Step away from the homo, girl.

We've all seen them. We've all heard them. And yes, most of us have had one or two. No, I'm not talking about an average to large-sized asian dick (we know those don't exist). I'm talking about the fag hag. Sometimes they are called a fruit fly, or fairy god mother, or Dorothy, but mostly I just call them annoying.

Now don't get me wrong, I love the ladies (in a strictly, lets go get our faces painted on us at the Mac counter kind of way, not the lets go bump uglies kind of way). But all my lady friends have a life outside of the gay community--like, oh I don't know, straight men. And that's something I can get behind, because I like all my friends to be extremely sexual active (if not down right promiscuous), and you can't do that if you're hanging out with a bunch of queens who are terrified of your bleeding vag.

The fag hags come in many shapes and sizes (ok, usually they come in one size--severely overweight.), but after years of training, I have been able to pin point a couple different categories that they fall in.

First, you have the annoying girls who think they can turn their gay best friend straight. Which, on a very basic level, is extremely rude, suggesting that if I try hard enough, I'll actually want to stick my pecker in your hole. Not going to happen, sister from another mister. And trust me, I had a fag hag who loved to make out with me, to "teach me how to kiss better." Bitch, I know how to kiss like a fucking god--you just get wet everytime I do it, and want a little taste of my man nectar. I got your game figured out, girl. I like dick as much as you do, so go find your own and leave mine alone. You will never, ever turn a gay man straight. Just like you can't turn a straight man gay (unless they're really drunk, and then a hole's just a hole, right?) Stick to finding a man that isn't convinced that the vagina actually has teeth.

Next, we have the family member. Now bless your precious little hearts for supporting your gay son, or nephew, or brother. Really, it's awesome that you accept and embrace his sexuality, but here's the problem with going out to get drunk with your family--people act like fucking idiots when they get drunk. And no one wants to do that with their mom. Or worse, no one wants to babysit their mom, when they get drunk and end up throwing up all over the Ramada hotel room that they are staying at (not that that's ever happened to me). Or, you could have a crazy ass family like mine, who will kill a bitch if he so much as glances at me in the wrong way. I spend my night making sure no one dies in the line of fire. It's exhausting. Family, it's awesome to hang out with you, but let's leave the crazy black-out drunk saturday nights to the professionals, ok?

Finally, we have the fat chick. Now before any of you try to eat me, let me explain--most fag hags are fat chicks. Ok, maybe that didn't help my case. But it's true. Seriously, the reason being is that they have such low self-confidence that they think a straight guy will never find them attractive because they're so fat, so they hang around all the homosexuals because they are fulfilling two missing emotional puzzle pieces. One, they are around people who will still call you fabulous, even if you're a fatass. We'll still love you, because we think big boobies and curves are fantastic--plus we don't have to screw you, so we don't care what you look like naked. And secondly, you're still getting your fill of testosterone that I know y'all are craving. You might not be getting a dick up your baby maker like you really want, but you're surrounding yourself with them, which is really the next best thing.

Girl, put down the rainbow flag. Find yourself a nice sports bar, and locate a man who likes a fluffy chick. Try the black guys, they seem to love large women.

There might be more types, but I've used up my daily time I've alloted to thinking about ladies.  And I'm going to a birthday party tonight for, you guessed it, a lady.  So that'll have to do for now. 

Back to thinking about penis. 

Lord, I need a drink.

West Hollywood Bar Review. For real, yo. Grand Finale.

I think my most commonly asked question at work is “What’s fun to do tonight?”  I usually try to respond with “me” or something similar.  I mean, really, I would prefer if you stayed at my bar and threw your money at me.  But I understand the need to wander.  So, I’ve decided to do a bar review, of all the gay bars in the area.  Every bar has a personality.  It’s like being in high school.  The Abbey would be one of those socialite kids that everyone thinks is perfect, but she’s secretly snorting cocaine out of her Jesus necklace.  Motherlode would probably be that really fat art fag that, when he grows up, will be a little eccentric, but gorgeous.  Rage is the jock who failed his senior year and had to be in high school for another year.  Fiesta is the cool kid that everyone loves.  Mickys is the cool kid that everyone’s afraid of. 

You get the picture. 

So, without further ado (what does that even mean?) here’s the second part of my gay bar review. I hope you enjoy it.  If not, get drunk and read it again.

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No good EVER comes from going to Fubar.  But hey, who’s honestly out in West Hollywood to do good?  This place is dirty, it’s raunchy, and it’s usually so dark and packed that I can’t see a fucking thing.  It takes me approximately 7 days to make my way from the front door to the bathroom in the back.  And another week or so to get a drink.  And, by the time I pee and get a beer, I’m so stressed out by the battle I just waged, that I need a cigarette, which means I have to make my way through that fucking crowd all over again.  So basically, I chug my beer while I’m crowd surfing to the entrance, smoke my cigarette, and say fuck it all and stumble home. 

That being said, the crazies tend to inhabit this bar—the gender fucks, the drag queens, the boys who look really sexy in black eyeliner and boots (you know who you are mister Mo-Hawk, you’re damn sexy, call me sometime, I promise I’m not stalking you, ok?).  And I love crazies.   On Mondays they always seem to have this trashy, coke-whore party that doesn’t get started until really late, and the freaks start stumbling in, looking horrible and fabulous at the same time.  It’s fantastic.  And of course, we can’t forget about Thursdays at Fubar—Big Fat Dick is what the night’s called, and it’s, well…actually, it’s kind of lame now.  The dicks are getting smaller, and the trash is getting less trashy, and no one really wants that. 

Eleven is one of those clubs that I secretly like, but pretend not to because I can’t afford to go there more often.  It’s so beautiful inside; it’s my favorite space out of any bar I go to.  I just imagine circus acts flying through the giant building—but they never do it, which is going to get them an angry email very soon, if they don’t listen to my suggestions.  Not that I’ve ever talked to anyone who works there, but that’s not the point.  They have an upstairs area that is fun and you can dance, and they have a gigantic staircase that you can strut up and down—and everyone knows how much I love stairs.  That wasn’t sarcasm by the way, I really like stairs.  I like elevators more, but that’s not the point.  They also have a pool table upstairs, but I’ve only ever seen people have sex on it, never actually play it.  That’s cool though, whatever floats your boat. 

I have two complaints.  First would be the bartenders, who tend to be incredibly rude to me.  I mean for crying all night, don’t be a dick to the person who’s paying your rent.  Just because you’re really pretty and spend a shit ton of time and money at the gym (aka getting pounded in the steam room), doesn’t mean you can’t treat a fellow ‘mo with a little respect.  Ok?

And secondly, the bathroom.  Am I the only one who gets so fucked up in there?  They have mirrors all over the walls or some crazy shit, and I can’t tell how to get out once I get in, and sometimes I get trapped in the stalls because the doors are really heavy.   It’s terribly confusing—like vaginas.  And it’s terrifying—like vaginas.  And you get sucked in and can’t find your way out—like vaginas.

Trunks has a long history in West Hollywood.  I don’t really know what it is, and I don’t really care, but they have some really cute bartenders.  And they are very flirty.  And most of them are “straight,” meaning they’d probably let me touch their junk if I got them drunk.  Which is probably why none of them drink much on the job.  Pussys. 

They really like pool at this bar—so much so, they have 2 pool tables.  One table is just for the massive amount of Asians that are always at this bar, and the other is for all the old men who like to fondle the hairless Asian boys.  Seriously, why don’t Asians have hair on their bodies?   It’s weird.  And why do they always seem to have a 6-pack?  It’s not fair. 

This place has carpet, and a vending machine, and a fucking miniature train running around the ceiling, and like 300 TV’s all around the tiny little bar.  I don’t get any of that, but hey, I don’t like it when people judge my fetish for popping balloons, so I won’t judge their choice in decorations.

Anyways, they make their drinks so strong, it’s kind of obscene.  I actually won’t drink a mixed drink there unless I specifically watch them pour it and tell them to stop before I get alcohol poisoning.  But hey, a lot of people like to black out and make a cab driver stop 5 times while you puke on your way home (in my defense, I think I was drugged), and if this is your thing, Trunks is the place to do it without spending too much money. 

PS, did anyone know that people ACTUALLY get off on popping balloons?  Fucking crazy, right?

To every other bar I didn’t talk about, please be better.  You’re boring, and don’t deserve an entry in my prestigious, high profile blog.  You’re like those kids in high school who everyone knows but no one’s really friends with—your yearbooks are probably filled with generic “Have a Great Summer!!”

West Hollywood Bar Review. For real, yo. Part 2.

I think my most commonly asked question at work is “What’s fun to do tonight?”  I usually try to respond with “me” or something similar.  I mean, really, I would prefer if you stayed at my bar and threw your money at me.  But I understand the need to wander.  So, I’ve decided to do a bar review, of all the gay bars in the area.  Every bar has a personality.  It’s like being in high school.  The Abbey would be one of those socialite kids that everyone thinks is perfect, but she’s secretly snorting cocaine out of her Jesus necklace.  Motherlode would probably be that really fat art fag that, when he grows up, will be a little eccentric, but gorgeous.  Rage is the jock who failed his senior year and had to be in high school for another year.  Fiesta is the cool kid that everyone loves.  Mickys is the cool kid that everyone’s afraid of. 

You get the picture. 

So, without further ado (what does that even mean?) here’s the second part of my gay bar review. I hope you enjoy it.  If not, get drunk and read it again. 

*****************************************************

 

What can I say about The Abbey?  The drinks are so expensive that you basically have to have a credit score of 720 or higher to be served.  And I’m pretty sure that you have to sign a form when you walk in that says something to the extent of “I hereby give you full custody of my soul, and I will forever worship you, my dark lord.” 

This is the bar that you go to when you want to be seen, which is incredibly ironic because everyone looks exactly the same in there—like a bunch of queens with too much money and drugs on their hands.  This is the place where you hope to see a D-list celebrity.  This is the place you go to to be ignored by the ridiculously gorgeous wait staff.  If you want to spend more money in an evening than I make in a week, then please, by all means, spend your evening at this bar.

That being said, wow is this place beautiful or what?  I mean, come on, if I can just fag out for a minute, okay?  It’s so pretty, I love almost everything about the space.  And the one time I used to bathroom there, I was tickled pink by the bathroom service.  And, I must say, as long as you’ve already promised them your first born son, you might as well check out their brunch—it’s, as the northern Californians say, “hella” fun.  They have a great patio, and during the day you can scope out all sorts of sexy men that want absolutely nothing to do with you, unless you drive a fancy car or have a bag of cocaine in your pocket. 

(By the way, if the owners of The Abbey ever came to me and offered me a job, I would eat my words faster than I eat my McDonalds, which is really fast.  I bet those bartenders make a shit ton of money off all of those rich suckers.)

Here Bar is like that guy that you keep going out on dates with, hoping that he’ll get better, but really he’s just not that great in bed and doesn’t look so cute in the daylight.  I keep going there, but I really don’t know why.  It’s not all that much fun, and it tries to act like it’s The Abbey, but it’s really just mediocre.  Their drinks are still too damn expensive, considering they make them so weak my grandma couldn’t get drunk there.  The strippers look like they just weren’t quite good enough to be working at Mickeys.  Sometimes they have a drag or comedy show or something like that, but every time I’ve gone to it, it’s so disorganized that you can literally hear the groans from all 5 people who they convinced to come see it. 

They have a nice patio, but I almost always trip on those stupid steps, or hit my head on that fucking tree growing out of the middle of nowhere.  Seriously, why the fuck is there a giant tree in the middle of the patio?  Can’t they at least cut some of those low hanging branches or something?  Jesus.

How is East West even open?  Seriously, does anyone know?  Anyone?  I only go in there to pee when the lines at Trunks or Eleven are too long, because I know that I won’t have to wait in a line and the bathrooms make me feel like I’m in a secret underground lair.  The only reason I’m even mentioning them is because the one time I’ve seen that place have anyone in it at all is when the lesbians took it over, and I don’t want to piss of the lesbians. 

West Hollywood Bar Review. For real, yo. Part 1.

I think my most commonly asked question at work is “What’s fun to do tonight?”  I usually try to respond with “me” or something similar.  I mean, really, I would prefer if you stayed at my bar and threw your money at me.  But I understand the need to wander.  So, I’ve decided to do a bar review, of all the gay bars in the area.  Every bar has a personality.  It’s like being in high school.  The Abbey would be one of those socialite kids that everyone thinks is perfect, but she’s secretly snorting cocaine out of her Jesus necklace.  Motherlode would probably be that really fat art fag that, when he grows up, will be a little eccentric, but gorgeous.  Rage is the jock who failed his senior year and had to be in high school for another year.  Fiesta is the cool kid that everyone loves.  Mickys is the cool kid that everyone’s afraid of. 

You get the picture. 

So, without further ado (what does that even mean?) here’s the beginning of my gay bar review. I hope you enjoy it.  If not, get drunk and read it again. 

**********************************************************

Motherlode is probably one of my favorite bars.  I like the little smoking patios.  They make me feel like I’m in a zoo.  I haven’t been able to figure out who would be the caged animal—me, or the trannys walking the street.  Very strong drinks, very large drinks, and surprisingly cheap.  They usually play really, REALLY weird video clips on their TVs—I never know why they do it, but I think it has something to do with the fact that the place usually smells like pot.  On Tuesday nights, it turns into a super ghetto hip-hop dance party, with so much fog from the fog machine that you can’t see who you’re making out with, which is usually a good thing.  The bar staff is friendly, and they have a pool table—but no one seems to know how to play pool here, which is cool, I guess. 

Whenever I’m there, I usually get a boner, because there’s lots of hot, easy guys.  It’s a very diverse crowd, sometimes you get muscle daddies, sometimes you get twinks, and I even saw a lesbian there one time.  We kicked her out though. 

Before it burnt down, Mickys was a dark, dirty bar, full of trashy strippers.  And mostly, it was FUN.  I can’t even count the number of times I did something I wasn’t extremely proud of in there.  Now it’s lit up like a fucking homosexual beacon.  It’s so awkward to get groped and fondled and licked when everyone is watching you.  It’s also awkward that the mostly naked gogo boys are dancing on the patio, while children are going next door to the yogurt shop. 

That being said, I still usually have a pretty fun time.  The “dancers” are, for the most part, very attractive, and fairly uninhibited (meaning, I don’t have to use my imagination to picture what their junk looks like, they usually just whip it out).  I put dancers in quotes because a lot of them just stand there and rub themselves.  The bartenders don’t seem to have any personalities at all, I think they might have bought them at Costco—but then again when the music is so loud that I can hear it when I’m at a live show at the Key Club on Sunset, they probably don’t have much opportunity to let their charming personalities shine.  At least they’re pretty. 

They also have a second level, though I don’t know what it’s used for.  I think bar mitzvahs, maybe.

Fiesta Cantina used to be my go to bar.  I was there 7 days a week.  It was like my version of Cheers.  And then I realized that it probably isn’t healthy (or financially responsible) to be drinking 7 nights a week, so I cut down.  Still, I go back on occasion, and very little has changed.  The staff are all ridiculously gorgeous, and are well aware of this fact.  I hear rumors of bad service and major attitude problems, but everyone’s always nice to me when I go there—but then again, I pay in cash, and I tip really well.  HINT HINT. 

They always seem to have a decent sized crowd, despite the fact that the much snazzier Mickys is within spitting distance.  One time I played beer pong upstairs.  Completely unrelated, but it should be noted that I kicked ass. 

They serve Mexican food, which is actually pretty damn good.  One time I had too many of their endless taco Tuesday tacos, and ended up throwing them up when I got home.  It might have also been all the margaritas.  Their margaritas are delicious.  And they are fantastic at subtly up selling the Patron. 

Gold Coast is not quite the oldest bar in West Hollywood, but it’s damn close.  And while other bars have kept up with the times (and kept the young crowds coming back), Gold Coast has enjoyed the 1980s for the past 30 years.   Here you’ll find lots of older men getting their drank on, a hustler or 6, and some really, really odd bartenders.  And if you’re looking for some extra entertainment, go out back and take a peek at Vaseline Alley—never a dull moment.  There is a fierce liking for pool at this bar, and most of the people who play take the game a little too seriously.  In fact, the only thing that people fight over more is probably the jukebox.  You never know what’s going to be playing—it might be a Latino playing an hour of Spanish music, or a depressed old man playing 20 dollars worth of Barbara Streisand, or a drunk idiot playing Pokerface 10 times in a row.   

Despite the severe lack of teeth, and deodorant, you’ll definitely have a good time at this bar.  Everyone’s treated like family, and most people there really don’t take themselves too seriously.  The drinks are awfully cheap, and extremely strong.  It’s a great place to start out your night, and depending on how you look at it, an even better place to end your night.

Rage was once a place worth going to, now it’s generally a place to avoid.  It caters to the 18-22 crowd (and the 80 year old men who love 18-22 twinks), so maybe that’s why I avoid the place like I avoid smelly people, or Jews.  It’s filled with underage, overweight latin girls (or, “latinas”) who wear skinny bedazzled jeans from Wal-Mart.  They wear too much perfume, are obsessed with Twilight and/or Justin Beiber, and usually puke outside of US Bank at the end of the night.  This is fag hag central.  I feel weird going there because I’m white, and I don’t live with my parents. 

The only redeeming quality of this club is the black security guard who dresses like a cop.  He’s been there for approximately 300 years, but he hasn’t aged a day—black don’t crack, yo.  No one knows what he actually does there, or if he even works there, but he takes whatever his job is very seriously, which I can respect. 

What your drink says about you, Part 2

                There’s an old saying that I once heard, “you are what you eat.”  So, it would stand to reason that you are what you drink, as well.  I hope it’s not entirely true, otherwise I am a giant monster made out of spaghetti and coca-cola.  And last night I was a gelatinous blob of Jose Cuervo.

                When I worked at Starbucks, I could usually tell what a customer was going to order based on their appearance.  14-year old black girls usually got caramel frappucinos with extra whip cream and extra caramel.  Asians usually got green tea lattes.  50-year old skinny white ladies always got non-fat lattes.  And anyone who came in without shoes or reeked of urine usually just wanted water. 

                Now I know, I know, this might be considered “profiling,” or “offensive.”  But I think it should be called “genius” and “hilarious.”  And, as I transitioned from the crazy loons addicted to coffee, to the crazy loons addicted to alcohol, I noticed that there are a few trends with the alcoholics as well.  And so, I started compiling a list.  It’s a “what your drink says about you” list. 

                If you find my thoughts on this matter offensive, well, then you can go suck it. 

                Or have another shot.  It gets better when you’re drunk.  Most things do.

                Vodka Soda—this is the type of person that enjoys the taste of booze.  Congratulations, sir, you are an alcoholic.  You’re the guy who runs into the bar before his AA meeting and downs one of these because you know it won’t leave your breath smelling completely like alcohol.  And then you run in after your meeting for a couple drinks before you have to head back to your sober living housing.  Chew a lemon rind, it also helps with alcohol breath, you alchy. 

                Cuba Libre without a Lime—you’re an idiot.

                Stella—you’re a fucking hipster.  Your pants are too tight, and you’re wearing too much eyeliner.  You just drink this because you think it makes you look cool.  It doesn’t.  Well, ok, it makes you look a little cool.

                “Dark Beer” or “ale”—you’re probably from the Northwest, like Portland or Seattle.  Or you think you’re too good for a bottle of Bud.  Or you’re a lesbian.  Probably a lesbian.  Either way, you definitely own lots of flannel.

                Anything that starts with Glen (Glenfiddich, Glenlivet)—get off your high horse.  You’re at a bar, leave your fancy ass shit for your fancy dinner parties, you rich old man.  I’m so happy that you like the finer things in life, but really, calm down.  Either that, or you’re a fucking badass chick, and you probably have huge tits.  Kudos to you ma’am, I hope you get laid tonight.

                Wine—who the fuck orders wine at a bar?  It doesn’t make you classy, especially if you can’t even pronounce whatever wine you are ordering correctly.  Oh, and to the lady who orders a “white chardonnay,”  THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A RED CHARDONNAY.  YOU DON’T HAVE TO SPECIFY THE COLOR.  And the “t” in “pinot” is silent.  And finally, if you are ordering wine with ice…that just makes you an extra level of classy, now doesn’t it?

                Champagne—hoooooooomo.   You, sir, are a homosexual.  Or it’s some birthday party, or bachelorette party, or some sort of celebration.  But if you aren’t celebrating, and ordering champagne, you are a big, giant, homo. 

                (as a side note, I LOVE champagne.)

                Water—just leave.  What the fuck are you doing at a bar if you aren’t drinking?  Go back to AA you quitter. 

                Jager Bomb—the only people who seem to order these are frat boys, and middle aged men trying to relive their glory days.  Or me.  Either way, maaaaan are you going to regret drinking that. 

                Belvedere Vodka—seriously?  You’re too good for Grey Goose?  You aren’t Chelsea Handler, you know you can’t taste the difference between this and Absolut, and you know you’re just ordering this to look cool.  Too bad looking cool costs so much?  Especially since you’re probably at one of those fancy bars, like the Abbey.  Y’all can keep your Belvedere, I’ll stick with my Ketel One.

So there we have the next installment of my highly scientific, politically correct list.  I hope this is of value to you all. 

                Class dismissed.

What your drink says about you, Part 1.

There’s an old saying that I once heard, “you are what you eat.”  So, it would stand to reason that you are what you drink, as well.  I hope it’s not entirely true, otherwise I am a giant monster made out of spaghetti and coca-cola.  And last night I was a gelatinous blob of Jose Cuervo.

                When I worked at Starbucks, I could usually tell what a customer was going to order based on their appearance.  14-year old black girls usually got caramel frappucinos with extra whip cream and extra caramel.  Asians usually got green tea lattes.  50-year old skinny white ladies always got non-fat lattes.  And anyone who came in without shoes or reeked of urine usually just wanted water. 

                Now I know, I know, this might be considered “profiling,” or “offensive.”  But I think it should be called “genius” and “hilarious.”  And, as I transitioned from the crazy loons addicted to coffee, to the crazy loons addicted to alcohol, I noticed that there are a few trends with the alcoholics as well.  And so, I started compiling a list.  It’s a “what your drink says about you” list. 

                If you find my thoughts on this matter offensive, well, then you can go suck it. 

                Or have another shot.  It gets better when you’re drunk.  Most things do.

                                        

                Vodka Cranberry—you don’t really like the taste of alcohol, but you like to hang out with the cool kids so you drink this.  Also applies to Rum and Cokes.  Don’t ever order a “cape cod” without a lime, because then you’re being an idiot (bartenders, you know what I’m talking about). 

                Vodka Redbull—you’re probably a youngster who plans on dancing the night away, or you can’t hold your liquor well, so you hope the Redbull will balance you out and keep you going, but it really just makes you act like a crack head.  Or you haven’t discovered the joys of cocaine, and you’re trying to keep up with your friends who go to the bathroom every five minutes and come out with renewed energy and a runny nose.

                Bloody Mary—someone had a little too much to drink last night!  Great way to get rid of a hangover.  Should ONLY be ordered during the morning and/or lunch hours.  If you order it at night, that’s just weird and you’re an asshole for making the bartender make something like that when he’s clearly busy.  You know who you are, bastard. 

                Corona—Mexican.

                Corona and a shot of Tequila—Mexican who can’t speak English. 

                Long Island Iced Tea—maybe it’s your 21^st birthday and you don’t know what is actually in it.  Maybe you’re looking to play catch up with your drunk friends (not a good idea).  Maybe you’re just trying to be cool because that’s the only drink you’ve ever heard of on TV.  Either way, you’re an idiot, you’re going to get FUBAR (fucked up beyond all recognition), and you’re probably going to end up on the street puking (and if you’re a girl, you’ll probably be crying as well). 

                Any drink that is Blue—you’re probably black. 

                Frozen margaritas, or “slushies”—you’re probably black.

                Hennessey—you’re definitely black.

                Gin and Juice—black.

                Gin and Tonic—no one should be ordering this unless they qualify for the senior citizen discount at the movie theater. 

                A beer and a shot—you are a professional drinker, sir.  Good job, welcome to the club. 

                Cosmopolitan—STOP WATCHING SEX AND THE CITY, homo. 

                Sex on the Beach, or any other drink with a fancy name like that—if you don’t know what goes in your drink, don’t order it.  You don’t sound cool when you order a “purple hooter,” you sound like a tool.  And chances are, we’re just going to make up something on the spot and pretend it’s what you ordered, because you’re usually too drunk to notice at that point.

                 Large orders of really sweet, pretty shots—ladies, calm down.  You aren’t hardcore for chugging lemon drops, and I don’t care if it’s a ladies night out on the town.  And don’t order 8 shots and tip 2 dollars.  And when you’re ordering rounds of shots, always ask the bartender if he wants one too, because he probably does—and after dealing with your bachelorette party, he probably needs one.

                Martinis of any kind—you’re probably trying to look way classier than you are.  And if your bartender is as lazy as I am, he’ll probably hate you for making him do all that extra work.

                 

                So there we have the start of my highly scientific, politically correct list.  I hope this is of value to you all. 

                Class dismissed.

Lord, I need a drink.

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.