I sat at a corner table in an OTA joint in Portland. England and Italy were on TV playing a soccer match for the glory of some European title. A few American soccer geeks were watching. A few pinball geeks were playing pinball. A few younger people were drinking and cussing.
At the bar near me sat three men. Not OTA. There were no OTAs in this OTA joint. I am about ready to revoke its OTA designation.
One of the men, approximately 60 years of age, his arms heavily tattooed, narrated a story about how a woman he’d recently dated or been married to or had a one night stand with, had sent him a message demanding $10,000 or she would upload the video he sent of himself masturbating.
He discussed this blackmail attempt as if he was discussing a better technique for growing tomatoes. He didn’t deny the video. He wasn’t ashamed. Quite the contrary. He looked good working the meat. The meat was Grade A. Sure, upload it. He didn’t give a shit. You asked for it, the video that is. By the way, fuck you and fuck off.
“I’m a grown man,” he said. His buddies agreed.
I thought to myself: would something like this go down in a coastal OTA joint? Sure, Horny Ron, the ex log truck driver in Gold Beach, probably has sent masturbation videos to women on every continent on earth, including a climate change scientist on Antarctica.
But still, I missed real coastal country OTA life, and Horny Ron, Gary and Linda, Troy, Max, Free Pool Sunday, all the saints and sinners, the meth miscreants, Trumpian nut jobs and the occasional prostitute wearing cutoff jean shorts and feathered hair.
Goddammit! I am the one and only chronicler of OTA life and I’m not there to chronicle it!