June 19, 2011

“You cannot save people. You can only love them.” Anaïs Nin

Ever since his crisis night, things have been great between The Writer and I. He’s more attentive and interacts with me more intimately. At night he grabs my hand and holds it to his chest when he falls asleep. I’ve gotten over the internalized drama of whether or not I should confront him about where we stand. Before, I thought I was a coward for not saying anything, but also thought I was just being controlling by not wanting to let things play out. A friend asks me what I want from The Writer. I’m honestly unsure. I haven’t organized my thoughts in enough detail to answer the question fully. Then I realize the answer is simple: I want him to care about me. And he does. We have a lot of fun together, and I enjoy his company. Sure I want more but at this moment, things are more or less wonderful.

It’s a typical Monday, which is great as usual. I head over at eight, and we order Indian food. While we’re waiting, he finishes up his writing, and I catch up on the news and unwind from a long day at work. The delivery guy comes, and The Writer answers the door. From his bed, I can hear him ask the guy something embarrassing like ‘how much do you usually get tipped?’  “It’s here,” he says after the door shuts–as if I might have suspected it was someone else at the door. We eat in his living room and while we shovel down our chicken Tikka Masala, he bitches about work. I respond with sharp remarks about his problems, and at 9:58, I drag him back to his bedroom and find the channel our show is on. Our show has become painful to watch this season, which is remarkable considering it was my favorite  just months ago. “This show has lost all of its urgency!” I complain. “Not a single story has progressed, and the new characters are total plot devices–not people.” He’s intrigued by what I have to say, and we continue this line of conversation. It’s unusual–he hardly even engages me, just listens intently.

Later, he starts to play a movie. I make it about five minutes before I begin to drift in and out of sleep. “That’s hilarious!” I hear him say as my eyes blink open. “Did you hear that?” He asks. “No. I keep falling asleep.” Disappointed, he turns off the television; “I’m getting tired too. Turn over,” he tells me, tucking his arm underneath mine. He turns off the light, and it’s quiet. “Can you bring me to the airport on Wednesday?” I ask drowsily. “Sure,” he says. A minute later, I’m passed out.

“Hey,” he whispers, poking my shoulder. “Are you awake?” No,” I groan. It must be two hours later. “Do you want to write something with me?” He asks, his voice staying pretty quiet. “Whatever you want,” I agree, rolling over. “I had a meeting with some execs, and they want me to write a movie, but I’m busy and don’t want to write it alone.” “Okay,” I murmur, hoping that it’s the end of this conversation. “I just thought it would be fun to write with you. We can split the money, and it won’t take too long to get it done between the two of us. Besides, if you quit your job, you’ll have a lot of free time on your hands.” “Sounds good. Goodnight,” I conclude. He tosses and turns a while longer. In the middle of the night, I wake up, and he’s gone. He’s moved to the couch in the living room, which upsets me. After a few minutes, I decide I’m not going to lose sleep over it.

The next day, I leave before he gets up and don’t see him again until Wednesday, the day I’m flying to visit an old friend in Michigan. “I’m going to pick up some lunch before I come over. Do you want anything?” I ask. “Let’s just stop for lunch in WeHo on the way to LAX. It’s on the way.” On our way to the restaurant, he rolls down the windows, letting the sunny breeze roll through the car, and I feel like a California kid. Pieces of The Writer’s hair stick together, but it all moves in the same direction. It reminds me of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” “I need to get it cut,” he says noticing I’m looking at it. “Don’t. I like it.” “Really? I don’t know. It gets so hard to manage when it gets long.” “I’ll be pissed if you do,” I tell him.

We sit down and order fancy breakfast food, and I’m kind of quiet. “Who’s picking you up on Sunday?” He asks. I give him a big smile and through my teeth say, “you are!” He’s rolls his eyes but agrees. Then, he stares at someone at a table behind me. “See that guy?” He asks. I nod. “How old do you think he is?” “Shut up. I’m not playing this game,” I tell him. “But do you think he looks older than me?” He persists. “Why? Do you know him?” “No, but what do you think?” I sigh; “no, you look younger than him.” In truth, I’m awful at telling someone’s age. Especially gay men. But they honestly look about the same to me.

As we drive to the airport, he looks over at me. “Your birthday’s coming up soon, right?” “A little over a month,” I answer. “We’ll have to Read the rest of this entry »

I’ve Had A Little Bit Too Much

June 18, 2011

“You know what they say: You can’t teach a gay dog straight tricks.” -South Park

“I want to go out tonight,” The Writer says. “Oh my god, me too. I’ll be right over.” I’m in bed naked and most all my clothes are dirty, but I manage to scrounge up an outfit: uncomfortable underwear that are reserved expressly for planned slutty nights, mismatched socks, a deep purple v-neck from American Apparel, and hygienically questionable black jeans. Oh, and a big black coat because it’s randomly freezing tonight. Not cool L.A. I grab my stuff and rush out the door, blasting the radio in my car. I make it to The Writer’s in record time (I’m serious about this wanting to go out tonight thing,) and scamper up his front step. My face is glowing–not my typical expression upon arrival at his house. That is until I see who answers the door. It’s Trick Bradley, that vapid kid with the fake ID. “Hey…” I say, trying my best to pull the drooping grimace on my face up into a inauthentic smile. The Writer is right behind him and smiles at me. “Is that a ballerina shirt?” He asks me. I look down in the second it takes me to realize that he’s talking about the shirt I’m wearing. My head shoots up: “No! You are such an asshole.” “It’s not a bad thing,” he says defensively. “Bradley, do you think this looks like a ballerina shirt?” He looks away and shrugs. Whatever. L.A. people have no sense of fashion.

On our drive to the bar, The Writer and I discuss writing stuff, further muting Trick Bradley. Fortunately. Unfortunately, Trick Bradley can’t get into the bar. “This isn’t real,” the scruffy bouncer says. My initial reaction is shock that a guy that looks this dumb is able to identify such a forgery. My secondary reaction is insufferable annoyance that we’ve come all the way here only to be turned away. I don’t make eye contact with Trick Bradley because if I do, my facial reaction will be unpleasant to say the least. The Writer and I scoot in anyway, pretending not to know him, as to avoid any awkwardness with the bouncer.

Inside, we are greeted by a man I will refer to as Turtle. Turtle is probably in his early 40s and is “good” friends with Wolf. He also has a ridiculous reputation in that literally everyone in WeHo knows his (creepy) game. He’s incredibly insecure and super jealous. Also, he’s not particularly attractive. By which I mean I literally cannot think of single individual that I know who would hook up with him. Remarkably, a young cute-ish twink stands at his side loyally. He’s clearly from out of town. The pretext of why they might be together is beyond me. Until he goes on stage.

It’s karaoke night and the kid selects a cheesy Kelly Clarkson ballad to sing. The performance is propped up by his above average voice. This pisses me off. No one wants to hear/watch someone with relative talent get up on stage and sing some boring ass song about how you’re in love for the first time. Shoot me. Or at least buy me a drink. No, if we wanted to see that we’d watch American Idol. Karaoke is the sacred Japanese tradition of embracing the characteristics of an alcoholic for a night, shamelessly screeching out an epic tune to the point of butchery, and falling off stage when you go to take your bow. Everyone knows that. The Writer informs me that Turtle is a “music industry executive.” Turtle is definitely not a music industry executive. He’s a bottom feeder who lives in one-person apartment. But it would appear that this kid doesn’t know that. (The music executive part. It seem like he knows all about the apartment. More on that later.) As the song reaches it’s climax, The Writer gets a text from Bradley, and we regroup outside, deciding to make our way down the block to Stripper Circus.

Stripper Circus is kind of what it sounds like although Stripper Carnival would probably be a more apt name; strippers do their thing on platforms like in most of the other bars in WeHo, only at “Circus” there’s a gimmicky row of ridiculous carnival games, hosted by…well, guess! If you guessed strippers, you’re wrong. The answer we were looking for is drag queens! So I guess a truly accurate title for this “party” would be Carnival Game Queens or something like that. Regardless, Stripper Circus works like is this: you buy a drink, get a ticket, play the games, win shitty cheap booze, get drunker, lose the games because you can’t see straight, buy another drink so that you can play again. Rinse, wash, repeat.

Bradley manages to get in, but Stripper Circus is packed. Partially because there’s a spontaneous, limited open bar meaning I’m double-fisting whiskey cokes while some guy’s bulge dangles above my head like mistletoe. The Writer breaks through the pack, pulling me with him through the sea of gays. Bradley gets left behind. “I think we lost Trick Bradley,” I inform him once we’re in the clear. “Haha! You still call him that?” “You have like 3,000 facebook friends. If I don’t use your mnemonic devices, I’ll never remember anyone you introduce me to.” “Trick Bradley is a smart kid…” he starts, and I interrupt him with a chuckle. “…I’m sure he’ll figure it out.” We continue away from the chaos, when The Writer sees a big group of guys he knows, sitting at a table with a bottle of Grey Goose. He introduces me to a few of them–I immediately forget the names that I can actually hear. Then he sits down to chat. I’m left standing, holding my two drinks. Which very quickly become one drink. Another guy walks over and sits down next to the boy on the end. The new guy whispers something to the other, who turns to me. “What’s your name again?” He half yells. I remind him. “This is my boyfriend, Sam,” he tells me before turning back to Sam. I manage to make out what he says next. “He’s The Writer’s boyfriend.” I don’t correct him. Read the rest of this entry »

Mr Wolf. With The Handy. On The Patio.

March 22, 2011

“A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady excitement: ‘There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired.'” -The Great Gatsby

It’s been an emotionally hectic few weeks for me, so when The Writer invites me to write with him for the second Saturday in a row, I readily accept–it’s nice to have the groundwork of a social routine to rest on. He asks for my thoughts on his screenplay, and I tell him it moved me because really, it did. I give him a suggestion or two, but I’m legitimately surprised by what a peer he takes me for. I don’t mention Dan, who is friends with The Writer, or my disaster night with the couple and their neighbors. Instead, we get our respective work done, and I realize for the first time how much I appreciate The Writer as a friend–something I haven’t had in LA yet. He even cutely steals my coffee cup. While we’re writing, I remember that I’d received a pervy Facebook message from one of his friends earlier in the week. He asks me who sent it, but I don’t recall the name and have since deleted the message. We finish up our writing, and I tell him if he’s doing anything later to give me a call.

By ten, I’m wiped and in bed watching Spartacus. Just as I’m about to go to sleep, The Writer gives me a call and asks if I want to go out. Because my retainer hasn’t yet entered my mouth, I agree and meet him at his house. We have a drink with his roommate’s boyfriend, Connor, who joins us for the night. Connor is closer in age to me than most of the guys I’ve hung out with since I’ve been here. I certainly enjoy and probably prefer the company of older people who have their lives together, but the ease with which I maneuver my interactions with Connor is remarkably refreshing. It makes me miss college and my friends in New York. Plus, he’s kind of sexy in a dimwitted way.

The Writer drives us to his friend’s apartment for another drink before we go out. We park in the building’s garage, and go up one floor in the elevator when the doors open. A man, the man who sent me the pervy Facebook message to be exact, is standing there with his dog. My eyes widen as I take several seconds to piece this together—this is the friend whose apartment we’re going to. However, I keep my cool and introduce myself, but it’s immediately clear: this guy, Warren, is insane. The Writer seems to be fully aware of this but mostly amused, and Connor plays it off his passiveness. I probably come across as a bitch. Warren leads us into his apartment and introduces us to two other gays, Princess and a fairly young looking guy, who they keep calling Dirty Fingers. Dirty Fingers keeps to himself and eventually disappears upstairs, never to return. To make up for his friend’s absence, Princess, who is so superficial I’m sure that if he were dissected there would be no blood, takes it upon himself to double his ego and with it, the volume of his voice. He is so loud and pretentious that I consider punching him in the face (or rather the collection of pristinely synthetic features inhabiting the space where his face once resided.) Instead, I pick a fight with him over Lady Gaga, which he tries to turn into a pop music battle royale, but I’m not having it. “Gaga wins, you lose,” I inform him, and then I’m done with the conversation. Meanwhile, Warren has offered Connor and I a hallucinogenic European beverage, which I fear might contain roofies, so I only pretend to sip. Between Princess’s self-parody yakking and Warren’s alarming behavior, I’ve had it, so we catch a cab around the corner and make our way to the bar. Princess gayshouts in French for the duration of cab ride, provoking more violent acts to fill my thoughts. Maybe I’ll put him in a headlock. Nah, a bitchslap would better serve my purpose. I settle on wrapping my hand over his mouth, but the queen is persistent. Muddled French and gasping replace whatever the hell was happening before, and his lip-gloss smears on my palm. But it’s a win for me, so I stick with it until we arrive at the bar (which is named after a number), and I apologize to the driver for the obnoxiousness.

Once inside, an elevated stripper’s bulge greets me, and I bee line it to the bar because after putting up with that shitshow, I’m in serious need of a drink. Not realizing that there’s a five-minute open bar, I’m confused as to why every person in the establishment is simultaneously dying for another beverage. I unknowingly pay for mine and walk back over to my group, and Connor laughs at me for paying. “You’re no fun,” Princess and Warren tell me before they disappear into the crowd. Connor and I laugh at them and then get into some playful banter, which leads to some harmless flirting. He is in relationships after all. The Writer has disappeared too, so Connor opens up a little (partially from the alcohol) and tells me about his career and family. Some of his insecurities even peek through but in a cute way. Eventually, we make our way out to the bar’s patio where Connor begins pointing out all of the guys he thinks is hot. “What’s your type?” He asks me. “Tall,” I tell him with a smile because I really don’t have a type–much to the frustration of many inquirers. And then the drunk hits me, but it’s a really fun happy drunk that hasn’t inhabited me in a while, so I giggle and dance with Connor. The Writer spots us and waves us over the front of the bar’s patio where he’s entertaining some of his friends. As Connor and I take our place at The Writer’s side, I spot Mr. Wolf (from my last night out with The Writer) in the circle, chatting up a boy with auburn hair. I watch for a moment as he sinks his irresistible accent into the boy and for a second, I think that I might melt into a puddle.

At some point, Mr. Wolf loses interest in the young chap and notices me. “Hi,” I say cautiously smiling. “Remember me?” “I do!” he assures me, “but don’t expect me to remember your name.” “Why would you need to know my name?” I ask, trying to start trouble. Unlike last time, Mr. Wolf is pretty drunk. Advantage: me. One of us brushes up against the other, which leads to one thing and another until our arms are around each other’s necks. We chat, and I make sure every word out of my mouth sounds extra suave. At this point, the booze are getting the better of me, so when Mr. Wolf sticks his hand in my back pocket, I let him pull me closer. “Are you coming home with me tonight?” He asks, gazing at me through his wolf eyes. I stare deep into them and think to myself, this guy is going to eat me alive. “If you’re lucky,” I whisper in his ear. “Oh, I’m feeling lucky,” he tells me confidently. Then things get a little crazy. He removes his hand from my pocket, only to slide it into the back of my pants. While he’s distracted groping me, I lean over to Connor and say, “make sure I go home with you guys.” He promises just as Mr. Wolf tugs me closer. “It’s so nice to meet you again,” he tells me. And it really is. I’m enjoying this. Connor asks me about a few more boys as Mr. Wolf slides his hand around front, proceeding to place his entire forearm down my pant leg. Interesting choice, I think to myself. The Writer looks at me, lacking any readable expression, but I don’t care. We’re just friends now, right? Then without warning, Mr. Wolf starts to give me a handy on this public patio, mere feet from one the busiest boulevards in Los Angeles. I hesitate to stop him but only for a second. I grab his bicep and dislodge his appendage from my “junk.” He smiles, and I can barely resist. But I do. It’s time to go, and The Writer and Connor are practically out the door. “I have to go,” I tell Mr. Wolf. “Don’t leave,” he insists. I lean into his ear and whisper, “I’m not like the other boys,” and flick his earlobe with my tongue. This drives him wild, but I take off after my friends. “Aren’t you going to get my number?” he asks. I’m surprised by this, thinking he’d just find another boy to take home, so I back track and give him my digits, then catch up with Connor and The Writer on the street.

“Hey! Hey you!” We all turn around, but the yelling is directed only at me. It’s Warren, breathlessly running to catch up. “You got felt up by Mr. Wolf! I bet you feel really good about yourself!” He shouts although I’m not sure to what end. He’s expecting some kind of reaction, but he gets none. Then my phone vibrates in my pocket—it’s a message from Mr. Wolf. “You were lovely.” That’s when I realize: these boys, these men want me and are going to continue pursuing me. Whether I like it not, my new place in gayworld is going be an organizing principle in my life. It’s time to get busy.

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 »

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