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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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.


How Would You Like That Cooked?

April 22, 2011

“My favorite animal is steak.” -Fran Lebowitz

The Writer and I wake up late and get up even later–as usual. “Hit me up later,” he says on my way out. I get in my car and my mind starts to wander. This is never going to work. For SO many reasons. But that only makes the whole situation that much more alluring.

When I get home, I watch television for a few hours and remember that I’ve made plans with Wolf tonight. Yes, I’ve double booked. I text The Writer asking what he’s up to (and get no response) while trying to think up an excuse to tell Wolf. I’m nowhere even approaching exclusive with The Writer, but I feel a certain reservation about my sex life all of sudden. My stomach is in a knot about the whole thing–I don’t want to see Wolf, and I’m becoming overly anxious having not received a response from The Writer, so I turn off my phone. Because that’s the healthy thing to do–avoid your problems. I take a really long shower and when I get out, immediately turn my phone back on to discover no message from either. I plow through a pint of ice cream, which provides momentary relief to my prickling anxiety. At 8:30, I take two sleeping pills and pass the fuck out.

The next morning, I wake up groggy and a little upset about being blown off. The Writer’s on-and-off creepy friend Warren starts sarcastically sexting me, so I play along because it’s harmless–Warren has nicknamed me the prude. Also, he hasn’t had sex in a year. “Get on Skype,” he tells me. I do and when he turns on his camera, his dick is on my screen. “Put your penis away,” I tell him dryly. “Show me yours?” he suggests. “I’m hanging up now,” I reply annoyed. “Please?” “Fine,” I say, leaving the room for a minute. When I come back, I unzip my pants and a dildo flops out. “Very funny,” he says. “I’m so glad you think I’m going to show you my penis.” “Let’s hang out tonight,” he says. “I’ll let you know if I can,” I say, mostly planning not to. “You might as well just say no.” What’s the harm? “Fine,” I say, “but if you try anything creepy, I’m leaving.”

When I get to Warren’s, I’m hungry but he wants to continue the mock-sex banter. “Oh, oh, oh, I’m going to fuck you so hard,” he says in a weird voice. “Too late. I just came,” I say shortly. Warren tells me I’m sardonic, and then we leave to go to a burger joint. “You don’t mind walking?” He asks. “Of course not, it’s a beautiful night. Plus, I’m a New Yorker. Walking is what we do.” We sit at the bar and end up ordering the same burger. “And how would you like that cooked?” Asks the waitress. “Medium well,” he answers. “Same,” I say.

Most Los Angegays are unusually private about what and whom they do. Not Warren. He spills his guts on a boy that he’s in love with, but who is selfish and emotionally detached. Sound a little familiar? This is the reason he hasn’t had sex in a year. “Maybe you should just fuck the last person you slept with to help you get your mind off of him.” “I can’t,” he says. “Why not?” “He’s dead,” Warren says oddly. “What?” I laugh nervously. “It’s not funny. He fell off a building.” “Oh my god.” “That’s part of the reason I’m so fucked up,” he tacks on.

While we wait for our food, Warren recounts his previous night.  “I had dinner with Wolf and then I went home and was depressed,” he says. “I was supposed to hang out with him,” I say. “You’re the one who stood him up?” He nearly yells. “I did not stand him up. I didn’t hear from him. And I’m honestly kind of glad that I didn’t.” “And why’s that?” Warren asks. Without thinking, I tell him I’ve started to develop feelings for someone. “Who?” He demands. “No one,” I say. I’m smarter than that. Warren then relates the conversation back to his tragic romance, much to my relief.

When we get back to Warren’s house, his friend, Ralph, comes over to interview him for a law school project. Ralph, who is recovering from some kind of cold, asks several standard questions. The conversation steers toward criminal law, and I ask, “Is it true there’s gay jail in L.A.?” (I’ve heard this during conversation with some other LAGs and found it oddly comforting.) “No, but they do in New York,” Ralph tells me. “Yeah, you spent the night there!” Warren chimes in. “Really?” I ask, a little impressed. “Yeah, it was more of an after party than jail,” he says with a rasp in his voice. “Who were your cellmates?” “Lots of trannies, some cute boys, and this one teenager who beat up his aunt for hitting him and calling him a faggot. I was like, ‘good for you, honey!'” The interview then devolves into boytalk, which devolves into Grindr. Which annoys me because a) I don’t know who they’re talking about b) I don’t care who they’re talking about and c) Grindr pisses me off. While Ralph and Warren assess the attractiveness of familiar strangers, I get a text from Wolf. “What happened you last night?” “I didn’t hear from you,” I respond, having to stand by the window to get a signal. “Who are you texting?” Warren asks, and I tell him. “Oh, are you gonna go fuck him?” “You are so obnoxious, and no,” I reply. My phone buzzes again: “You’re phone was off, and I sent you a text.” “My phone was off for a little while, but I didn’t get a text,” I reply. “Do you want to do something tomorrow then?” “Sure,” I say not really caring.

Warren goes upstairs for a minute, and Ralph starts up a conversation. “Where did you go to school?” “NYU.” “Me too!” He graduated before me, so I don’t know any of his friends, plus I was too cool to hang out with NYU kids most of the time. I think of all of the well-known gays I know, and he shit talks most of them. I’m not necessarily a big fan of them either, but I don’t like that he’s trashing the only familiar thing between us. Warren comes back, and the boys continue on their Grindr spree, recounting who they’ve seen naked. I check my Facebook and see I’ve been poked by someone I’m not friends with. “I know him,” Warren says, “want to see his cock? It’s huge!” “Yes!” Ralph exclaims. “I’m indifferent,” I say honestly.” Warren shows us, and it’s true, he has a rather large member. “How did you get that?” I ask. “He sent it to me,” is his only response. I immediately drop out of the conversation again as they look at more boys.

After about five minutes, I say, “I’m leaving,” with a hint of annoyance in my voice. It’s midnight. “Why?” Warren asks. “Because I’m bored,” I say plainly, standing up. “I could make you not bored,” Ralph says seductively but nasally as he stands (with a hard on). He gets so close that he’s nearly pressing against me, and then squeezes my crotch. My eyes slit with anger as I slap his arm away. “It was so nice to meet you,” I hiss without eye contact, and I shove him out of the way, storming out the door. I’m not a piece of meat. I am not a fucking piece of meat. It’s one thing when I’m drunk at a gay bar, but it’s another thing when I’ve already say “no,” I’m sober, and we’re at someone else’s house. And then I realize: all of the excitement and advantages of this gay new world are going to be met with having to deal with assholes like this. Everything has its consequences. I wonder if I have the stomach for the entirety of this life.


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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