HSH Story: Fruit Punch
Author’s Note:
During COVID-19, I wrote erotica for an online German publishing company. It wasn’t your typical Penthouse forum. It was cheap bodice-ripper stories where a girl must always be in submission to some alpha-dominant rich boy, werewolf, or basically whatever fetish that clung to Twilight/Grey-core. When people dropped reading at specific story points, they asked me to punch-up the manuscript. When asked how I would restructure the story, I always incorporated some queer-woman/lesbian arc. What can I say? The movie “Bound” inspired me. Because if it were uncouth to write about two men in love, why not write about some bride-to-be still yearning for some girl back home?
I grew comfortable writing about “quivering members” and “gasps of desire” because we, as writers, come from very humble beginnings, especially as we endure less-than-desireable experiences. Stephen King got his start writing pulp fiction. I got my start from failed TV pilots and punching-up porn.
I’m gonna be honest, writing “A Homo to Roost” has become one of the most challenging projects in my career. Baz Luhrmann’s song encourages his audience to do one thing that scares [me]. In this case, it was writing weekly entries about all the terrible things I’ve done following my decision to stay in San Diego.
A reminder: the bartenders, barbacks, and other characters and their circumstances, especially the next two weeks of entries, are purely fictional. Like this book’s theme, it has to get dark before it gets better—ask present-day Pablo, now a full-time bartender, a finalist in a nationwide bar competition, and, to quote Cher, I found someone to take away the heartache.
Before I go any further, I must warn you. My years of ghostwriting cheap bodice rippers prepared me for this gross moment. I may ruin a porn fantasy of yours, because the experience sure did kill one of mine. This story is gross, but I tried to make it funny.
So glove up and knuckle up, Barbara. This time, we’re seeking professional help.
“If you wanted to get kinky in a hospital exam room, you should have told me.” Amos suggested. “I think I still got scrubs and a hospital gown.”
He joked to help me relax. My racing heartbeat created ripples in the air. He could feel my heart. It was high tide along the North Shore. The kind of ripple that creates tsunami-like waves that require a boat to taxi you into the wave’s crestline.
It was an unexpected end to a vacation. After thirteen days of work, I rewarded myself with four days off. I hit the jackpot when Amos took time off work to join me. We decided to go on a road trip together, Palm Springs via the Salton Sea. I wanted to visit the Ski Lodge. While the influencer girlies are taking selfies at Salvation Rock, Amos is helping me heal in an artistic wasteland called Bombay Beach.
After his usual nine-to-five shift at SETI, Amos often enjoys a long joyride to clear his mind. He takes the scenic route back home, driving through Julian to catch the sun setting along the Sunrise Highway. At first, his drives concerned me. It could be reading too much sci-fi/horror, but traveling through the backroads only leads to trouble. I often joked that he is asking to be abducted.
“Why ask the aliens to probe you when I can do that?” I asked. “Save you the trauma?”
“What if I want to leave this planet?” He asked with a smirk.
“Then I’m going with you, silly man.”
Stephen King once wrote in his book “Lisey’s Story” that every relationship possesses its unique, secret language. For Amos and I, inside jokes and movie quotes are how we communicate. For the nurse and PAs, our conversation was nonsensical. To us, quoting Monty Python while staring at sterile instruments likely to penetrate parts of my body was his means of checking in.
“‘tis but a scratch, my lord!” He assured me.
One look at the dull blunt objects and jellies and I had one thing to say. No, it wasn’t “you betta werk.” It was something more niche, on brand for PablAmos:
“Egg!”
‘Egg’ is from a random animation clip by Don Hertzfeldt. If it’s egg, it means “panic.” Between us, it means the bodily pain was just the beginning. As of this writing, I’m still paying for it, literally.
The reason for my visit started as a literal dull pain in my ass. At first, I thought it was the byproduct of working thirteen consecutive days and eating food at odd hours. My body can be sensitive like that. One day, you’re holding in a lethal fart while you shake three espresso martinis. The next, you are on vacation, unable to have the hotel sex fantasy with your boyfriend because, for the first time in your life, you are experiencing cramps. Moments after returning from my vacation, I discovered blood. And, for some reason, I can finally relate to Carrie White.
I could never relate to a woman’s experience; what I can empathize with, however, is the petrifying fear of locker rooms. I blame my mother for this one. She once threatened to send me to middle school once I graduated sixth grade. Her threat was telling me about locker rooms. “You’ll have to get naked and shower in front of other boys.”
For adult Pablo to comfort his younger self, I must summon Rupaul. Of all the Rupaul-isms to think of, I can almost see her holding up a picture of teenage me, asking me what I would say to socially reclusive Pablito.
I’d say, “Sis, you’ll look forward to showering with men one day.”
In a locker room, here stands a girl already facing trauma from the incessant bullying. Weird, stringy hair, gaunt face Carrie White, teased by her classmates just because she was different. Maybe she grew numb to their jokes to the point where it was just white noise until she began her first period. To a girl unaware of her menstrual cycle, she thought she was dying. Her classmates threw tampons at her, screaming, “Plug it up, Carrie!”
Oh, who am I kidding? Like that Madonna sample once warned, I could never understand what it feels like for a girl. The closest thing I could get to this is when I accidentally skip my Omeprazole and endure raging heartburn. Unlike that trauma, I instead relate to Oscar-Nominated puffs who stands in front of a crowd with a special announcement.
The blood helped this puff realize the pain in my ass might need immediate medical attention. Carrie White thought she was dying when she first saw blood. When I finished, I found Amos in the living room, finishing a workout set.
“You okay?” He asked.
“Yeah,” I muttered, uncertain, then, “I’ll be right back.”
“We just got home. Where are you going?”
“To the hospital.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
This vacation has been filled with firsts, as we casually referred to one or both of our apartments as “home.” He also met my Mentor, one of the men responsible for connecting me to brilliant writers for work. Standing in Amos’ living room, I am faced with another potential first, having my boyfriend in an exam room.
Do you wanna know a place where homophobia still exists? Urgent Care in the suburbs.
“Are you on any medication?” The nurse asked.
“Yes, Descovy.”
She made a face. Amos and I have been cracking jokes to lower my blood pressure. She looked confused, uncertain if this was a joke. “What’s that?”
“A preventative measure to prevent HIV transmission. A pre-exposure prophylaxis, or PrEP.” I explained.
She nodded, frowning, as she escorted me into the exam room. I exchanged glances with Amos as we sat down.
“Do you prefer a male or female doctor?” The nurse asked.
“Doesn’t matter, just make sure they’re not hot.” I joked.
We were left alone. Amos smirked, blushing. “Was that because of me?”
“No. Trust me, you’ll always be the hot one in the room. I do not like getting a 'hot doctor' because I don’t want to get a boner and embarrass myself.”
“And they say chivalry never dies.” Amos raised his eyebrow as a smile creased his lips. “If you wanted to get kinky in a hospital exam room, you should have told me.”
We shared a laugh as two PA’s entered the exam room. A woman took a seat with a notepad while a tall bear of a PA stood next to me. The Lady-PA took notes while the Bear PA examined me. I explained my symptoms while also settling any concerns for STI infection based on a recent blood panel.
Okay, so he might not have been classifiably “hot,” but he was still attractive. I’m a sucker for some chest hair. He was hairy in all the right places. Would I seek him out immediately? Maybe not; but last call and still horny? Yup, he’ll do just fine.
The two PA’s stepped out. When the door opened again, only the Bear PA returned. The other PA bowed out since she was uncomfortable with being in the room with two gay men due to her ignorant religious beliefs. To which, if you’re not going to provide care to someone who’s beliefs don’t align with yours, don’t be a fucking PA. Or did we forget the Nightingale or Hippocratic Oath?
“I don’t mind. I’m okay with you guys. Where do you work?” Bear asked as he put fresh gloves on.
I told him. “Some buddies of mine accidentally stepped into that spot once.” He explained. “We got a lot of free drinks that night, then we realized it was a gay bar.”
Amos and I exchanged knowing glances as Bear positioned me for the exam. Which group of straight guys walk into a gay bar by accident? I don’t care who comes to my bar, allies, bi-curious, discreet, just don’t be a dick.
“You’ll have to come in when I’m working sometime!” I offered.
“Sure, as long as you’re okay with the wife tagging along?”
“Meh, she can watch.” I joked.
After a brief pause, Bear PA broke the silence with, “All right, so you’re just going to bear down.”
Bear down? I thought, looking at Amos.
Amos gripped his seat and puckered his face. He cracked a joke to distract me from hearing the lube jostling around Bear PA’s fingers.
“Get ready in three, two…” He said. “You feel any pain?”
Now, I was the one confused. I sat with the question. Was I experiencing pain? I mean, besides the normal pain of being the prize-winning bottom that I am?
“Nope, your dick feels fine.” I joked.
“That’s my finger.”
“You sure it’s not plural?” I asked. Bear had Kielbasa sausages for fingers. He circumvented the passage in the same way someone would reach for their cell phone under the driver’s seat. Just out of reach.
“The abscess is probably further in.” Bear PA concluded. “Oh, yeah, you might have a perianal abscess.”
A perianal abscess is an infection resulting from a tear within the anal cavity. Like Blanche Devereaux, it’s the result of getting lost in the throes of passion.
I looked at the remaining tools on the table. “How are we gonna find out?”
He removed the gloves. “You’ll have to go in for a CT scan. We should get you on some antibiotics, but I’ll wait until I see what happens.”
The referral stated two things. I had to get a CT scan before I got my antibiotics. And to practice safe sex to prevent this from happening again. Amos and I drove back home.
I was quiet, fuming over the PA’s note. I was almost sure the Lady PA wrote the note while Bear examined me. Amos broke the silence before my shame could mix in with the anger.
“You okay?” He asked.
“We take the right precautions, right?”
“Still thinking about that note?”
“It makes no sense!” I shouted. “We’re on PrEP, Doxy, even get our blood drawn every three months. When was the last time a straight guy took those kinds of measures?”
“Straight people don’t know shit.” Amos encouraged. “They are in their own little world of condoms as being the only preventative measure.”
Sure, it’s been and is always a good preventative measure, but I also take pills for added assurance. I don’t need to jump on a soapbox to describe its benefits, but I couldn’t shake their ignorance from me. Once, an STI nurse told me the best kind of safe sex is abstinence. I also remember when she shoved the syringe deeper into my body because I didn’t learn my lesson by contracting syphillis a second time. They thought they were funny. Enraged, I assumed she was taking her sexless marriage out on me. Sex is as liberating as a hug, as relaxing as a martini, and as fun as playing Smash Bros with your boyfriend, all in one naked, sweaty session. It is even better to order some good Hawaiian food as a fun little treat for that quick cardio session.
The following day, the blood and dull ache remained constant. Fearing I would bleed through my cute undies, I wore Depends. For Halloween, I dressed up as Tommy Pickles from “Rugrats.” I walked around Benny’s party in a crop top, some speedos under my Depends so I could walk around with a big bottle of tequila in my diaper, just like our baby hero. To disguise it while at work, I wore some flowy beachwear. Anyone who questioned what I was wearing, I told them I was working on some new padding for drag and had to break in the foam.
I needed a CT scan, but I also needed antibiotics. Here’s the dilemma, I couldn’t get either because I just started with my new insurance. I would have to get a New Patient survey before I could get approved for either treatment. Even then, it meant more time, more blood loss. CT scans require a referral from my Primary Care Physician (PCP).
It reminded me of that montage from South Park. For Cartman to get his Ozempic meds paid for by a doctor, he needed to do the extra legwork to get not just one but two opinions, and even then, you must also get it signed off by both doctors and the insurance agency. I scheduled an appointment with my PCP, but her earliest appointment was next Friday, which meant it was Urgent Care to the rescue for a second opinion.
The upside to having a PCP is that you know what they look like. You might even get their PA, another bonus because you know what they look like. At Urgent Care facilities, you get a grab bag. Much like the last visit, I only hoped the doctor was not hot.
Thanks to XHamster, we all have the hot doc fantasy. Some handsome dom daddy waltzes in. His eyes dazzled with desire and civil servitude as he checked the patient’s chart… then his patient. He looked you up and down and asked what seemed to be the problem. You admitted there was a pain in your torso. He touched it. You winced. Then he suggested he may need to examine it with his special tool. You asked if it would hurt. “Only at first; then you’ll love it," he recommended, undoing his pants.
I sat in silence in the exam room. Unlike my last urgent care visit, I was sitting alone in the VIP.
I’m sorry I’m not there. Amos texted. Damn work.
Before I could assure him it was okay, Doctor Lemerc entered the exam room. I immediately blushed. His scrubs tried their hardest to restrain those muscles. His arms were a couple of reps away from getting their circulation cut by the fabric, that deep valley of chest hair and pecs emerged from the V-line under his neck. As if adding insult to injury, the doctor had a deep, commanding voice.
I sat in the car, catatonic. I tried to laugh it off; instead, I messaged the Core4.
If I ever disappear, it means my application for Witness Protection was approved. I wrote. I don’t think I could ever show my face in this neighborhood ever again.
If I could ever Eternal Sunshine a moment, it would be forgetting everything that happened the moment Doctor Lamerc entered Exam Room Three.
“So you are trying to get on antibiotics?” He asked with his booming voice. “Why didn’t the last ones prescribe them to you?”
“Because they wanted me to get a CT scan first. I just started with my new insurance so I won’t get that approval until next week.”
“Welp, based on the nurse’s report and what you just said, you did most of the legwork. No STI. Guess that only means one thing. Take off your pants…”
The man was such a dom. His voice had that authoritative influx, enough to tell you when you’ve been a good or bad boy for heeding dad’s instructions. Maybe it was the byproduct of watching too much porn through the years, but I could have sworn I heard him say “boy.”
“The last exam I had, they asked me to lay on my side.” I mentioned. “How do you want me?”
“Whatever’s comfortable. I’m gonna be getting in there deep.” He said.
I could only bite my lip so hard before I’d end up drawing blood. It was a fantasy come true. I pulled my pants down, almost forgetting why I was in the exam room in the first place. It was not until I felt his gloves spread my cheeks that I remembered….oh. That’s why I’m here.
How that, “Woah! Yup, that…got me,” echoed from the doctor’s deep voice when he recoiled. I’m used to taking a man’s breath away, but to have him fall back was something new.
“I’ll write you a prescription. It’ll be ready within the hour.”
Got me?
I was beyond mortified, enough to know my porn fantasy moment was wholly ruined beyond repair.
“What do you mean, ‘got me’?”
“Well, whatever you have…squirted on me.”
It’s the shame every bottom experiences. Did we clean ourselves out enough? We could do the dip test and all the methods Doctor Carlton recommends on his Instagram page; that fear, that uncertainty, lingers.
I couldn’t help but recall my Mentor when our sexy time got a bit messy. I was moments away from crying from embarrassment when he held me and said, “fucking’s a dirty business.”
And, sure, not contagious, but it sure was gross. What worried me was that my “booty juice” got on him. It was a combination of blood mixed in with whatever pus-like fluid coming out of my ass, which gave off a bright red color of Fruit Punch. I wanted to channel my inner Kool-Aid man and blast my way out the exam room, to my car, where I was narry to be seen at this facility again.
The doctor was hot. What if he sees me at Home bar? Oh, that was the guy who squirted blood on me! Let’s go to the other bartender.
“Do you have any questions for me?” Daddy Doc asked.
I was shocked, catatonic. I shook my head. This is why I don’t want a hot doctor! I thought to myself. I shook my head, dumbfounded over what had happened. He left. The nurse returned to escort me out of the office. Instead of walking to the exit, they circumvented me around the building, giving me enough time to disassociate.
Remind me to send out invitations when this is all over. I wrote to Amos later that afternoon.
Invitations for what? He asked.
When I visited Amos’ apartment, I was greeted by three small packages. One was a powdered concentrate of Hawaiian Punch and a box of chocolate-covered cherries that squirted in your mouth when you bit into them. The second was a warming pad for me to sit on and speed up the healing process so we could resume sexy time. The third was a pack of Kotex applicators.
“You said you wanted a mensie party.” He reminded me. “All I could invite was me and my cat on such short notice.”
I may be the last person to venture into womanhood. Fucking may be a dirty business, but it was a liberating feeling to have someone like Amos who can see past some harrowing experience to find the joke.
