“Life By the Bay” is fiction based on true stories of living in San Francisco.
And So It Begins
Peeling one eye open, Ryan tried hard to focus cloudy contact lenses as his head slowly started to throb. Based on the dim light streaming from between heavy curtains, it must be early, he surmised.
He could just trace the outline of several photos on a small bedside table, his jeans thrown carelessly over the back of a chair nearby. One thing was very certain: This was definitely not the hotel he checked into the night before.
“Great,” he muttered, “One night in San Francisco, and I already have no idea where I am.”
Next to him in the bed, something – no, someone – stirred.
“What?” a sleepy voice asked from two feet away. A warm hand gently slid across soft swirls of hair on Ryan’s bare chest. He laid perfectly still, almost afraid to move.
“What did you say?” the voice, now more alert, repeated. “I didn’t hear you, Ryan.”
Shit! The guy knew his name too. His face flushed with embarrassment. Luckily, he knew it was invisible in the darkened room. Think, dammit, he commanded his brain. Think!
The last thing he remembered with any clarity was chatting with a group of men on the dancefloor at Badlands, one of the more popular nightclubs he discovered in The Castro District. He vaguely recalled ordering a beer – maybe two -- but the dull ache behind dry eyes told him several more likely followed.
“I said ‘Good morning,’” Ryan lied, finally pulling himself upright.
“Good morning to you too,” the stranger said, dropping his feet to the floor to stand. “Want some coffee?”
The shadows accentuated his taught, naked silhouette. With just a few steps, he was at the window, pulling the curtains back several inches. Bright morning sun fell on carmel-colored skin. A wave of relief swept over Ryan.
At least he was gorgeous. Really gorgeous, actually. Short-cropped black hair, a chiseled jawline and that body. A full six-pack and an ass that looked like it could crack walnuts. Either he plays some kind of sport, Ryan thought, or spends an above-average amount of time in the gym. Maybe both.
“So about that coffee?” he asked again. Clearly Tall-Dark-and-Handsome was a morning person. There was already a sparkle in his warm, brown eyes.
“I think I’m ok,” Ryan told him. “Would you mind passing me my jeans?”
“Oh, now you’re shy?” the man said with a playful laugh, dropping the Levi’s on the bed as he padded toward the efficiency kitchen mere feet away. “Last night you couldn’t keep your hands off me.”
“I might have been a little drunk,” Ryan said sheepishly, retrieving his phone from a pants pocket. “I had a little too much – FUCK!”
Ryan sprang from the bed so suddenly, coffee grounds spilled from his startled host’s hands onto the countertop. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is everything ok?”
“No, it’s not!” Ryan said, forcing his legs into the skinny jeans, furiously searching for the rest of his clothing. “It’s 8:30!”
“Yeah, I set an alarm for 9am,” the handsome stranger replied. “Like you asked me to.”
I asked him to set an alarm? Ryan thought, shoving his feet into a pair of Adidas. He pulled a matching hoodie over his head.
“I’m really sorry,” Ryan said, even as he swung open the front door. Though he was aware how rude his abrupt exit might seem, being polite was not his top priority at the moment.
“I have a job interview downtown in less than two hours,” he blurted, “And I don’t even know where the fuck I am!”
It seemed like the door slammed shut — but that might have just been his pulsing head — as he stepped into an uncharacteristically sunny April morning in San Francisco. Almost directly in front of him was the F Line, the same aboveground streetcar he had taken from his hotel to the bars the night before.
He hopped aboard just in time for its doors to clang shut behind him. Heart pounding, Ryan dropped onto an uncomfortable wooden bench lining the inside of the classic orange streetcar. As it lurched into motion, he glanced back toward the apartment from which he just stumbled.
A striking, brown face stared out at him from between the curtains, hot pink and teal flagging next to his warm, white smile. Ryan immediately burst into laughter, not caring that he might look crazy to others on their morning commute.
Just 24 hours in the Bay, and he was already down one very nice pair of Andrew Christians.
“Life By The Bay: And So It Begins” is the first in a semi-fictional serial depicting author Pollo Del Mar’s near-20 year history in San Francisco. “Pollo Del Mar” is the pen name of author and journalist Paul E. Pratt.
Read Installment 3 “Must Like Cats” here.