Wait…What Window?

May 19, 2011

“Another belief of mine: that everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise.”  –Margaret Atwood

Monday morning, I get a text from Clark: “So can you come on Wednesday?” I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Come to what?” I inquire. “Oh, that thing at Noah’s. We talked about it for like ten seconds at Tigerheat.” I feel a little crazy because I only had one drink that night, and I have absolutely no memory of that conversation. Apparently, Clark invited me to a gay marriage benefit, which he’s co-hosting. “What should I wear?” I ask. “Just something with a collar,” he says. Considering who is running this party, his answer could be interpreted in a kinky way, but since marriage is a decidedly conservative decision, even in the gay community, I decide on a (studless) polo shirt. He emails me the invite, which includes a list of event sponsors–these individuals are all gAy List. Not the usual scenesters, but legitimate, established people whose names you might recognize. I also see that this is a rather expensive benefit, and decide a simple collared shirt isn’t going to cut it.

The morning of the benefit, I put on my favorite button down and black jeans–but also pack dress pants, my hottest skinny tie, and a maroon sweater in a bag. I’m already over dressed for work and know my co-workers will already be asking why I’m so dressy all day. At the end of the day, I leave work fifteen minutes early to makes sure I’m not late. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but L.A. traffic is hellish…except for this afternoon. I make it to Noah’s neighborhood in less than twenty minutes, which makes me about forty minutes early, so I drive around for a bit. But I can only drive around for so long, so with twenty minutes left, I decide I’ll drive down Noah’s street, park, and get changed in my car. A sound plan, one would think, but as I turn the bend near his driveway, I’m slightly panicked to be greeted by an army of valets. Shit. Well, I guess I’ll be attending in what I’m wearing. It’s oddly humbling to be handing Valet #9 the keys to my dirt-caked thirteen year-old car, right behind Valet #3 hopping into a shiny new Mercedes. When I step out of the car, I smooth my shirt, which fortunately is still tucked in.

As I walk up the driveway, I’m stopped by a man in his late twenties. “And what’s your name?” He questions–I tell him. He’s a little snooty. “Hmm. You’re not on my list.” I look at him like “what do you want me to do about it” before he asks, “are you sure you’re not under another name?” “I mean, that’s my name. I might be under my cousin Clark’s name. He’s the one who invited me.” He checks. “Yeah, he’s not on here either,” he says. “I mean, he’s one of the co-hosts,” I say starting to get a little irritated just when his boss struts down the steep concrete in some happening stilettos. “What’s the problem?” She asks. The guy tells her I’m not on the list. “I’m Clark’s cousin,” I tell her. “Oh, go on up, sweetie,” she smiles. “Thanks,” I say.

I’ve been to Noah’s house before, but it’s still absolutely breathtaking: the front made up of all bay windows, most of which open up like doors to the courtyard area and pool. Also, you can see all of Los Angeles–it’s basically incredible. When I make it up to the courtyard, I notice two things: I’m overdressed despite not changing into my intended outfit, and there are more people already here than I expected. Which would be a relief, if I recognized a single person. I head straight for the bathroom and take a leak. Where to next? Like you need to ask. You know my narrow ass is at that bar. “What can I get you?” the hunky bartender asks. I want hard liquor, but settle on white wine–I have an appearance to maintain, you know, the one that I’ve spent the day messing up. Just then, I spot Noah. He’s standing with one of his boys–one I don’t recognize, a single guy, and a couple, who I can tell are most certainly not LA Gays. Noah introduces us. “We just got in from New York,” the couple tells me. “God, I miss New York,” I say although I’m pretty sure it comes out less bitchy than that sounds. Noah gives them a tour of the grounds, and I start to chat with his boy. This one’s nice, and his credentials assure me he’s rather bright. We even get into a nice conversation, and I tell him about Clark. “How do you know Noah?” I ask innocently enough. “The internet,” he says blushing, but I give him a reassuring smile that says “don’t be embarrassed.” “This is actually the first time we’ve met,” he says. A glimmer of irony tickles me as Noah rejoins us, pulling along a skinny, preppy guy with a high energy, who looks to be in his mid thirties.

He looks excited as if Noah’s promised him a surprise. “I wanted to introduce you to Clark’s ex, Craig.” Craig looks at me, trying to figure out who I am, the anticipation killing him. His expression reads: Is this kid his boytoy? My expression reads: No, I’m not.  “Craig, this is Clark’s cousin,” Noah continues, slightly amused. Craig’s eyes light up like a kid on Christmas. “SO nice to meet you,” he says shaking my hand and noticeably not breaking eye contact. As fascinated as he seems to be by me, I would never in a million years have picked Craig out of a line up to be Clark’s ex boy friend. He’s not so masculine, thin, Jewish and outspoken–so not Clark’s type. But he’s quite nice. “I need to know everything,” he insists. I tell him that I’ve just moved here, where I went to school, and where I’m working. “Are you single?” He asks although it doesn’t come across as prying. “Yes,” I say simply. I look over and notice Clark sees us talking on the other side of the pool. “And you’re out to your parents?” He says, almost matter of factly. “Yep.” “Look at you, you young thing out and proud to everyone with your big, bad cousin hosting a gay marriage thing-a-majig and he can’t even say a word about it to his family,” he says with his first hint of snark albeit relatively benign. Clark’s mentioned Craig in passing, but I don’t know much other than that they’d been together for more than five years. Craig sees someone walking by and turns to me. “I have to go catch up with my friend–I haven’t seen him in months! But we should chat later,” he says with a smile, then disappears into the growing crowd.

I turn back to Noah’s circle and am a little stunned to find myself face to face with an Academy Award winner, who will presumably be giving a speech tonight. I’ve found myself in close proximity to many powerful people, but he has this mellow yet jubilant warmness about him. Also, he’s friends with The Writer. When there’s a small pause in the conversation, he offers his hand: “I don’t think I’ve met you, I’m…” “I know who you are,” I say sincerely, “I saw your movie a week after I came out to my family, and I can’t tell you how comforting it was.” “Thank you,” he says as though this was the first time someone had ever said such a thing. “Well, I’m glad you’re here,” he tells me, placing his hand on my upper arm for a moment before excusing himself as people gather outside for the speeches. I’m eager to hear his, and head outside when someone calls my name. It’s Michael, an acquaintance, who went to my school although I didn’t meet him until after I moved to L.A.

Michael and I share so many of the same interests so deeply that we’re just about the same person. Except he knows almost nothing about the gay scene. I didn’t expect him to be here, but he’s been invited as a guest of his sister who works closely with the mayor. I’ve been super busy and haven’t seen Michael in a while, so we go in and catch up on everything from work to TV shows as the speeches commence. “I think I’m going to leave my job soon,” I tell him. “I’ll let you know if they have any openings at our offices,” he offers. The speech ends and, I hear the Academy Award winner being introduced. Michael is mid-way through a story and intent on finishing it in detail. After a minute, I interrupt and tell Michael I really want to hear this guy’s speech. “I’ll be out in a second he says,” as he looks at his phone.  I head outside, hurrying past the food toward the courtyard where I see a couple hundred people listening, transfixed on his lovely words when SMACK! I’ve managed to run directly into the bay window, thinking it was an opening, no frame, latch, or handle to warn me. Panic rises and my cheeks flush as I look up and see almost every single attendee staring at me, and not the speaker, (who luckily can’t see me). I’m frozen for a few seconds that feel more like eternity. I did NOT just run into a window. There’s no way I just ran into a window. No, you did. Snap back to reality. I do, staring at the mark my nose and forehead left on the window, greeted by the snorts of some nearby twinks, which erupts to laughter from a few more attendees, as I stumble past the glass window out the actual door frame. A few people step forward. “Are you okay?” One of them asks, legitimately worried. Another smirks. Disoriented, my eyes get big, and I turn around, pause, then run away, speechless. Back inside, I nearly run into Michael. “I was just about to come find you, let’s go outside…” “No,” I say, “we can’t go out there.” “Why not?” He asks with a curious smile. “I just…walked into a window.” “Oh,” he says pursing his lips then spitting into a laugh. I start into a howling laughter too, and have to sit down. We laugh for almost two minutes straight, then hear the speech end. “Shit, I really have to pee,” I tell Michael, anticipating the hundreds of people bum-rushing the bathroom. “Alright,” Michael says, “if I don’t see you again, have a good night, and let’s hang out some time.” We hug, and I run (although this time cautiously–I don’t want to run into anything else tonight) to the bathroom.

There’s already a line of four for the bathroom. Two guys go into together–this could be good or bad. Either they’re speeding up the line by crossing swords or they’re engaging in some kind intimate and/or illegal activity that will take at least twice as long as a couple guys peeing. Based on the wait time, I’d bet on the latter. Meanwhile, the line wraps around the wall, and I notice several people looking at me. One guy in the middle of the line points at me and whispers to his partner. Good. I have fans! The guy in front of me then taps me on the shoulder: “Excuse me. You’re the guy who ran into the window, right?” Aw, the moment of truth–I have minimal shame. “Yes. Yes, that was me.” A couple of gays behind me give mock-applause. “I could have used that encouragement a couple minutes ago!” I joke. “It happens,” shoulder-tap guy says. “I know,” I say, “sadly, I’ve actually seen someone run into a window here before.” “Had a little bit too much to drink?” Someone behind me asks. “No, actually, I’m just this coordinated naturally,” I assure. In fact, I’ve had exactly one glass of white wine.

Finally, the guys come out of the bathroom, and I empty my bladder a minute later, then head outside, where I’m greeted by some of Clark’s friends. “Nice job,” one of them says laughing. “I do what I can,” I say. “What happened?” Clark asks. Good. On the one hand, there were so many people in the way, he couldn’t see. But his friends recount the story. Bad. On the other hand, a sea of people just watched me walk face-first into a window. Awesome. I always manage to do something wildly embarrassing around Clark. It’s like Murphy’s Law but only applicable when I’m in proximity to my cousin. “You should come out with us,” Clark’s friend says. “I couldn’t,” I say, “I have work tomorrow and I’m exhausted. Also, my face hurts because…you know, I smashed it into glass.”

When Clark and the guys shuffle out, I decide I’m about ready to go. I start to say my goodbyes when I’m approached a convivial fellow. “Hello there. I’m Mickey Manley.” “Hi Mickey Manley,” I say with a smile and introduce myself. “You seem a little young to be in this crowd,” he says with a friendly yet inquisitive demeanor. “My cousin is one of the co-hosts,” I explain. He doesn’t know Clark, but I learn that he’s Noah’s neighbor. “Tonight’s the first night I formally met him, actually,” he says. “Are you from LA?”  “No, I just move here from New York,” I say. “Oh, were you going to school there?” “Yeah,” I reply. Turns out he’s an alumni of my university. “So what are you doing out here?” He asks. “Trying to make a living as a writer,” I explain, “although I’m doing some other work right now.” “That’s awesome. I’m a writer.” “Oh, really? What kind of writing?” I ask. “All kinds–theatre, short films, television. I worked on this one show you might’ve heard of.” I have. “Which season?” I inquire. “Five,” he says. “So you were there before one of my favorite lady writers.” He’s impressed with my knowledge of TV writer trivia, and I enjoy showing off. “Which other shows do you watch?” I ask. “Mostly just reality now,” he says. I scoff. “Such garbage! And you’re a writer, no less,” I say, partially joking. I think he’s bruised a little, but he’s still interested. Just then, his friend interrupts us and tells him he’s ready to go. “Is that your boyfriend?” I ask. “No, he’s just a friend. How bout you? Do you have a boyfriend?” I give a little, unexpected laugh: “I am very single.” “You’re not even seeing anyone?” He asks. Not that it’s any of his business, but I tell him, “It’s complicated. Very complicated.” Complicated enough to write a book about. “I’ve actually been called a prude, recently,” I continue. “Well there are worse things to be called,” he retorts. “I suppose there are.” His friend signals him. “Well, it was nice to meet you,” I say. “Don’t you want my email address?” He asks. Interesting choice–I’m not sure that anyone has offered up their email instead of a phone number, but it certainly backs up my assertions about his personality. I see his friend heading toward the driveway. “I better stumble home,” he says with a certain jolliness.

I say a few more goodbyes, and head down the driveway, handing my ticket to the Valet #11. Waiting on the curb, I see the Academy Award winner. “That was a nice speech,” I say even though I only heard part of it. We chat for a minute before his car comes, and he pats my shoulder with a goodbye. I wait a few minutes while Mercedes, BMWs, Audis, and pretty much every other expensive car you could imagine comes down the road and the big league gays drive away. Finally, my ride, in all of its shaky glory arrives. I go to tip the valet and realize I have no cash, so I apologize abashedly. I’m pretty sure he feels sorry for me or at least gets it. Driving through the Hollywood Hills, my shitty GPS loses reception, and I get lost for about 20 minutes. When I find my way to flat land, I call The Writer and tell him about my intimate encounter with the window. “Jealous?” I joke. He doesn’t really think it’s funny, but I do. “Come over,” he asks. When I get there, he’s angry about work crap, and I do my best to make him feel better. My efforts aren’t good enough, and we go to bed–he with a hot head.

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Just Friends? or Till The World Ends

May 3, 2011

“Nobody dies from lack of sex. It’s lack of love we die from.” -Margaret Atwood

I sleepover with The Writer again the next night–it’s getting to be an every-other night kind of thing. Thursday, he asks me to come over and write with him. “If we get a lot of work done, maybe we can go out for one drink,” he says, sounding unusually disciplined. I agree. Around eleven, he’s ready to go. “Where are we going?” I ask.  “Tigerheat…where else would we go out on Thursday?” Our mega-gay weekly dance party–not what I was expecting for tonight, but okay.

The Writer’s usual parking spot, a block from the club, is taken, so we go splitsies on a $10 parking lot charge. “How late are you here?” He asks the lot attendant. “All night,” the guy responds. We park, and The Writer locks his car. “Can you hold on to these?” He asks, handing me his keys. He has a tendency to lose stuff.

We cut the line and get our VIP wristbands, then make our way to the bar. Pretty much everyone I know is standing near the entrance, including my cousin Clark, his best friend Noah, Clark’s current boy, Chase (half of my friends the gay couple) and his best friend Cash, a decidedly free spirit.

I first met Cash, who you might guess was straight, despite his utter abandonment of social barriers, at a party a few months ago. After only a few minutes of talking, his sights wandered onto a handsome boy with a Huntington Beach shirt on. “I’m in love with Huntington. We’re going to spend the rest of our lives together,” he announced before proceeding to walk over to him, pull Huntington out of his conversation with two other LAGs, swoon him, and collect his digits, all in under two minutes. Granted, Cash had consumed several alcoholic beverages at this point, but that’s just how he is. He’s not afraid to talk to anyone.

Standing near the bar, a tall guy, who I remember from last week is eying me…just like last week. Apparently we know a lot of people in common, but I’m standoffish with him. We exchange a few words while standing in the same circle, but our group quickly breaks up. The Writer walks off, having a one-on-one conversation with some emotional-looking twink, and Clark moves his entourage elsewhere. I end up shifting back and forth between talking to Noah about his recent world travels (he just got back from a two week trip at the start of the week) and Cash, who is super high and already two or three drinks in. I get bored with this, ready to dance, but I also wonder where The Writer is. I text him and tell him I’ll drive home if he wants. I’m recovering from a cold and don’t want more than one drink…which is what the original plan was.

An hour later, I’m just off the dance floor chatting with Clark. “How is everything?” He asks me. “Great,” I say. “Seems like you’ve been making some friends.” “Yeah. I’ve been spending a lot of time with The Writer–he’s a really great guy,” I tell him. He says something back, but I can’t really hear anything that is coming out of his mouth, thanks to the blaring music. Clark proceeds to introduce me to a few nearby LAGs, all of them a few years older than me. They seem nice but are also a little cliquey, so I decide to go look for the Writer. I find him almost immediately. He’s talking to a guy he works with and introduces us. “Till The World Ends,” my favorite club anthem at them moment, comes on, so I ask the guy if I can borrow The Writer to dance. He agrees, and The Writer enthusiastically leads me into the crowd, the same dance floor that we shared some magic one week prior.

Then he stops and grabs my head to yell something in my ear. “Would it be okay if we were just friends?” My heart sinks below my stomach, but I catch myself just in time, flexing my brave face like never before. He said it as if he were actually asking me a question. I take just the right amount of time to respond: “Definitely,” my inflection fit for a Vegas poker table. “It’s just I’ve been having sex with the same person for three years, and I really want to fuck a lot of…” I stop him there because I really don’t want to hear anymore. “You can have sex with whoever you want to,” I interrupt. Because he’s certainly not fucking me. Someone might as well get some. He gives me what he thinks is a reassuring smile then takes the opportunity to walk past me, drunkenly stumbling toward the bar.

I’m OK, I tell myself. And I am for about 15 minutes, but holding myself together like that takes it out of me. Keep on dancing, I coach myself. But then I see him dancing with two girls, and I almost throw up. He would rather dance with some chubby underage hags than suffer through three minutes with me? The lights and blasting bass start to tear through me, and I go outside for some fresh air. Or rather, I’m bombed with second-hand smoke. I know I can’t face anyone I know, at least not for a few minutes. My first instinct is to come up with a reply, something melodramatic. “What are you afraid of?” or “What am I doing wrong?” but this just makes me sad, and I know I can’t really say those things. I have to play by the rules–this is after all, some kind of game, right? I go stand in the corner, alone, blowing out several scenarios per second. Anywhere but here, anywhere but here, I wish. And I decide I need to get out of here.

It’s already 1:30, when I decide I’m collected enough to return to the group. The Writer’s made a pit stop to the bar, where I inform him I’m ready to go, but I’m met with resistance. “I have work tomorrow,” I remind him. “You hate that job. Don’t go.” Wow, do I know how to pick ’em. “I am leaving in 30 minutes,” I inform him, “let me know if you’re coming.” He disappears back into crowd, and the tall guy, who was eying me earlier, walks up behind me. “Having fun?” He yells. “Oh, yeah,” I say although my sarcasm doesn’t translate through the interference. Tall Guy continues with the small talk, but a) clubs are not for talking and b) I don’t do small talk. There’s still a New Yorker inside me, don’t forget. As Tall Guy sheepishly tries to dance into me, I move to the bar, where I find Cash and Chase. “Shield me,” I beg them. And they do, but I make the mistake of dancing slutty, which attracts more attention–something I really do not want at this point. Tall Guy tries to get closer to the action, but I sandwich myself and move us away. When the song ends, Cash runs into the crowd, so I’m left defenseless. Fortunately, tall guy has backed off, and it’s almost time to go.

Just then Noah, who is wildly intoxicated stumble up to me. “Where’s Clark?” I ask him. “Oh, he just left,” he tells me. He strings the words “Want to dance?” together with a mild difficulty. “I’m actually about to leave,” I tell him politely. “Oh, you got a date?” “Nope, just going home,” I say. I promise to say bye before I leave, and I head into the crowd to find The Writer, which takes a few minutes. “Let’s go,” I say. “One more song,” he says. I roll my eyes and comply as he tries to flirt with a boy, who looks a little afraid of him. He is pretty drunk…and has been since our “talk.” The song ends, and I make a “sorry” face to the boy, nearly having to peel The Writer off him. “I’m not going,” he says. “Please. I am so tired,” I say, but mostly being here is breaking me. “Take my car home, and I’ll just take a cab,” he says with resolve. “I’m not doing that,” I reply. “Why not?” He asks. “Because I feel bad…it’s your car.” Also, I’m not entirely sure how to get back to his house, and I really want to rip him a new one while he’s strapped into his little car next to me for fifteen minutes. “I’m not ready to leave,” he says. Even though the understanding that this would be a one drink affair, I give in. “Fine, I’ll wait.” And I do—in misery. Noah walks up next to us; “Is he your date?” He asks me. “What?” Asks The Writer. I know how this looks and sounds—not good. “No Noah, I don’t have any date. You made that up.” Good grief. “He’s probably more drunk than you are,” I tell The Writer, who disappears again a moment later. “I wish you weren’t Clark’s cousin,” Noah says abruptly rubbing his hand up and down my side. If Noah weren’t Clark’s best friend and also a genuinely kind person, I probably would have lost it on him, especially after all of tonight’s events. Instead, I endure some uncomfortable grinding—after all, he’ll probably barely remember this in the morning anyway. Pretty much everyone I know has left at this point and after a few songs, I excuse myself to walk into the crowd.

I find The Writer, who grabs my shirt and leans on me for support, wrapping his arms around my neck. “You’re adorable,” he says. I can feel the blood vessels in my eyeballs constrict with frustration. “You are horrible,” I say with a calculated exactness. “Yeah, but it’s all right,” he says. I take a few deep breaths. “Want to have a threesome?” He asks. “Whatever,” I say. I wouldn’t, but I don’t feel like arguing with him. He approaches a boy out of earshot–about six inches–but quickly comes back to me, rejected. He points to another boy, “I tried talking to him earlier, but he didn’t seem interested. Maybe you should ask him.” I shake my head. “Come on!” He whines. He points to several more boys for my approval, and he even talks to some, but the lights come on, and his orgiastic aspirations disappear like the darkness. “That was the last song,” The D.J. announces, as a flood of boys pour out the doors.

We run into Noah outside the club, and The Writer starts chatting. “How was your night?” Noah asks. “It was fine. I found out my ex is moving back to L.A.” I’m completely floored for the second time tonight–I wasn’t ready for this bomb to be dropped. After making sure Noah gets a cab, I grab The Writer’s hand. “We are going. Now.” It’s 3:30. “But…” I yank his arm, and we cross the street. We’re not even to the car yet, but I can’t wait. I’m upset and hurt, and I want hurt him back. “If we’re going to be friends, at least have the decency to be sober when you want to talk to me about something important. And really? You’d rather dance with girls than me? What is wrong with you, you asshole?” I go on and one, but I realize that none of it escapes my mouth. When I go to say it, I turn and look at his face. I don’t want to hurt him, and I don’t even know if I really want him to know that he hurt me. What’s that going to solve? This is what it is.

And then his expression abruptly changes to alarmed as he looks ahead. I panic for half a second, wondering who or what might be there. It’s his car: it’s covered in bird shit, or at least that’s what I think it is. “Who the FUCK paintballed my car?” He yells, extremely upset. “And where the fuck is that guy? He said he’d be here all night!” “I don’t know,” I say, wanting to tell him he probably went home to sleep because it’s 3:30 AM. I’m still very emotional, and even enjoying the karmic irony of the situation, but I realize I need to be the strong and comforting one here. “I think it’s okay,” I say rubbing off the paint. “See there’s no denting.” The Writer stresses for another minute or so before he calms down.

When we get back to his house, he doesn’t get out of the car. “My life should be better than this,” he says. “Then make it better,” I tell him. He has a bit of a breakdown, and I ask him if we can continue inside since I have to be up for work in five hours. When we get in his bed, he lays on his back and says, “The First time I met you I was so attracted to you. I just wanted to take you in the bathroom of that house and blow you. I kept trying to hint, but you didn’t get it.” I laugh. “Well, I’m naive. And that wouldn’t have worked out well,” I say with a smirk. “Why’s that?” He asks with an attentive curiosity. “Because I was so nervous that I was about to shit my pants!” I’m super sleepy, and he says something bullshitty that I’m pretty sure was at least partially orchestrated to deal with me: “I don’t know, I separate emotions and sex. They’ve never really gone together for me.” “Can I ask you a personal question?” I ask. “Do you find me attractive?” “Yes,” he says. “Do you think you’ll ever want to be sexual with me?” “Yeah, probably.”

I turn to face him: “That being friends thing, you said tonight…am I doing something wrong? Is there something I’m doing that you want me to stop?” “No! No, I just don’t want you to get hurt.” “I can take care of myself,” I say with a certain boldness. Even in the darkness, he looks away for a longish moment before turning back to me. “I think you’re wanting something is all.” I fall asleep with his assertion echoing through my thoughts.


The Impossibly Sexy Mr. Wolf

March 31, 2011

“You must admit, I am very British. I don’t say hard ‘Rs.'” -Adelle Dewitt

Oh, the drama. Thursday night, Mr. Wolf wants to have dinner. I decline because “dinner” means much more than just dinner, and I have work the next day. So Friday afternoon, I ask him to have dinner, but I get a dodgy response (and a bad lie) about how he has to finish up some work. My cousin Clark (who I had previously asked about Mr. Wolf–they’re long time acquaintances) then calls me to share that he had just missed a call from Mr. Wolf, and asks me how our night was together. “Our date from Monday?” I ask a little confused. No, Clark is referring to a “night” that didn’t happen. Suspicious. Why does Clark think there’s been another night between Wolf and I? And why is Wolf giving me poor excuses when I know he wants me?

Saturday rolls around and Wolf calls me, asking if he can cook me dinner. I’m understandably a little pissed and almost say no, but his Britishness overwhelms me, and I give in. I arrive a little late as usual, and he’s thrown some lamb chops on the grill. The exterior of his house looks as though it’s been swallowed by a jungle (in a kept yet mysterious way) and the inside perfectly fits his personality. The walls are covered with photographs he’s taken and some along with a few paintings. Everything from the floors to the way the light enters his house seems so revealing to his character.

After a delicious dinner, Mr. Wolf sits me down on his awkward couch. “I don’t know what you’re looking for…” he starts, and I roll my eyes, “but I’m not looking for a boyfriend.” I almost laugh at how direct his statement is. I want to yell “duh,” thinking, this coming from the man who upon first sight I thought would eat me alive. “Oh, I know,” I assure him with a smile. “So…is that why you called my cousin yesterday?” He blinks at me, confused that Clark would tell me. “I’m not sure I why I called him to be honest. I talked to him today though.” “He doesn’t even know me that well,” I reply, referring to Clark. “I don’t know, I guess to get his blessing or…no, that sounds bad,” he trails off. I suppose I did some similar information gathering, so I ignore it.

“Shall we go out?” He asks. I kind of just want to stay in and get rowdy, but I agree. “I’ll call a cab, but first let’s have a drink.” He shows me to his liquor cabinet, which is quite full for someone who doesn’t drink that frequently. “I have Kettle One, Scotch, Patron…” “Patron,” I declare without hesitation. “I’ve never had tequila before,” Mr. Wolf tells me. My jaw drops, and I refuse to believe him, but he tells me he only really started drinking recently. “Patron it is,” he says pouring two shots. “How exactly do I do this?” He asks. I explain the salt and the lime and we go for round two and three. “It’s not near as bad as everyone says,” he tells me as his stare locks in. “You’re going to be fun tonight,” I promise him. “Am I?” He asks. “Brits are always fun,” I tell him. He then makes a Dr. Who reference, and I gush about my Anglophila. Instead of being freaked out, he pushes me back on the couch then mounts and kisses me ferociously. The cab pulls up, so Wolf takes his lips off my beaming face.

We leave to meet Wolf’s friend, the Ke$ha drag queen, although I am scolded for calling him a drag queen. I’m not sure why; he’s wearing hair extensions, a tube top, mini skirt, and enough body glitter to drown in. It’s Ke$ha Jr.’s first night at this grimy gay bar, and I’ve had two more tequila-based beverages when K-Money Jr. has to hold a dance contest. I’m already getting bored when a wildly inebriated black man hops on the stage. “We’re only taking contestants who signed up,” our friend tells him. But to no avail. The man undoes his belt, drops his pants, and gyrates until his penis flies out of the front hole of his boxers. There’s nothing like someone exposing himself on stage to finish off an evening, so we catch a cab home. When we get back, Wolf fondles me on the couch, and I can’t stop weaving Natalie Portman’s lines from “Closer” into our banter, which I think unwittingly turns him on. “You’re impossibly sexy,” I slur. I don’t remember much else because that was the most I had drank in a while, but what I can tell you is this: best sex of my life. Period. The difference between a boy and a man is that a man knows exactly what he’s doing. And Wolf knew exactly how to manhandle me. I’m also pretty sure I yelled out “Mr. Wolf” at one point. Oops.

The next morning, we shower and hang out at Starbucks for a half hour. That afternoon, I get a message from him: “I had a great time last night. If you’re up for it, I’d like to have another adventure.” I write back, “ooo, I don’t know,” and wait a second to make him nervous. “Just kidding, let’s do it.” I look forward to it.


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