Melted Gray

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.

Those dreams. Those fucking dreams. Without them, this 30th birthday thing would be a piece of cake. My conscious knows 30 is just a number, but my subconscious thinks otherwise. These night visions are turning me into a drama queen. This is what happens when I skip Yoga, I turn into a complete fucking mess.

I spent last night on the Santa Monica sand. Sleeping on the beach, much like fucking on it, is much better in theory than in practice. I’ve screwed on the beach twice. I don’t recommend it unless it is a “Plan B.” But last night was not about “the fuck” it was about the rest. It is illegal to sleep on the beach in Santa Monica and it becomes a misty ghost town at night. I had to lay low.

I took Sunset out and parked across from the ultimate tourist trap, Gladstone’s. I walked past the late-night clientele, sunburned in cruise wear, and found some peace at guard shack two. Unfortunately, there is a public bathroom near there, so I decided to head up another few hundred yards to the first tower. I took off my sweatshirt and crashed underneath the shack, underneath the stars. I needed some plausible deniability should I encounter the Five-0, so I decided to forego the sleeping bag.

The sand felt cool and warm at the same time. I took off my shoes and opened my flask. It was late, almost 11 pm when I arrived. It took a few belts and went to sleep. I first heard the sound at 2:22 a.m., but by the time I opened my eyes, it was 2:23. I awoke, looked at my watch and went to sleep again. I think it was a cat. Or an alien. Something.

I drifted away until I heard the sound again. This time I woke immediately. My watch read 5:55. I began to freak a bit. Why for the last few weeks have I been consistently awaking at times when the numbers are in a power of three? I sat up and looked around. The sun would be up soon, so I dragged myself to the water’s edge and took in the last few moments of dark silence. I tried to figure out the dream.

In it, I was in Cancun. The same friends were there that went with me during spring break, sophmore year. It was a strange trip filled with alcohol, drugs and confusion. I went down with a few friends, and another friend group had gone down earlier. We were with different tour companies, and didn’t know each other’s hotels. Our group got on a bus from the plane and drove to several different hotels, dropping off students along the way.

We saw our friends walking on the street and told them to hop on the bus, at least then they would know our hotel. It was crazy luck. We were the last people to get off the bus at some crappy hotel outside of Cancun. Our friends grabbed the luggage and we bought the remaining Dos Equis from the bus driver who was selling them for a buck a piece. Ah, Mexico.

The rooms in this hotel were bad. One key for every room. The beds were formed of pink concrete bases and the roofs were thatched. We scanned our luggage and found a bag that didn’t belong. Our friends just grabbed it since there was no one else on the bus. We were the end of the road. An ugly road.

The bag contained women’s undergarments. It didn’t take long for ten drunk guys to rip off their clothes and put on the bras and panties. It was our first night in Mexico. The next morning I woke up with a huge hangover and a small thong. I don’t know how woman can do it, but thank you all nonetheless. Thongs are definitely a high point in my life. Without them, asses would barely capture my attention.

That morning, we complained, moved out of the hotel, and left the underwear behind. They put us in another hotel by the Mercado. We checked in and checked out. This place was urban scary, and depressing. Our friends offered up their super plush digs. We offered to share our dope. We became one big happy family.

That night, we went to a bar. My friend and I were competing for the same girl. He had a bit of an “in” because she was staying at the hotel and he had talked to her at the pool. As I remember, she went to the bathroom at the bar and told me to wait. I did. She never came out. My friends left. I was stuck.

I only had a few pesos left, not enough to get me home. I didn’t even know exactly where home was. I forgot the name of the hotel, the street. My saving grace was 9th grade Spanish and a love for pizza. The hotel was “cerca de Dominos” (near Dominos, for you gringos).

As luck would have it, I met another girl. But not for the fuck, for the ride. She lost her money but had some at her hotel. If I would pay to get her to the hotel, she would get out money and get me to mine. I took the chance, grabbed a cab and we were off. It wasn’t sure if I was being played, but I wasn't about to blow the cabbie, so this seemed like a palatable option. We drove to her hotel and I waited with the cabdriver as she talked to the front desk person. Then, a box came out and out from that came money. Beautiful Pesos. I thought about fucking her, but didn’t. The cabdriver liked her ass.

The driver got me back, somehow. I went to bathroom girl's room. She asked where I went. We made out, and I got "outside tit." This time I left her. If I wanted to cop a feel, I would have gone back to my prom. This was spring break in another country. I needed more.

The rest of the week was uneventful for our purposes, but at the airport that all changed. Our friends’ plane was delayed by several hours, so when we got to the airport, they were still waiting. As we reminisced about the week, we spoke about the underwear, wearing them on our heads, sniffing them, the works. Right behind us in a seat, a girl got up and started screaming at us. Seems they were her underwear. We were in an airport with hundreds of people and we sat next to her, the underwear girl. I felt mortified, and by the looks of the underwear, a bit let-down. They were hot. She was not. She needed those sexy undergarments to get laid, and we pulled that rug out from her.

Back at the beach, I wondered why I was dreaming about Cancun. The trip was filled with uncertainties, and in the dream I was trying to get back home, but couldn’t. Is that the point of these dreams, that you can’t go back in time? Could a dream be that banal? Cancun wasn’t the answer, but what was?

Out in the distance, the sky melted gray into the ocean. The sea was flat with morning, less a few porpoises that would bleed through the gray with breath. Another symbol I wondered or just the upside of crashing on the beach. I chose the latter, the triple-number thing was already freaking me out, and I just needed to get on with my day--one day closer to future, one day away from the past.

I need to get laid.

Namaste.