“We live in a disposable society. It’s easier to throw things out than to fix them. We even give it a name — we call it recycling.” -Neil LaBute
I spend the rest of the week alone, not seeing anyone I know until one afternoon my aforementioned relative (let’s call him Clark) invites me to dinner with some of his friends. I want to tell Clark about The Writer, but I think better of it. Although I don’t know Clark super well, he is an incredibly friendly guy with a lot of influence, which translates to him knowing pretty much everyone ever, so I figure I’m in for a nice dinner with some interesting new people. I meet him at Boa in WeHo, one of the nicest restaurants in town, but when I arrive it’s just Clark, his best friend Noah (both are around 40), and a boy who appears noticeably younger than myself (despite my actual age, I’m frequently told I could pass for 16). Our party of four is seated at a table of six, which I find peculiar, but this thought is immediately interrupted by Noah, who begins recounting his exchange with the valet. “The valet asked if I was his dad, and I said no,” Noah says, referring to the boy. “Then the guy asked if I was his older brother. I said no. Cousin? No.” I look at Clark with a smirk. “Teacher? No. Coach? No.” “I would’ve accepted coach,” Clark chimes in. (He has a bit of a sports fetish.) “I told him we’re ‘friends,'” Noah concludes, uncomfortably attempting to land a punchline. I suppose it would help if I knew their actual relation. But then again I already do, I’m just being politely naive for my own sake. Not that it’s any business of mine or the valet. I learn Boy Toy is in from New York for the long weekend to visit Noah. “Cool, I just moved here from New York,” I offer. A weak smile is all I get in return. I try again, asking about his plans in LA to which his excitement climaxes (weakly), announcing his amusement park trip for the following day. I’m not one to judge people’s sexual preferences — ever. There are certainly acts that I would never be party too, and I admittedly carry some deeply rooted stigmas that I’m sure would give Freud a total woody, but I don’t condemn people for their sexual desires, short of anything blatantly criminal. However, I’ve always been a little weird about age. And frankly, this dinner is starting to recall some scenes from True Blood, in certain ways painting its fangs = fags metaphor as vividly accurate. So while I’m definitely not judging Noah, this situation does make me a little uncomfortable — admittedly because of my own insecurities. “What do you do?” Clark inquires. “I used to be a lifeguard,” Boy Toy punctuates before curling up into Noah’s arms sleepily. “It’s past his bedtime,” Noah jokes. But really, it is. All that’s missing are some footies and a pacifier. And maybe a diaper if one of them is into that kind of thing.
Clark then asks me to move to the seat next to his so that the two empty seats remain together. “Some other people are joining us.” Good, I think. “Anyone I know?” “I’m not sure. Do you know The Writer?” Read the rest of this entry »