Klub Kinder

July 2, 2011

“There are two things people want more than sex and money…recognition and praise.-Mary Kay Ash

Likely off eating shrooms in Palm Springs with his friends, I haven’t seen The Writer since before he bailed on my party. But it’s the weekend, and true to my fiery young gay spirit, I’m ready to drink, dance, and get dirty! I call Trick Bradley, who answers with a prolonged “Hey.” First, I tell him that Turtle won’t be messing with us again and that Clark assured me that Turtle would apologize to us in person the next time we crossed paths. “Oh,” he says. “Did I tell you about the text he sent me when I got home Thursday night?” “No!” I exclaim. “He said, ‘I hope you enjoy your tragic fake friends.'” I bust out in laughter. “Is he serious?” But there’s more. Trick Bradley forwards me this message he got from Turtle some time after Clark “talked” to him: “You weren’t the one I was mad at the other night, I was just hurt that you ignored me because I thought we were going to hang out this week. I thought you’d at least text me and instead I run into you with The Writer’s friend? He was the one who really escalated everything by putting himself in the middle of something that was none of his business. And he took you away from me in the middle of our talk. That’s what pushed me over the edge. And I was drunk so…” There are just no words! “Did you respond to him?” I ask. “No. Should I?” “Definitely not. He’s like half ape, half mean girl.” I’m so embarrassed for gaykind that someone this immature even exists that I nearly forget to make plans with Bradley. “Wait! We have to go out tonight!”

Just before ten, I go through my wardrobe. What to wear? I consider a few outfits but ultimately decide I don’t feel like changing. However, I want to make a splash so I throw on a little black cardigan and my pink shades. A few minutes later, Bradley picks me up in his dad’s car. “Where’s your car?” I ask. “It’s in the shop,” he answers. “Oh. What happened?” “It crashed.” “It crashed, or you crashed it?” I inquire. “Technically, it crashed. I wasn’t conscious,” he shares. “Oh my god, what happened!” “I fell asleep and woke up crashing into the car in front of me going 95 miles an hours,” he says. Usually, this would be a rather alarming story, but in Bradley’s case it seems pretty typical. “Were you drinking? Were there cops?” “No the other people like got out and were like it’s fine. They didn’t want to call the cops I guess. But I wasn’t drinking, I was just like super tired,” he says. I shake my head, then facepalm.

Twenty minutes later, we’re in a gay bar that’s pretty low key. We each down a cheap drink, and I’m abruptly bored. Desperately so. So much so that I text Dan. “What are you up to tonight?” He tells me he’s in the bar next door–it has a good dance scene on Saturdays, so I tell him we’ll meet him. Hut when we go outside there’s a swarm of people waiting to get in. “I don’t do lines,” I inform Bradley. (This impatience is left over from my years in New York.) I text Dan and let him know that there’s a line AND cover, which is unacceptable. I grow impatient waiting for a reply, so I check out the bar patio wall. It’s perfectly hoppable, temptingly so. I look at Bradley, but he doesn’t catch on. Then I get a reply from Dan. “Tell the promoter you’re my friend.” Marvelous. I make my way over to the promoter and introduce myself then inform him that I’m a friend of Dan’s. “Nice to meet you,” he says. “I don’t know who Dan is.” Annoyed, I apologize and start texting Dan again when Bradley speaks up, “Oh. I know that guy.” The guy holding the list hears him, and his face lights up. “Hey! How are you?” Bradley does his oblivious act, flirting with the guy for a minute or two. He doesn’t really acknowledge me, which is fine because the guy is so into Bradley that we get to cut the line and get in for free.

I run into Dan the second we walk in, and he’s zealous as ever about our reunion. “Nice cardigan!” He says enthusiastically. “Where’d you get it?” Before I can answer, someone taps him on the shoulder, and I use the distraction to take refuge outside on the patio. Unfortunately, Turtle is also on the patio and as much fun as a public apology might be, I decide it’s best saved for another time. I grab Bradley and lead him to the bar where we take a shot. I leave the bartender a fat tip, and he starts to flirt with me between pouring drinks. Unfortunately, I’m fairly certain he’s straight. On the bright side, he tips me off to the open bar and promises to hook me up with a strong drink. Seven minutes and five dollars later, (see, I am an excellent tipper!) I’m double-fisting two drinks, one of which I pass to Bradley before grabbing a third, and we run upstairs.

Having chugged half of my what is essentially cranberry flavored vodka on the way up the stairs Read the rest of this entry »

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The Cheap Trick

April 3, 2011

“I wish that I could have this moment for life.” -Nicki Minaj

I wake up late Saturday. I’m starving, so I call The Writer to invite him to a strictly eating-only lunch (Saturday afternoons have become prime writing time, and I’m full-on anti-work today), but he is of course still asleep because he sleeps always. When he finally gets up, I drive over to his house, and we select The Waffle in Hollywood as our dining destination. On our way, he calls his creepy friend Warren and invites him to eat with us, which makes me cringe. “The thing about Warren is he’s insane when he’s drunk. Like mad scientist bat-shit crazy, but he’s normally a very sweet person.” I nod discouragingly, remembering our last encounter, which ended with him drunkenly yelling something about Wolf and I on the street in WeHo.

When we arrive, The Writer insists on sitting next to me in the booth because we’re by the door and it’s quite drafty. He then stands and wanders around the establishment for the next five minutes in search of a different table until finally someone leaves. His shamelessness both embarrasses me and amuses, but this is why I like The Writer—he’s weird and unapologetically so. Just as we settle at our new table, Warren joins us and turns out to be an enjoyable conversationalist, which makes up for a less-than-stellar brunch (because what I really want is a cheeseburger.) Conversation turns to boys, and they pull out their phones to check Grindr.

What is Grindr? According to its website, it’s a “Free Gay iPhone App [that] finds local gay, bi and curious guys for dating or friends for free on Grindr. Meet the men nearest you with GPS, location-based Grindr.” Basically, it’s an actual gaydar. Grindr locates the nearest hundred gays and displays their profiles, which contain, among other things, naked to semi-naked photos of the user, their sexual roles, and other excruciatingly personal details. Users can then message whoever is in the vicinity and potentially hook up. What’s more is pretty much every gay I’ve met in L.A. has Grindr and uses it with as much frequency as Facebook. Grindr grosses me out, but the concept is admittedly fascinating.

Warren leaves to meet his personal trainer—he’s making big strides to improve his life, including not drinking and working out six days a week. The Writer and I leave shortly after, and I let him in on my anti-work leanings, so we agree to see a movie. “We have an hour before it starts,” he informs me. “Let’s go back to my place and take a nap.” “I’m not tired,” I tell him with legitimate naivety. When we get back to his house, The Writer suggests I read Diablo Cody’s Candy Girl while he naps, and we climb into bed. He reaches his arm out. “Come snuggle,” he says in a cutesy voice before scooping me over to his side. I’m a little cold on this given our history, but I don’t resist. I make it through a page and a half of the stripping memoir before I drop the book and reciprocate his embrace.

Half an hour later, it’s time to leave for the theater, so I poke The Writer. “We have to go,” I whisper. “Five more minutes,” he begs. “Fine.” Five minutes later, I shake him. “We’re going to miss the movie!” I exclaim. “No we won’t.” He rolls over. Yes we will, but I’m not going to win this battle. I kind of don’t want to anyway. Four and a half hours later, it’s nine, and I decide we really should get up, if for no other reason than my hunger–despite consuming every crumb of my last meal, I am already starving again.

Turns out waking him up was only half the battle. The Writer missed about twenty phone calls and thus spends the next half hour playing catch up. While he is texting, chatting, whatevering, his ex calls. The Writer answers, and I’m silent Read the rest of this entry »


Disaffection

March 29, 2011

“There’s a thin line between attraction and repulsion. And usually the repulsion starts when they begin wanting you to treat them as people, instead of sex toys.” -A New Yorker

Having only had sex once in the past several months, I’m a little bit nervous about my prospects with Mr. Wolf this weekend. I decide I need to practice, so without hesitation, I decide on Dan. Besides, he has extremely useful parking passes for WeHo, which I figure I can hold on to. (Re: steal.) I call him: “Let’s get dinner.” “Cool, let’s go out this weekend.” “No,” I say, “tomorrow.” “Alright, I’ll cook,” he agrees. Good, he knows where this is going.

I arrive a little late, and Dan meets me outside with the street parking pass I intend to keep. The second I step through the threshold, I get this overwhelming sensation that this whole night is a mistake. Dan is immediately too touchy feely, but I let myself enjoy it. Standing in his kitchen, I flashback to the dinner I made in my humble quarters and scoff at how immature I was in comparison. As we sit down to dinner, it’s quickly apparent that there’s little to talk about, so I compensate by downing two vodka cranberries, which doesn’t sit well in my stomach. He does manage to must up one interesting piece of interesting information: “The night I met you, The Writer was being SO territorial with you.” Interesting. Dan practically drags me over to the couch where I try to strike up conversation about Adele, who he’s playing on his complicated sound system, but he’s more in to humping my leg. I find myself rolling my eyes as he pulls our clothes off and once more when he carries me to his bed. A little bit of panic sets in as I debate if I really want to be fucking Dan. Why are you freaking out? I ask myself. The answer is lost on me. I arrive at the conclusion that I’m done with this, so I finish. “I need a few minutes,” I tell Dan with no intention of getting off again. We hop in the shower and when I turn around, he’s staring at me. Again. “When you cum, you look like you’re in a whole nother universe,” he tells me. I have no idea what to make of this.

After putting my clothes back on, he gets a call from his friend, Eyebrows, who invites us to dessert at Boa. “Vanessa Hudgens is here, and we’re totes BFFs!” He squeals through the phone. For some reason, I agree to go with Dan and bare witness to this shitshow, which is just a few blocks from his house. Dan parks outside Boa, something he informs me he can do thanks to his resident parking pass. Awesome. We head into Boa, which is surrounded by real life paparazzi (my first interaction with them in their natural habitat), and Eyebrows waves us down. I slump down at our table while Eyebrows tries to start something with our shitty waiter. After a quick briefing, Eyebrows sweeps Dan away to introduce him to Vanessa, so I volunteer to hold down the table. (The lenses poking through the bushes next to the table keep me company.) Dan and Eyebrows returns, and I suffer through a short dessert during which Dan clumsily winks at me eleven times, attempting to be seductive. Meanwhile Eyebrows, who is openly discontent with the amount of attention I’m allotting him, brags about his celebrity photo portfolio. “I just shout, ‘I’m your #1 Gay’ and they love me. Even if I don’t like them, I want a picture with them. Duh!” I nod with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. Dan takes me home, and he kisses me goodnight, so I feign a smile. He asks for his parking pass back, which I begrudgingly return. I don’t call him again.


The Bare Essentials

March 21, 2011

“Carving is easy, you just go down to the skin and stop.” -Michelangelo

My self-esteem in shards, I crawl my way through the first two days of the work week feeling extremely insecure — not myself. I decide the only thing that is going to make me feel better is not intimacy, but rather a rough lay…something I haven’t had in quite some time. Due to the tragic and mildly psychotic circumstances surrounding the parting of ways with the last boy I had sex with, I’ve been more or less celibate for about six months. (Perhaps I should have more carefully considered this before diving headfirst into that five-sum, but I digress.) Tuesday night, I text Dan from the Log Cabin Republican fundraiser. (It is my understanding that Dan is not a Log Cabin Republican himself, just friends with some. I’m all about socially responsible fornicating.) I’m upfront with myself in knowing that I think he’s a little creepy, and I have a not-so-sneaking suspicion that I am not and will never be in any way emotionally attracted to him. But that’s exactly what I want, so I ask: “Want to get dinner tomorrow?” “Sure,” he replies just seconds after my message sends. Red flag. Or is it? “Cool,” I respond. “I’ll cook. Come over at eight.”

The following night, I rush home and prepare the same meal I made for my dinner party the prior week. The same meal that I attempted and failed to lure The Writer with. Only this time, I make sure to overcook the chicken. I hear food poisoning kind of ruins sex, meaningless or not. If I weren’t busy cooking while simultaneously trying to make my apartment appear as though it housed a resident more mature than I, I probably would be taking the time to ponder the consequences of using someone strictly for sex. But I’m not. Besides, I would be feeding him first, so there’s that. When Dan arrives, I offer him a drink and he only wants white wine. We delve into a conversation that is so forgettable that I’m not sure I could tell you one thing about Dan, save his physical appearance. After dinner I give him the “grand tour” of my apartment, which comes to an end at the gift shop (a.k.a. my bed). We sit down and he goes on and on in an inane pronoun-fueled blur, and all I’m thinking is, seriously? What the hell are you waiting for? Tear my clothes off. How long can one person talk about absolutely nothing? Dan must see the drowsiness fill my eyes because he finally moves in for a kiss, which is a little too sweet, so I shove him on his back and climb on top. His over-eagerness once more shines through with his creepy sex stare, which he used on me when we first met, although I suppose it is warranted this time. Not that I care much. And that not caring is what makes this sex SO good. I don’t have much regard for what Dan wants to do or even if he thinks I’m good. I’m just enjoying the ride.

It’s one thing to get drunk, pick someone up, and have a one night stand, but inviting Dan into my apartment for the distinct purpose of screwing him isn’t something I’ve actually done prior to this evening. And I feel a little iffy about it. But also wildly empowered. It’s much easier to let your guard down and get wild around someone who I know can’t penetrate me…emotionally. As it turns out, carving is a lot like meaningless sex. Thanks Michelangelo. After a quick shower, we split a red velvet cupcake from Crumbs and chat. I keep the conversation personable but shallow enough to keep him out then send him home.


The Writer’s Tail

March 13, 2011

“Welcome to the age of un-innocence. No one has breakfast at Tiffany’s, and no one has affairs to remember. Instead, we have breakfast at 7AM, and affairs we try to forget as quickly as possible.” -Carrie Bradshaw

Right. So, I’m leaning against the dishwasher with a glass of water in my hand thinking, Well fuck. I’m definitely drunk, but not drunk enough to make up my mind about what’s going on here, especially having received all of the attention I had from the night. “You’re really, really cute,” he says, still transfixed. “Thanks. So are you,” I tell him uncertainly. After about 10 seconds I realize that I have to be a big boy and make up my mind. But actually I don’t because The Writer lunges at me, pulls my leg up and starts kissing me ferociously against the clanking dishwasher door. This is fun for a minute, but the clanking door is really starting to irritate me, and as fun as it would be to recount having such a ferocious make out session that I destroyed a set of dishes, I thought better of it and shoved him to the counter on the other side. After another minute, I stopped and said, “Wait…I can’t have sex with you.” Why, oh why, did I say this? Well a few reasons. For one, I really didn’t want to have sex with him that night. Also, I’m just kind of a prude, so I tell him the undies are staying on. “That’s OK,” he replies reassuringly. Now, there are several clever responses around the undies that I probably would have caved to, (like I did the last time I slept with someone in New York,) but he only made direct attempts to de-clothe me. Besides, every time I’ve porked on a first date or first date-alternative, it’s gone horribly wrong. (One guy became a coke dealer and then told me he was going to defriend me on Facebook if I didn’t hook up with him again. Boy, do I know how to pick ’em!) Also, I’m new in town, and I don’t want to be branded as an easy piece of tail.

So what happens next? We moved to his bedroom, lights off, a little humping, grinding, and some surprisingly clean albeit aggressive kissing. I generally hate sloppy kissers, you know, the ones whose tongues are so unwieldy that they end up in your nostrils, and your face is completely dripping with slobber. But The Writer kissed in the complete opposite fashion–sparing tongue and almost no biting. Although he did ask me to bite him. Which made me laugh a little, but then I did. Now comes the embarrassing part, so I’ll remind you once more that I was drunk and also no lights had been turned on in house since we returned. “Want to know a secret?” I offered. “What?” he asked. “I’m Read the rest of this entry »


Welcome to the Gayborhood

March 12, 2011

“You are going to meet the most extraordinary men, the sexiest, funniest, brightest men. You’re going to meet so many of them, fall in love with so many of them, you won’t know until the end of your life which ones were your greatest lovers and which were your greatest friends.” -Harvey Milk

So there’s this boy…let’s call him The Writer.

It’s Friday night, and we’ve made tentative plans. Having not heard from The Writer, I accept an invitation from a gay couple I recently met, who are having some people over. As not to be rude, I had previously informed my hosts that I might have to leave to go to a party with The Writer. They’ve been friends with him for years, and the hosts tell me that he’s a fun guy. “You should definitely go,” they say before informing me that I am “totally his type.” When I press for more info, they give me an ominous “you’ll see.” However, the conversation does reveal that The Writer is more like 30 than 25, my original assumption. The other guests arrive, and it’s always a little awkward trying to find my footing in a previously established social group. Now, I’m hoping The Writer will call and sweep me away. I linger for about an hour trying to muster up enthusiasm to answer all of those obligatory questions that you ask someone you don’t know anything about like doctors going down an examination checklist. Finally, The Writer texts me and tells me to meet him at his house. This makes me a little nervous but mostly relieved: I have a good excuse to leave and don’t have to drive (or more importantly park) in some alien neighborhood AND I can potentially drink. But I’m also forfeiting control of my night–to someone I’ve only met once.*

Fastforward about an hour, and I’m riding shotgun in The Writer’s car while his friend, who confusingly shares the same first name, sits in the back seat. We quickly park on a quiet street in West Hollywood and make our way into not a house party as I had supposed, but a fundraising party for a gay city council candidate. Alright, I can do that.

Upon entering the party, I’m immediately separated from The Writer and left to be conversation partners with his very drunk Namesake and a woman, who calls herself Contessa. Now, I have to take a moment to share a little about Contessa because despite all of the intricate moments seeded throughout this night that come back into play later, she is far and away the craziest part of this story. Firstly, Contessa speaks of herself only in the third person and informs us that despite being both of British nobility AND an oil heiress, she has no family and thus, considers the gays her kin. She also tries to recruit Namesake and I to protest at City Hall. For what, you might ask? We did too, not that we got a coherent answer. Looking around, I don’t see The Writer anywhere and while Contessa with her pre-pubescent pink lip gloss and poorly dyed, choppy black bangs is wildly entertaining, I’m growing weary of once again not knowing anyone.

Luckily the host, (let’s call him Dan because when I first see him, he reminds me of a ritzier version of Dan from Gossip Girl…not that I watch,) introduces himself and offers Contessa a drink. She denies the drink because a) she is clearly high as fuck on painkillers and/or benzos and b) has to drive home despite living merely two blocks away. “Dan” proves to be a useful getaway mechanism, and I quickly excuse myself to bathroom.

Upon my return, I make a greater effort to socialize, this time with Dan and a man claiming to be in his early 40s but realistically is pushing 60 (despite some permanent cosmetics.) As this guys rambles on, I notice every time I look at Dan, he’s already looking staring at me. No, not staring. Full on piercing sex gaze. I shutter. Finally, The Writer returns to my side for some support. “You having fun?” I nod unenthusiastically, but the older man carries on, recounting how he and Dan met on an airplane in first class and how Dan’s ex, who coincidentally was in coach on the same flight, tried to come up and talk to them for the duration of the flight. (If I were the ex, I’d probably have just busted the emergency exit window and sucked myself through. Or drank excessively. Either one really.)

At this point, Dan has excused himself from the conversation to tend to Contessa’s shrieking, so The Writer takes the opportunity to inform me: “you’re totally Dan’s type.” WTF and “No shit” are my respective mental and verbal responses. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone ever stare at me that intensely,” I say. The older man then starts sharing stories about his position as a Greek life supervisor and alludes to frequent lewd acts with his frat boys. “The things you don’t know about in Greek life. Let’s just say I keep the old Greco traditions alive,” he says. Yeah, emphasis on old. I’m mildly appalled by this, but not nearly as appalled by what comes next; the man unceremoniously announces that he is a Log Cabin Republican. The room slows around me. I look at The Writer as if to very seriously say, “shut the fuck up.” Read the rest of this entry »


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