city: she’s on an extended sabbatical from her job as a university professor in Paris and headed home in a week or two. It was a fun fling but… not worth breaking any hearts over.”
The casualty with which Montana discusses the situation just heightens my sense of envy. Not only is Montana putting herself out there on the dating scene, she’s being rewarded for it with creative inspiration—which is what I need.
“Maybe that’s what I need to do. If I want to paint again should put myself out there, romantically or… sexually.” I don’t realizing I’m thinking aloud until the words have already left my lips. I’m embarrassed, because until right now I’ve been downplaying my sexual and artistic dry spell. I hope Montana doesn’t judge me too much.
“Aw, Ben, you should! You never know what will make inspiration strike… I miss you showing me your latest paintings, it’s been such a long time since I saw a new one! I look at the ass you painted for me every night before I go to sleep. I hung it up right over my bed!” I should’ve known Montana would be nothing but supportive.
“That’s so sweet, Monty!” There’s no point in letting my face show the flash of sadness which just shot through me, or in telling her that the painting she so loves is of Zach's ass. Is that detail even important so long after the fact? I doubt it would matter at all to Montana. Unfortunately, to me it still matters far too much.
I’m such an idiot for only painting one model all the time. I should have picked a primary subject for my art who couldn’t shatter my heart into a million fucking pieces and then leave, bringing my passion with him on his way out the door.
At least that way I could look at my old work without wanting to cry or punch a wall.
Montana has moved on from our conversation and begun chatting with the hippies next to us who’ve assembled a makeshift tie-dying factory in the park. Seeing her banter with these chemically altered and personable folks makes it impossible for me to lose myself in the negative thoughts for long.
“Do you want to join us for some aerial flow yoga?” One hippy asks us. He’s an old man with overgrown hair and Yoko Ono glasses. I’m about to say No, I’m good, thanks, when Montana jumps to her feet.
“Hell yeah! I’ve been waiting for you to ask!” She says. I can’t relate. We’ve just eaten an entire family size picnic basket worth of snack food and split a bottle of wine. You couldn’t pay me to do yoga on the ground right now—let alone in the air.
As Montana prepares, I look down at my watch and see that it’s already half past four. If I want to check off the very last item on today’s itinerary, I need to leave right now.
“I’m sorry, but I have to head out,” I tell Montana. She’s too blissed out on a mind-altering substance one hippy gave her and checking out the other free spirits doing aerial yoga to mind me leaving.
“Have fun!” She shouts, waving me off. “Don’t be such a depressing loser anymore, babe. You’re a boss ass bitch. You got this!”
“You’re too sweet,” I say, and I can’t help but laugh with her.
“Now go home and paint some dicks and asses!” She blows a kiss.
I know she was just being her cheeky self, but I feel inspired by Montana’s pep talk and the time we spent together this afternoon. Her motivating experience skydiving on a first date has sent the gears in my mind spinning. They’re considering all the less insane possibilities for me to do a similar experiment of my own. Perhaps I should take a guy figure skating or whale watching—that’s crazy enough, right?
These thoughts follow me after I hop onto a MUNI bus and are relentless for the rest of the trip.
Fifteen minutes of considering my options later, I jump off of the bus at a stop near City Hall and walk down Golden Gate Avenue till I see the door I’m looking for: G&J’s Old School Bakery. A hanging sign shaped like a cupcake and painted like a rainbow flag marks the eatery. I check the time on my phone: it’s 4:45.
Phew, I made it with just enough time to spare before they close at 5 o’clock. Now I just have to hope that they haven’t sold out of everything.
My mouth waters just thinking about all the baked goods I’ve sampled in the past here. This place is a staple of San Francisco’s food scene. The same married couple—George and Jorge—have owned the bakery for over 40 years. I stopped in here a lot when I first moved to the city and was often out and about on the town with Zach.
I open the door and am greeted by the irresistible scent of fresh-baked sourdough.
Holy mother of granola. How have I gone so long without visiting this place?
“Hey Ben!” Jorge says immediately. It warms my heart that he remembers my name. “You look great, kid. Long time no see.” His eyes are bright and kind as ever.
“Thank you! Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” I stammer. It has been a long time. I can’t remember when I was last here… I’ve cooped myself up in my apartment all alone for way too long.
“No worries, kid. I remember your favorite pastry, too! You’re still a unicorn cupcake guy, right?”
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. The unicorn cupcake at G&J’s is out of this world. Who knew cranberry cream cheese frosting and red velvet cake were just a marzipan unicorn horn away from perfection? I’d eat it every day if I could.
“How could it not be?” I smile and laugh, touched because Jorge still remembers my go-to order. The longer I’m here, the more grateful I am that I took the time to come to the bakery. It feels so familiar and relaxing.
“You’re tellin’ me! Well, sit tight, kiddo. George is whipping up a batch as we speak, so your cupcake will be ready in just a few minutes.”
“Perfect! Thank you so much, Jorge.” He grins and points his head towards the other side of the bakery, prompting me to wait for my order.
When I walk over to the tables in the corner I see him: one of the sexiest men I’ve ever laid eyes on. Even from a distance it’s impossible not to marvel at his big and muscular physique or the way his clean-cut dirty-blonde hairstyle frames his face, accentuating his piercing blue eyes.
Whoa. Where the hell did he come from? This man wasn’t a G&J regular back in the days when I always came here. I’d remember seeing someone so gorgeous around these parts before.
He must have arrived before me. The thought of eating a unicorn cupcake distracted me so much that I didn’t even notice him sitting at this obscured table in the corner, hyper-focused on his cellphone and furiously typing away with his thumbs.
With every movement, every motion this stranger makes, his muscles flex. I can’t take my eyes away from him. I can’t help thinking, even when he has a scowl in his face, even when he is doing nothing besides scrolling through his phone, this man looks downright… well, perfect.
Jesus. How is it legal for one man to be so fucking sexy? I can feel my cock growing hard from ogling this gorgeous man. I wonder if he’s texting a girlfriend—or a boyfriend. That second possibility makes me grin wickedly.
This sexy stranger liking men isn’t out of the question, considering the fact that we’re sitting down in the gayest bakery in the gayest city in America. But him liking me? That’s far more improbable. Good thing I’m happy to resign myself to checking him out, buying a unicorn cupcake, and heading out on my merry way.
The stranger I’m eye-fucking looks up and makes direct eye contact with me. He caught me in the act. I’m turned on and terrified. I’m struck by the thought that this situation is even more awkwa
rd than when that guy hit on me on the street earlier today.
This man is even sexier, and in the bakery there’s no escape route or busses to catch.
Instead of calling me a creep or moving away, he flashes me a devilish grin of his own and nods his head in my direction.
Overtaken by nerves, I blurt out: “Real excited about these cupcakes!”
“Me too, I’ve heard they’re great,” he murmurs.
God, his voice is sexy. I mean, everything about him is… but I’m taken aback by his words’ quiet ferocity. He’s commanding yet calm. He seems friendly but firmly in charge of all aspects of his life. I can’t help but gulp as I compare the two of us in my head: me in a tie dye shirt and clothes from a thrift shop, Mr. Sexy Stranger in a designer suit and loafers made of imported leather.
After he responds to me, his smile remains as if frozen in place, but his eyes dart back down to his phone and he resumes his furious attack on the device’s keyboard. I wonder if, much like what happened to the man I spoke with on the street today, I’ve weirded him out with my awkwardness.
Oh, well. I’ll chalk this up as another learning experience on the road to regaining my confidence with men. Although I’ve resigned myself to accepting flirtation failure, I can’t help but keep checking the stranger out.
There’s no way he’s straight, right? Sure, he looks clean-cut and traditional, but it’s 2020. We’ve got room for every type of person under the rainbow umbrella. Besides, what hetero corporate worker is coming to G&J’s rainbow-bedecked bakery, which is a staple of San Francisco gay culture? Chances are he likes cock as much as I do. Maybe even more.
Before I have time to picture the many ways in which this handsome stranger might show his appreciation for the male form, Jorge calls out from behind the register and snaps me back to the present.
“Er, Ben and Mr.… sir? Your orders are both ready for pickup!” The sexy stranger and I exchange glances when we’re addressed.
We both make our way over to the counter. Mr. Mysterious walks with a certain confident swagger that just makes him even more attractive. Between this sexy man and the cupcake awaiting me, it takes all of my resolve to not lick my lips at this point.
When we arrive at the Jorge hands each of us a cupcake. They’re glorious and just how I remember them: decadent and delicious-looking, with edible glittery eyes and a twirling marzipan horn decorating the rainbow frosting.
My almost-acquaintance arrived to the counter first and pays for his pastry in silence. As he completes the transaction I stand behind him, watching his taut muscles ripple as he reaches for his card and slide it in the machine. His other hand has reached behind him and is now cupping his own ass. I wish I could put my hand in the same spot: his ass is juicy and squeezable.
Before I can fantasize about his round bottom any further, the man in front of me finishes paying and steps out of the way so I can have my turn.
I step toward the register and feel my shoe catch on some stray power cable or electrical cord. I trip and stumble sideways, fancy cupcake in hand. Before I realize what’s even happening, I’ve knocked into the counter and bumped against the sexy stranger.
It’s embarrassing enough to be so clumsy, but then I realize that my cupcake has transferred cream cheese frosting on to the sleeve of his jacket.
It’s not that much frosting… chances are he won’t even notice it’s there, I tell myself.
Or, perhaps he wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t gasped out loud the second I realized I got food on his clothes. Prompted by my expression of shock, he looks down and sees the aftermath of my tumble.
“Fuck! My jacket!” He rips off the jacket and waves it at a distance like it’s a deadly animal ready to attack.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, is there any way I can help?” I grab a handful of napkins and extend the clump of cleaning supplies in his direction.
“I don’t want any help from you,” the sexy stranger snarls, stepping back from me. “You’ve done enough damage already.” I understand his frustration, but it was an honest mistake—and it’s barely even that much frosting. With this act of rudeness, my lust for him transforms into reproach. This man may be drop dead gorgeous, but he’s also a douche with unresolved anger issues.
I decide that if he plans on acting like this, I won’t bother trying to help him. Instead, I roll my eyes as he curses under his breath.
“Here, sir, this should get the cream cheese frosting right out of the fabric,” says Jorge, pulling out a spray bottle and an oblong sponge.
“Thank you,” the businessman mumbles to Jorge. He avoids making any further eye contact with me.
“Don’t sweat it, frosting accidents are a common workplace hazard around these parts,” Jorge quips, trying to lighten the mood. His attempt fails, because the man I just attacked with a cupcake refuses to stop scowling.
After a minute or two of fruitless scrubbing, the man throws down the cleaning supplies. “That’s as clean as it will get with these cheap products,” he grumbles. The stain is less noticeable, but there’s still a faint rainbow blotch of frosting on his sleeve.
Without another word, the sexy but sullen businessman collects his cupcake and jacket, turns on his heels, and hurries out of the store. I hold my breath until the door slams behind him.
“I’m so sorry about that, Jorge. I didn’t mean to tarnish your reputation,” I say to the baker, distressed by the thought I might have caused harm to one of my favorite local businesses.
“It’s no big deal,” he says, brushing off my concerns with a wide smile. “Maybe one day he’ll tell a funny story about our bakery to his hot shot corporate friends and inspire them to come try our pastries too. Any publicity is good publicity. Hey, you never know, we might serve a businessman’s lunch special by this time next month!”
I appreciate Jorge’s optimism. “I like the way you think,” I say, grinning.
I pay for my cupcake and, as I go to drop a handful of loose bills and coins from my pocket into the tip jar, I see a black wallet on the ground out of the corner of my eye. I pick it up out of curiosity. The soft, luxe leather and the designer logo in the corner alert me to the fact that this wallet cost more than a year’s worth of my rent.
Something this fancy has to belong to the sexy douchebag I just pissed off. I can’t imagine the usual clientele of G&J’s carrying Gucci wallets with black credit cards inside. It must have fallen to the floor when I got cream cheese frosting all over his fancy jacket.
My eyes can’t help but catch the name on the credit cards and the ID: Logan Lexington.
“Hey!” I yell as I run and throw open the door, sticking my head into the street where the sexy, asshole stranger is walking towards a fancy black town car. He turns around, flustered.
Dammit, even when he’s confused this asshole looks gorgeous. That furrowed brow makes me want to drop to my knees. “You dropped this,” I say.
He steps back over, snatching up his wallet from my hand in a swift, strong motion.
“Thanks,” Logan the sexy douche mutters, the single syllable dripping with disdain.
As he leaves for good this time, I can’t help but admire his taut back and muscular ass rippling and bouncing underneath his tailored suit.
I hate how hot that man is. Logan Lexington. Judging just by his fancy name and equally fancy clothes, I can tell that he’s one of the other breeds of people who call themselves San Franciscans. The techies, the elite. He’s not a free-spirited artist, like the people I socialize with.
I watch the rude hottie get into his town car through the bakery’s wide front window. Is that a chauffeur with a little hat and fancy mustache in the driver’s seat? Damn. So this is how the other side lives.
As Logan Lexington drives away, conflicted emotions stir up within me. He was a jerk, sure, but he was also gorgeous as hell. No matter how annoyed I am, I can’t help but want to jump into the car after Logan and provide him with some roadside assistance.
&nbs
p; 4
LOGAN
I don’t think my cock has ever been harder.
And all because of some random hottie at the bakery who attacked me with cream cheese frosting. The gayest bakery I’ve ever set foot in in my life, might I add. I don’t care how badly he ruined this Armani blazer; he was sexy. The things I’d love to do to him…
Hours have passed and I’ve attended two mind-numbing meetings since our encounter—yet I still can’t keep my mind from going back to those twinkling eyes and that sweet face. He attracted me the minute I saw him approaching from a distance, and even when he got dangerously (clothing-ruiningly) close, I liked what I saw.
I keep mentally replaying the end of our tense interaction. Somehow, his attitude just makes him all the sexier in my eyes. I like a man with some fire in him.
I’m about to let my mind wander to some naughty thoughts about the sassy bakery boy when my driver Pierre interrupts the fantasy and brings me back to reality.
“Monsieur, is there anywhere else you’d like to go? Anything else you’d like to do today?”
Just go for a romp in the sheets with that sexy man I fought over pastries with, that’s all.
“No, nothing. Take me home.” He nods and raises the partition between us, leaving me alone with my dastardly daydreams of my new acquaintance dropping his cranberry cream cupcake and bending over to grab it. He undoubtedly knows a thing or too about… cake.
Before I know it all this fantasizing has made me hard as a rock. Thanks a lot, bakery boy. I can’t remember the last time I felt so horny from a guy I’d fucked, let alone from a fully clothed man I met for all of two minutes.
Caught up in the pounding rhythm of my heart (and throbbing of my cock), I whip out my phone. Against my better judgement, I re-download Grindr for what must be the thousandth time.
If anyone asks, I’m just doing market research to prepare myself for the rollout of our next app, I tell myself.
