Ho Ho Homo.

After a delightfully morose Christmas day, I went to work, expecting little in terms of excitement.  Little did I know that I was about to witness a Christmas miracle. 

There was little activity for most of the night, and the usual suspects came in at the usual times.  Overall, I wasn’t impressed with the evening—Santa didn’t bring me Orlando Bloom or David Beckham like he promised he would, and there wasn’t an Italian villa or Costa Rican summer home under the tree like I had requested, so I certainly wasn’t expecting a glorious evening after that level of disappointment (side note, Dear Santa—you suck.)

And then the Hustler arrived. 

Yes, he was so impressive, he gets a capital “H.”  Homeboy was running around, working his way around the crowd of, shall we say, impressionable older men.  He openly professed to any and all that would listen that he was in fact straight (which is hustler lingo for “power bottom”).  Three days earlier, I had told him that I didn’t like people hustling, and I didn’t really want him in the bar—but, as of yet, he hadn’t done anything to really warrant being kicked out, and most of the homo’s thought he was entertaining, so I let it be.

But tonight was different.  He saw me working, and it was as if he had seen an angel—his words, not mine.  For the rest of the night, he was enraptured with me.  He couldn’t stop watching me, he couldn’t stop professing his love for me (at one point I told him he wasn’t allowed to say “I love you” until he truly understood what that meant, which made little impression, but needed to be said).  He’d never seen anything like me before, he said.  I have his terribly misspelled love notes on my refrigerator door.  I was extremely flattered, but even more confused.  After all, I was the one who told him I didn’t want him in my bar anymore.  And yet, he stood there, and told me how he had been attracted to women until very recently, and he didn’t know what he was supposed to make of me, and lost out on many a client because of his infatuation with little ol’ me. 

The more he drank, the more aggressive he got with his advances.  Never once did he get dirty or rude, which was incredibly refreshing (I worked today and talked to a customer for less than 2 minutes before he was asking me how large my penis was).  He begged me to give him a chance, he told me he would change his ways and be a better man.  He gave him every bartender excuse I had in my book as to why I wouldn’t date him, but still he begged. 

Was I witnessing a true Christmas miracle?  Did my magical gay powers have the ability to turn a straight hustler into an upstanding homosexual citizen?  Did Santa just have a wicked sense of humor, and send me a blessing in disguise?

Well, no.  He ended up getting so drunk that he started screaming about how his father abused his sister, how he was a horrible fucked up person for being the hustler he was, and proceeded to try to take his clothes off and spill drinks all over people in the process.  At which point, I told him it was probably time for him to go.  And, after all of that, what did he say to me? 

He wasn’t concerned if he got kicked out for good.

He wasn’t concerned if the police were coming.

He was concerned if I was mad at him. 

I thought that was very sweet.  I told him I wasn’t mad, but he probably shouldn’t come in for a while.  And finally he left.

What impressed me most about this boy was his bravery, his honesty.  He laid his feelings (however contrived, manipulative or fake they were) on the table with no cowardice.  And that earned a lot of respect in my book, because as I looked around at many of the men in my bar, they were mocking him.  They were laughing at him, they were completely lacking even an iota of compassion for someone who was scared, confused and in pain. 

I think we could all learn a thing or two from this young (ok, he wasn’t so young) man.  He wasn’t afraid to tell it like it was, even if those feelings were fleeting and surface—whereas most people I meet are so scared of the unknown that they won’t even come close to risking rejection, instead choosing to mock and scorn those of us who are still full of vitality. 

I remember the first tingling of real, tangible sexual attraction towards another man. I remember the first time my heart yearned, the first time my soul genuinely connected with another.  Do any of you?  Do any of you still vibrate with giddiness at the anticipation of another’s touch? 

Someone once told me that anticipation was half of the fun.  It seems to me, even letting yourself anticipate something exciting is an act of bravery that so few are willing to risk. 

I don’t expect that hustler to ever get his life together—I certainly hope he does, but I am a pragmatic individual.  But he did help me remember that first tingle I got when I found something I knew, at the time, I couldn’t live without. 

Can you remember?

Lord, I need a drink.