Whatever Dude

It's that cute little blond-boy ass, strutting his wares along Santa Monica Boulevard in his trademark white tee-shirt and torn jeans, that most people tend to imagine when they think of the consummate male hustler. He's usually emaciated from spending his money on drugs rather than food, he has at least one large tattoo on his body, and he knows all too well that just by slightly spreading his legs, or bending his knee in a certain position, or placing the palm of his long thin hand on his upper thigh, he can attract all the attention he desires. It's become so cliché that it's almost laughable, and whether these guys know it or not…or if they even care…the lugubrious expressions on their faces can be spotted for miles.
But no one ever suspects the white-collar guy in his early thirties, who secretly craves things a bit rough and raunchy and who thrives on the element of danger. It's the guy with the perfect haircut and the perfect job as a junior attorney you never wonder about. He drives the perfect sports car to the perfect gourmet food market to buy the perfect hunk of cheese. He pays his taxes, and he lives a responsible life—except for the fact that he likes sex a little too much and has run out of places to satisfy his imperfect needs.
I know all about this. It happened to me a few years ago, just after I'd left another jaded bar in Hollywood, still hungry for a real man and tired of getting myself off on the Internet. I left the bar and decided to drive south, to a rest stop along a quiet stretch of highway I'd heard was a notorious gay cruise spot. Though I'd never done that sort of cruising before, the thought of it had always intrigued me. And I was ripe for a new adventure. Besides, any gay man who has reached the age of thirty and never cruised a state park, a truck stop, or a public restroom at least once is clearly missing out on an interesting experience. That scene's not for everyone, but it shouldn't be completely ignored.
It was a warm night in late June, and I had the top down. When I pulled off the highway and exited into the rest area, I took a deep breath when I saw only one car parked in front of the restroom and a red landscaping truck parked at the end of the lot, near a wooded area that seemed safe and dark and private. I'd been tapping my fingers on the steering wheel all the way over, worried that the whole place would be swarming with older guys grabbing their crotches and wagging their tongues. I knew that if I saw too much action there, I'd probably drive past it all and go home alone.