Musings during borderline sickness
Musings during borderline sickness
It’s quite amazing and amusing the musings when you’re just on the cusp of catching that cold or developing the flu; when you’re not feeling quite right, but not totally sick as not to be able to function. Observe these musings:
1. Interns with nothing to do: While indulging in a “bitch” session about the drought of work to do in the office, a couple co-workers and I pointed out the fact that one of the student interns in the Information Systems (IT) section attempts to cover his computer screen by putting his face practically touching the monitor. It’s comedic. With his back facing us, he probably doesn’t know that we can still see the website he’s browsing, despite the sizable head he carries. “Look at that heed. It’s so friggin’ huge it’s got its own orbit. It’s like Sputnik.” – from So I Married an Axe Murderer
2. In the office, our e-mail server is local and is separate from our internet access. As is usually the case, when the internet is down, e-mail remains functioning. Since the internet connection to our office computers was out most of this afternoon, when my co-worker thought it had been re-established, she promptly e-mailed me with one sentence in the subject line: “E-mail’s back up!” I promptly responded back, “I know Tracey, duh!” Immediately she bursts into laughter. She replies in another e-mail, “I mean the internet is back on!” She must have forgotten what the heck the difference was in those long four hours.
3. Bored near tears today, Tracey (see #2 above) and I were discussing the forced smiling we all endure in the workplace to communicate politeness, like when you pass someone in the hall and don’t have enough sense to just say, “Hi.” You try a small smile that usually isn’t natural and is sort of reminiscent of a constipated look. Usually no teeth show but sometimes, sometimes, your upper lip sticks to your teeth accidentally exposing some teeth, results in a ghastly grimace. Or maybe that’s just me?
4. A printed black and white picture of an asparagus bundle looks something like logs of shit.
5. I think too much when I’m getting sick.
Tripping in Las VegasTaking a nice road trip can open your eyes to some truths that despite their universal quality, are not as apparent as one might think. I was reminded of this fact this past Martin Luther King Holiday week-end on a little road trip to Las Vegas with Marcel. These lessons were taught to me by some very different people: a dear friend, a lover, two prostitutes and a drag queen.
My Puerto Vallarta travelling partner and dear friend, Shawn, invited Marcel and me over for drinks at his new home outside the main boulevards of glitz and glamour before heading out to one of the local bars, Icon. A short drive from our hotel, the Stratosphere, brought us to a nice three-bedroom home in a nice suburban area of Las Vegas, where Shawn had just moved into. Immediately, he gave us the fail-safe hospitality offering: “What would you like to drink? I’ve got Cosmos and some beer.”
“A Cosmo would be great,” Marcel replied.
“You guys are killing me. I’ve never made them before. Do you know how to make them?” Shawn asked in return without missing a beat.
The three of us would indeed enjoy Cosmos in some unique cocktail glasses, easily side-stepping the sordid discussion topic of budget cuts to be faced by Las Vegans and diving whole-heartedly into the ridiculously thorough security of the resort in Puerto Vallarta that foiled Shawn's and my attempt to invite the locals over to share our vacation.
Lesson learned: If you don’t know how to make the drink, that’s cool. Someone can show you. Persevere. Actually, I think Baz Lurhman stated this in his “Suncreen” song back in ’99.
I was elated at the time Shawn, Marcel and I were able to share that night. But I wasn’t so sure we'd make it because of the previous night’s antics that threatened the joy of the week-ed.
Hitting the ground running, Marcel and I arrived the night before right around 11:30 p.m. and after shaking the travel from our hair, headed out to Gipsy, the premier gay club in the L.V. More than a couple cocktails later and nearly over-awing the locals by being dangerous on the dancefloor, we were off to a fantastic start.
It was inevitable that the local boys would start falling in love with Marcel, which one did. He was the cute guy with the grey A|X shirt. Nice compact body, dark hair, dark complected (like me - gee, I wonder what’s Marcel’s type?). Flirtation abounded. And I wasn’t having any of it – this time.
These situations are always topsy-turvy. I can neither guarantee bemused indifference nor hot jealousy. The latter prevailed and drama ensued. I rebuffed my lover, refusing to dance with him. “Go ahead,” I told him. “See if I care,” I thought. But, hey, light at the end of the tunnel he did dance to Kylie with this Carlos. And after some loud pouting later that night, followed by loud – something else – I realized…
Second lesson: Don’t blame others for falling in love with your boyfriend. They can’t help it and he can’t help being beautiful. Much the same way they can’t help but get intimidated by me when I give them the evil eye.
The week-end progressed nicely after that night, with a nice late morning breakfast at the Spice Market buffet at the Alladin, followed by walks on the main strip which brought us past the Barbary Coast, where Marcel spotted a couple of broads, chilling on a street bench busy with visitor traffic. Or what the two sitting on the bench like to call, “Potential clients.” You see, it was evident that the two were prostitutes, each of a different, unique flavor.
“Are you seeing this?” Marcel quipped.
“Ebony and Ivory,” I replied, which elicited laughter.
But there was something more about Ebony and Ivory that also caught our eye. In those two, you could see a special bond, as if Ebony were saying to Ivory, “I got your back, n*gga,” as she took a drag from her menthol cigarette and blew it out the hole in her smile.
Lesson Three: Friends. They’re everything and everything. Living in perfect harmony. And also that you could get them together for a nominal fee.
The end of the week-end brought us back to Gipsy after a dinner at the top of the Stratosphere that was so “E” and a couple cocktails as we prowled the Palms and scoffed at the line to Ghost Bar. At Gipsy it was bumping, jumping, and moving all around. The atmos was just right where we noticed up on stage, a mass of blonde wig reminiscent of Lady Godiva working the center go-go box. All eyes were on her, not even the effeminate stick of a girl/boy beside her who had balled up his shirt to expose his emaciated body could steal her spotlight.
“If his father had only played football once with him...” Marcel observed, shaking his head.
The blond wore a fringed sleeveless top that exposed her more than ample belly. A denim skirt and some terrible shoes finished the outfit. She writhed and worked the stage. We laughed and pointed. She noticed, retaliated and danced a voodoo spell on us, by pointing to us, pouring her thralls outward, giving 110%.
“Oh my God, Miss Terrible’s on her back, twiddling her legs in the air!” I exclaimed.
“Tony, get it right. You’ve got to give her due props. Her name is ‘Miss Lady Atrocious.’”
And thus born was the everlasting memory of Miss Lady Atrocious who taught me…
Finally, Lesson Four: Drag is not a half-ass job. You can’t get tired in the middle of dressing drag for the night and say, “Good enough.” You’ve got to do it all the way. Make-up and all. Else you’ll look like Miss Lady Atrocious, staying at "Terrible’s" in Las Vegas for the week-end.
Internet Access at Work is a Trap
Why, oh why then do we have unrestricted Internet access at work?
Because it’s a trap. Let me relate what just happened today at work.
As usual there was nothing for me to do today. Having been relegated to the simple multi-task of obtaining mailing addresses of various companies to mail a particular correspondence, I had found myself mostly surfing the Internet. So much so that I’ve developed something short of carpal tunnel syndrome in my right hand - my mouse-clicking hand, of course. With no work-related interaction between any superiors since Monday, (we’d only exchanged “Hellos” and such since then), I was surfing with impunity and was checking the latest sales on NORDSTROM.com - great sales on shoes I don’t like – when who but the Chief of my bureau walks into my cubicle.
Like the doe caught in the headlights I couldn’t “escape” click fast enough. As he placed the report to be edited on my desk, he got a good glimpse of the “after holiday sales” for men page at Nordy’s. A couple clickety-clicks later, we proceeded to make the edits to the report, Chief dictating while I typed.
As the embarrassment faded this afternoon (I’d punished myself by not allowing myself any music on my CD-ROM the rest of the day), I realized this is what upper management wanted when they gave us Internet at work. They expect us to surf on god-knows-what websites, just as they do. The only added bonus is they live to catch us in the act for a big “HA-HA, you’re a dirty bird!” moment.
I can’t wait until I’m upper management.
January 6, 2003What's been going on since 2000? Lots of things! That's what! I've gotten hitched to a wonderful man, Marcel, during what we like to call the "White Party Anamoly"; I've started a new job in the City of Los Angeles; I've travelled places near (San Francisco, Las Vegas, New Mexico) and far (Cancun, Manzanillo, and Puerto Vallarta); I've started a Master's Program in Public Administration; and I'm a whole loads funnier (and cynical) than before!
Time was, the journal would be filled with exquisite accounts of flirtation and crazy late night encounters (that never ended in anything more than a handful of giggles after getting some guy's phone number). But now, as I've had to become more mature and disciplined, the funnier events in my life are more profound and the experiences more thought-provoking. Let me illustrate:
Friday evening, after a hard days "work" consisting of sitting in a nearly empty office, silent most of the day due to the lack of any other people around me to talk to, surfing the internet, working on my webpage, coordinating the SCWC (the wrestling club), and staring at the clock; I head to the 24 Hour gym in West Hollywood for my turbo-kick-boxing class by the cute Asian guy, James. As I pay the ridiculous $28/month membership which really actually goes to paying instructors for these classes, and since I've found his is the only turbo class that actually challenges my near unstoppable stamina, I made my way to WeHo.
As I did some weight training before the class, I got a nice dose of stares (I am cute, I know) and even the occassional compliment like, "Hey, nice hands" (what was that about?). And even later as I dressed to leave, I was complimented with a "Heeyyy" (like I should have remembered who this stunning blue-eyed, brown-haired beauty was). But despite these nice ego-booters (we all need them), I realized that the chances that any one of these men would want to carry a conversation with me after knowing I wouldn't be able to have a date with them (I'm hitched remember?), was close to nil. I realized that all they'd want...
Is to play with Mah, bootie!. Epiphany, my friends. You are all witness, witness, witness.
This illicited a private giggle party in my head, which was deprived of normal human interaction and promoted such a disregard for the social inappropriateness of laughing to one's self.
So moral of the story, the gym isn't a place for friends. Except not for me. My suspicions are all accurate. I can read the faces, the looks, even the compliments. Maybe if I carried on the conversation further besides just replying "Oh, I know..." someone worthwhile (as a friend) would turn up. Also, don't laugh to yourself in public. Especially if you're single and want men to talk to you and think you're not crazy. Because most men don't like talking, much less dating, crazies.
December 31, 2000I was looking forward to the end of the holiday season so that I could get on with the post-holiday depression that I am now in the throes of and get back onto something that resembles a regular schedule. What with all the extra parties and such, I’m most proud of keeping up with my usual antics that I am more than happy to relate on a weekly basis.
Thursday was a great day for West Hollywood. I had the day off and would not have to go into work until the following Tuesday. This left me in the best spirits to start the marathon partying I had been preparing for all month. We did the regular places starting with Revolver where Disney-voiced guy was bartending again. I found out that his name was Patrick and with a little less sarcasm, chatted with him on his occasional boredom while bartending which explained the often over-preppy, but entertaining banter that he subjects me to. Overall, I made it a point to “cultivate” a relationship to ensure some modicum of favoritism when the situation might present itself (i.e. free shots on a busy night).
We decided to make a run to the Motherlode since our main choice of the evening, Varsity, hosted by Rage danceclub, was overrun with a long line from the 18 and over crowd that was no doubt on their first week of the holiday break. Never do we ever see this many children about since most of them aren’t allowed to go out on a school night. It was karaoke night at the Motherlode and Martino and I had the unfortunate luck of finding a table to sit at that was at the one spot in the bar where all the sound from one of the large speakers seemed to smack me in the face. Suffice to say, it was an impossibility to carry on any conversation. Not even the friendliness of the bartender (Daddy), whose name now escapes Martino and me, could keep me from losing my eardrums. I mean, I had a whole week-end yet to lose my hearing. We opted to return to the Revolver.
It was there that Martino was lucky (?) enough to run into the 39 year-old with the baseball cap last week. They were engaged in friendly conversation of which I was carefully studying Martino to read whether I should intervene and excuse ourselves with a believable excuse like “Well, nice to see you again. We’re to meet someone at the Abbey.” Hug-hug, kiss, kiss, goodbye. In actuality if he could read between the lines it would be, “Okay. There’s a whole street of bars to work. See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya.” He did accompany us as we walked in search of some food. The bars were closing and my stomach was begging for one of the hot dogs from the lady with the cart.
Along the way, we’d met up with Peter, who had been all but missing in action since I called him Christmas day. I was ecstatic to promise we’d talk about what to do on New Year’s Eve, since it appears that he has of late the most success out of all my friends with men. He, of all people, would help me get out of this slump.
With no sign of the hot dog woman or any of her cronies – male doppelgangers that sell the same delicious wieners – we opted to have pizza at the Greenwich. Following a sad piece of pizza, Martino and I unabashedly admitted that we were still hungry and offered to walk baseball cap guy to his car before we went and stopped to eat somewhere else. After he dropped us off at the Pacific Design Center where we had parked, I immediately knew that they’d want some privacy for their “goodbyes.” With usual tact, Martino returned in just a few minutes, which I understood was an indication that this man would not get much more than what he just received.
Friday I had decided to commit to a get-together at a high school friend’s house. The extended clique that included mostly friends from high school were all going to be there and I thought it best to relax and save up some money for the week-end. It was nice to see my ex-boyfriend (April guy) there, alive and well and looking very handsome. I’d let him do me again. Or me, him. Whatever position we’d be in, I commended myself in being aloof and generally so disinterested to the point that he left with two other women that I’d gone to high school with. Well, actually they were leaving just as I arrived since they were going salsa dancing, but the notion of the former was more appealing to my ego, fragile as it has been lately.
Also of note was the nice eye-candy, Josh, who had lost his baby-fat and was looking absolutely delicious in his clean-cut look of a blue collared shirt, khakis and black boots. I made it a point to making excessive eye-contact with him while I berated my friends, Kitty and Maricela (both jokingly confessed “losers” – they have yet to find careers that fulfill them) with jokes that only made me laugh. I knew it was pretentious of me, but when Maricela complimented me on how cute I was and how buff my body looked, I sarcastically played to it and feigned a mock shyness and made sure that made Josh uncomfortable while I fucked him with me stares.
It was off to OZZ on Saturday. Martino had for the first time since the holiday season gotten off work before 10 p.m. and we made plans to go together. Surprisingly, young Mike was there with Poppa Bear. I was glad to see that the previous week’s misfortune had not kept him from OZZ as I had originally thought it would. Also in attendance was Cody, a very handsome white man, about 6’1” with brown hair and subtle blue eyes. As I had had two cups of expresso before meeting with Martino, I made a bee-line to the bathroom, but stopped to say a short hello to Cody. “Martino is here. He’s like to speak to you,” I said. Although Martino would scold me like Ike Turner scolding Tina, it would later prove to be a failsafe match-making maneuver on my part. We would not see Martino for most of the night, much to young Mike’s disappointment.
Most of the night would be spent talking with young Mike, Poppa Bear and any of the slew of acquaintances that passed by. Part of our entertainment was making mock Miralas Sucias (Dirty looks) at Martino when he would pass by with Cody. Young Mike played along fantastically, using me as prop to try to make Martino jealous. He would put his arm around me and smile cynically when Martino would catch us giving looks. I didn’t mind. Maybe he’d want to really try to get Martino jealous I lay a big fat wet one on my lips. A KISS, you perverts. I took the opportunity to instruct him on the “Rules” of Slut Club in order to avoid any other embarrassments like those of last week.
Incidentally I noticed that a promotion was in the works this night and I endeavored to find out that Fernet Branka, an Italian liquor, was the promotion. I related to Ron and young Mike the fine details of alcohol promotions like some seasoned veteran. I drew on all the knowledge that I had gained in the one night that I was used by my agency only to then be systematically done away with like a used rubber. No sooner had I finished my story-telling of “how hard it is to work people, that you have to flirt no matter how ugly the patron may be so that they buy the alcohol” when a muscular man in a black cap and a very small tight black shirt that nicely showed off his arms and navel, walked over. He was handsome. Then I noticed the white stylized print on his shirt read “Fernet Branka.”
He worked me well enough that despite my savvy interrogation (“What is the proof of this liquor?”) at which he put me in a head-lock to walk me over to his super to find out (“80 proof”), I agreed to try the drink. He promptly rewarded me for taking the bait (I couldn’t resist the smell of his armpits as he had me in the headlock) with a “Baby GAP T-shirt” as he called it and a cap for young Mike who really didn’t know what to make of the little scene that just occurred. Or maybe because I was whispering into Mike’s ear to spank the promoter’s leather clad ass that begged for it.
Unfortunately, the three shots for Ron, Mike and myself were horrible. We all gagged and resolved to never drink it again. I mean, damn, what was I thinking?
The rest of the night was uneventful, not counting the tug-of-Tony-war between Ron and Mike where Mike lost and fell to the floor, barstool and all. “You pulled me!” I half-angrily yelled at Ron while I helped Mike up to which Ron responded with a loud laugh. The night ended when Martino happily returned to the fold as the house lights came back on. An interesting exchange ensued when bartender Jesse made a comment to Martino. As a short set-up to the situation, it has become evident to us that Jesse is most perturbed when Martino bags the better looking men that Jesse also has had his eye on. Although no particulars come to mind, it became obvious that this was the case with Cody, although I am fast realizing that everybody wants Cody, myself included, but to the better man go the spoils.
Jesse jokingly challenged Martino to a contest on who could get the most numbers “without sleeping with anyone” as Jesse was sure to make clear. The vitriol was palpable in this exchange where despite Jesse’s disarming smile, my stomach began to turn as I heard the intensity in his voice and the laughter that fell from Martino’s mouth as Jesse said loudly for all to hear, “You’ll lose.” At which I laughed. Martino, of course, made a futile attempt to make Jesse see the folly of his certainty. Others around the bar hearing the exchange were intrigued as the two bombshells threw their gauntlets off. Before the scene could progress to a senseless saturated testosterone bitch fight, we exited to make our way to Denny’s.
After a small tiff with Poppa Bear whose reluctance to allow me to drive his truck for him since he was drunk forced Mike and me to play musical keys, we made a quick night of things at Denny’s. The early breakfast consisted mostly of a very disappointed Mike using his pawn (me) to try to get Martino jealous which only elicited laughter from the would-be target of this charade. In the end we left, Martino on cloud 9, young Mike in the sewers, my spirit unchanged since I have been batting 0.000 since October, and Poppa Bear still tipsy.
The finale to the week-end was at hand and still I had no idea who or what I was attending to ring in the New Year with. Not to say that I didn’t have any options. The final tally of the number of invites was 4. Amongst them two parties, one social gathering before hitting Santa Monica Boulevard, and partying at one of the venues on Santa Monica and spend some money. I chose the tried and true method with Martino and went to the Rage New Year’s party as sort of a make-up for missing it on Thursday so that I could at least say I did something big this time around, not like last year. Last year, my boyfriend told me that he was going on a date with a girl the following week, and although we had agreed to an “open” relationship, you’ve got to know that I was seething. Worse, he was underage and we couldn’t (financially or otherwise) get into any of the clubs that were having the much-hyped New Year’s extravaganzas. The street was dead anyhow last year, which although was a concern, I knew it would not be so tonight since the sad turnout last year had forced many venues to lower their cover charges in order to attract us more reasonable party-ers like Martino and myself.
Rage didn’t even charge its advertised $25 cover. I got in at the door for only $20. Already the night was off to a great start. Despite the short wait outside, Martino and I made it inside, and as is customary, we left almost as quickly as we got in to see where else we could go before settling in for the night. We finished one beer and decided it best to return when the crowd was bigger.
Unfortunately, our usual hangouts were charging cover and even though they were not extraordinary (Revolver was charging $5, no ins-and-outs) I opted to save the money for drinks. At Martino’s wise suggestion, we scurried over to the Abbey, certain that the once coffee-bar now big time whore house venue with extended bars and a patio that boasts harem couches for the horny would suffice.
A note on how fabulous we looked is in order. Martino and I had decided to dress up for this occasion, although I’m not sure why neither of us brought a camera. The color code was black. His Polo turtleneck, black Banana Republic slacks, were offset by the glitter in his hair and the single sparkling rhinestone serving as a mock-labret below his bottom lip. Since we had coordinated earlier that night as we simultaneously looked in our closets on what to wear (what NOT to wear in my case – I have absolutely no wardrobe for 2001), I decided on a brown semi-iridescent micro-pattern shirt with black slacks and my new Reaction quarter-length jacket. Martino complimented me on my choice saying, “You look good in that length jacket. It must be a Chino thing.” I could only smile and realize that I should take whatever compliment I could this evening from my friend. I retorted, “Have a ciggie, sweetie.”
At the Abbey we caught up with Peter and his friends whom Martino and I had last seen at Dragstrip in October or November. It’s all a blur. We enjoyed drinks and did good not to look around too much at all the men. For a brief moment, I felt nostalgic, the three of us together this last night of the year, as we had so many times in 2000. Then I realized that we were all dressed in black and suddenly a feeling welled up within me. A feeling so intense and sudden it was like Martino smacking my head just to wake me when I doze off in his car on our drives back home after a night of hanging out. At first I thought that we looked like we were in mourning. In mourning for the end of an era. As Peter reminded me so cruelly, we would be 25 this next year, and I could scarcely digest that. But then, I realized, that no, we were not in mourning, but rather in celebration. We were celebrating our unity, our like-mindedness. A unified Animus. Deadly hunters who always get what we want. Okay, not so recently for me, but regardless. I mean I haven’t had any since October, but anyway... We were all parts of the same man. Handsome, demure, aggressive. We were like…
CHARLIE’S ANGELS.
The urge I felt was for all of us to pose and jump-kick and round-house and karate chop while one of Felipe’s friends snapped photos a dozen a second to capture the vitality of the three of us dressed in black looking beautiful, ready for any man, ready to take him and then we’d be ready to fight…
It was then that I knew I needed to pace myself better with my drinking. Whew! Imagine if I had said anything to them that night. What a weirdo! Besides, I knew it was time to get to the main event at Rage since Daniel, Peter’s friend with the strong Hispanic accent was making funny eyes at me that said, “I’m drunk enough, you’ll do for now.”
We returned to Rage and Martino realized that he hadn’t called back the Italian bartender, Spasmacetti, after our last visit. Spasmacetti had obviously been very smitten with the Puerto Rican bombshell and had given him his number. In the interest of networking, I seconded Martino’s suggestion to pretend that he had lost his number as an excuse for not calling. The ploy worked or rather, Spasmacetti didn’t mind the lie, for they hit it off nicely and the two of us benefited with two stronger-than-Poppa-strength drinks. A tear welled up in my eye as I thought it a sign from Poppa, a sign reminding us that he was still with us this holiday.
At some point in the night Martino and I had gotten more drinks and if I remember correctly, even one shot from Spasmacetti. How fun it must be to be a bartender and wantonly throw drinks at people you think are cute. I thought of it and made a mental note to look into how to become a bartender as one of my New Year’s resolutions. As the New Year approached, Martino and I, having enough alcohol in our systems, decided to make a run on the dance floor. The music was right, my head was so into the lights and I needed to dance. So hot I got that despite the man that Martino and I had somehow gotten sandwiched between us, I decided to egg Martino on to strip off his sweater.
“Ooooooh, it’s so hot,” I pouted, smiling viciously at my friend. He shook his head. “I think my shirt needs to come off.” And off it went. I didn’t give a damn, we were so packed into the venue which had reached maximum capacity, no one would notice that the shirt I wore underneath was the Baby Gap shirt from the night before. What a liberation it was.
Overhead, the DJ announced the countdown to five minutes, then one minute intervals until the final few seconds. The dance fever had caught me and I couldn’t recall the details. But the sandwiched man, facing Martino I might add, mistook the countdown as the countdown to getting some dick. As the crowd chanted, “…four….three…two,” he reached behind and unzipped the fly to my pants with almost too much ease. By the time we were shouting “Happy New Year!” my fly was all the way open. Although I had been rubbing his ass crack with no sense of fairness, I immediately re-zipped my pants.
He must have been turned off or something, but the only thing I remember is Martino and I walking away to have some downtime at the Abbey.
Upon returning, Martino and I went made the rounds. At this point, I was over the episode that had occurred with my zipper and was out to enjoy the rest of the night with fake plastic snow-covered floor and all. At some other point, I can’t recall, I met this duo of ecstasy-deprived boys. One, the shaved-head one wore shades that hid his bug-eyes. That was enough to sober me up quickly. His other friend, a pale-skinned boy, reminded me much of my one-time fling with a certain Charles Holling. Pale-skinned boy and I even had one of those sticky-pics taken, those polaroids with the sticky backs. Another one was taken with the group of us.
The night ended nicely with us giving up on a late breakfast at IHOP (it was too crowded) and opting for the Yukon Mining Company. By the time we left at 3:30 a.m., I realized that Martino still had to drive home from my house and get up for work at 10:45 a.m. I watched him intently out of the corner of my eye, hoping he would nod off so that I could get a chance to wake him by slapping him on the back of the head. Hey, it was 2001. Time for some changes.
December 23, 2000As usual the reality that all the festivity and anticipation of Christmas were coming to a close had not set in until this week-end. What with the Department holiday party that marked our final day at work before Christmas and the subsequent lunch on Olvera Street with a few of my co-workers and supervisors, I had finally resolved myself that this was what all the waiting was for and to be prepared of the inevitable post-holiday depression. But that wouldn’t be until Tuesday. Until then I was ready to find out whether this week-end had any interesting things for me to make this one of note. Most importantly, I wanted to see if my two-month slump would be paid back in full, hopefully in the form of a handsome professional man that would fall from the sky and into my lap.
I spent most of Friday hating my co-worker who had given me the flu. Although I was fighting off the worst symptoms, I was still nauseated and out of breath while taking pictures of children with Santa and Mrs. Claus. It was our annual Department half-day children’s party that to me was actually “Show Your Kids Off Day.” Conspicuously, the General Manager was conveniently quarantined in his office the entire time, making discreet appearances, fooling nobody. Employees bring their children to work and as part of this celebration for the holidays, some unlucky sap is relegated with the responsibility of entertaining all the children. The newly crowned sap of 2000 happened to be my co-worker who is single, 35, and always in need of attention. So what better way for her to make a name for herself than to assist in this Herculean labor?
I was dragged into this since I had absolutely nothing to do that day and as most City employees, wasn’t about to waste my half-day doing City-related work. This was about eating and talking and showing off the children, which most did. Besides, this was my opportunity to show I was a “team player” which is important since I have yet to receive official notice that I have indeed passed probation and will not be terminated. The effort nearly killed me and ended with me exhausted, though satisfied that I had done my duty and showed enough good face to my General Manager and supervisors to erase the image from their minds of a young, party-maniac who used to steal things.
The daytime segued right into the evening and although I was able to drop by the gym in West Hollywood (which was actually a trek – it took me almost an hour to get from Downtown to WeHo), I didn’t feel any better. It wasn’t until later that Martino called me and we made arrangements to go out. Where else, I was to find out later while enjoying a quiet dinner at home, but West Hollywood. I had a Ground Hog day moment, but quickly got over it and offered to drive, provided Martino keep his back-seat driving to an occasional sneer, not the usual tirade that reduces me to a sniveling 4-year old who’s being scolded for spilling milk. Not to fear, for Martino opted to sneer at my sometimes less than exciting conversation delivery of my day’s accounts. I laughed at myself too, but out of a sense of self-pity at the lack of energy I had that night and lack of interesting things to tell.
It just isn’t the same anymore without Poppa. No longer do we go to Revolver to see him and have a good old Poppa-strength Cape Cod. Now, there’s just this guy or that guy, none of which are as adorable. This latest one spoke with the intonations of a Disneyland announcer. So I had to ask, “Do you also work for Disney?” with the driest smile on my face. He shrugged and went on an announcing binge on the next guy in line behind me. Martino and I drank silent while watching the ‘80’s videos that played onscreen. I was annoyed having wanted to see current videos. And the fact that some drunk guy (not half-bad looking) wearing a Santa hat was jeering at my friend as he ignored him was not doing it for me. With no sign of John, the manager, (and thus no chance of a free shot) we moved on.
Next in line was the Motherlode, a nice pub-style bar adorned by heavy wood paneling and large hanging bulbous lamps circa 1900. Behind the bar was the bartender whose flirtation with Martino consisted of asking for his I.D. even though we were carded at the door. This ritual had persisted on Martino alone until the last couple times we’d visited when he’d “carded” myself too while we both knew full well that he wanted to get our names right. It seemed like it would be no time before I would be able to work the free shots leaving Martino free to “move about the cabin.”
“What’s his name?” I whispered quickly to Martino as the bartender got us our beers. “I don’t know,” Martino shot back.
Bartender’s name is … I can’t remember. But at any rate, he looks to fast become our new “Poppa.” Well, not so. Poppa will always be Ron from Revolver. This one, I knight him, “Daddy.” Daddy was nice enough to offer us a free shot (Ooo, we like him already) and happily accepted his recommendation of Irish whiskey. Sampling the different roses of regular whiskey to Irish whiskey, I thought it would be smoother going down. Wrong. It went down just as hard. Hell, it’s not like I paid for it.
We both knew that we’d have to visit one of the dance clubs and decided I could watch the light show at Stereo, hosted by Rage on Fridays. Now, lights are my latest fascination. The whirl and flash and cascading are now what I quietly judge in lieu of judging who should have kept their shirt on and who should show more. I know it’s gotten ridiculous enough that I’ve interrupted Martino as he checks out somebody only to point out, “OOOOooo, look how the blue flashes in lines there,” or “oH, OHO, look at the strobe.” You’d think I was some Ex-ed out raver.
Out of all the places this has been one the more successful hunting grounds. Well at least for one of the hunting team. Martino had wandered away at some point, leaving me to fend for myself on the porch where I had been accosted by an older man who’d been eyeing me all evening. Tall, dark-haired and muscular, he told me he was Italian, which was a plus. As I usually complain to Martino, this isn’t like New York, where there isn’t a dirth of Italians. The more we talked the more interesting he seemed. Professional and mature (40 years-old), I was almost ready to bend over and grab my ankles until he asked if the Puerto Rican bombshell was my boyfriend. I adamantly denied it and asked if he had one. He made a funny smile and said, “Well, not really.”
“Not really?” “Well, I’m living with someone who I love.” Then it was my turn to make a funny face.
He went on to explain that his roommate whom he loves but is not “in” love with, really loves him. This “lover” doesn’t mind that he goes out and has “mistresses” (as he called them), so as long as he doesn’t fall in love with any of them. Somehow I got the feeling that these two were mistaking friendship for love and fucking for fidelity. At any rate it sounded like he wasn’t going to get to fuck me. I kindly got his number and made a promise to call him the next day before his “boyfriend” got home from some trip. I would conveniently lose his number the next day.
I found Martino talking to one baseball-capped man whom we’d noticed at Revolver. He looked to be getting friendly with him. Good, I thought, at least someone isn’t batting a 0.00 average.
“Where’ve you been, slut?” Martino asked. “Can you believe that man was 40!” I exclaimed over-dramatically. My remark was met with a blank look from the pair of them.
We offered to take baseball-capped guy to his home a few blocks away. Martino escorted him to his door, but quickly returned. “You know how you said that your guy was 40?”
“Yeah. Why?” “Well my guy was 39.” “Oh. Well, how many numbers did you get?” I retorted trying not to feel too bad. This faux pas was on par with the time earlier this year when I exclaimed “That’s not a girl, look at his feet!” while we were both judging an Asian drag queen who looked ambiguous, but whose opened-toed shoes had given him away. That and the too short hair. “Three.” He laughed. Suffice to say I didn’t feel bad anymore. I would feel bad for what I would do the next night at OZZ.
After a very lackadaisical day of doing small chores around the house in preparation for the holiday gathering that my parents were having on Christmas day, I had relegated myself to the idea that I would indeed stay home and try to put my cold-like symptoms turned flu-like to rest. However, it fell on Martino to gently urge me into meeting him at OZZ after his work night ended at 10:00 p.m. Once again, I was left with the option of going early or finding some other diversion. I chose to shop and ended up with exactly what I deserved for doing such an impulsive thing. I ended up with a $109 jacket – sort of.
Thinking that I was making out with a one-of-a-kind jacket (there were no others like it on the Claiborne rack in Macy’s), I went to the check-out counter after an associate instructed me that they could price-check it for me since it had no tag. After waiting the eternity in the line that was thankfully only 5 persons deep, the man at the counter picked a similar, but not exact jacket to charge me $109. Curiously, after he rang up the jacket using one that had the cheaper $109 price tag (one I decided I would never consider buying, Claiborne label and all), he stepped away to “check something” he said. Upon his return he said, “Actually…”
I thought he would say, “This is $500” or some ridiculous price. He actually said, “…this is the lining to this jacket,” as he lifted the jacket used to charge me the $109. “It’s a two-in-one jacket, see?” Embarrassed at my lack of taste and knowledge to know that I actually like lining of ugly jackets that I would never consider buying, I made some remark about not caring and that I’d buy it anyway. “I knew it looked like the lining,” the woman beside me added, smiling like a bloated, red-haired harpy. Go play in the gutter, tubbo, I wanted to say.
At OZZ, I made sure to put Martino’s gifts in the trunk, to make sure that no hoodlum would think an alarm clock and Fantasia DVD were worth breaking into a car for. I thought that the time I had spent choosing these gifts for my friend weren’t what he was actually worth, but I recalled that I had asked him not to spend much money on my gifts and was satisfied that he would find these gifts thoughtful at the very least since 1) he needed an alarm clock and 2) Fantasia 2000 would be so visually and audio stimulating on the new DVD he’d purchased.
Inside, Ron and young Mike were as I had left them last week, in the same barstools talking. I bored the two with my tangential conversation about how I came about to buy the “jacket” I was wearing and how I seem to make these great fashion choices. Ron seemed politely amused while young Mike seemed entertained while he worked on his Fresh and Fruity from bartender Jesse. We waited for Martino, making bets as to the time he’d actually arrive. Considering that he would have gotten home a little past ten and would need prep time to become pretty, I wagered 11:30. Mike made a bet of 11:00. We both lost when he showed up at 10:45. I was impressed and let Martino know it.
Almost as soon as Martino arrived, a friend whom I see every once in a while also arrived. Drew, who is half-Mexican and half-Filipino was the one who had told me that I had the nicest smile on the night I worked Ripples in Long Beach for my stint as a beer promoter for Miller in August. Tonight, I could tell that he was drunk when he gave me a hug from behind and made like a vampire, brushing his mouth closely to my neck. Worse was when later he returned to ask me to dance. I had no choice since he grabbed my hand and pulled me to dance to “Independent Woman” by Destiny’s Child. Hip-hop not being my choice of music, I imagined how Cameron Diaz would dance to this theme were she her “Natalie” character from the Charlie’s Angels movie. I bumped and grooved the best I could, but knew I looked ridiculous to everyone but Drew, who was starting to want to freak-a-dink. His hands groped, I smiled (out of embarrassment rather than enjoyment) and we got down and dirty. Suddenly, a voice entered my head that sounded curiously like Martino.
“Ya ain’t nothin’ but a little slut, Tony.” “Don’t call me that, I’m a Filipino engineer, senor.” “We know you’re a little slut, you ain’t innocent, we know you’re a little slut.’ “I’m not a slut, I’m not a slut. I’m not, I’m NOT!”
Snapping out of it, I told Drew I needed a drink and went back to the bar only to hear Martino say, “Where were you, little slut?”
As the night progressed I knew that my record would not improve this night and had decided that enough entertainment would ensue if I simply watched how another past scam of mine, Armando, would ignore me for the rest of the night. A decidedly nice man, he has a bad habit of raking my tongue with his teeth in a vise sort of way when we kiss. We would make amends that night and remain polite. He would even ask for approval from Martino and myself of his new leather wrist gauntlet. I approved, but Martino commented, “It’s his cockring,” to which I added, non-maliciously, “More like his ball-stretcher.” Like I said, we made amends.
Drew was on a rampage and I cringed every time he walked by because he would sneak in kisses and gropes. Blame it on sobriety, but I was not having fun with it, so you can imagine my discontent when he once again grabbed my hand to dance. Like a bitch being pulled by his leash, I went along with it, glancing back to glare at my erstwhile compatriots wondering why they couldn’t read the agony on my face to mean, “Help!”
On the dance floor, the bumping continued to the fever pitch I was afraid it would reach. “What’s that strawberry smell?” I asked. Drew blew his breath on me to reveal that it was his Bubblicious that reeked. He quickly popped one in his mouth and handed it to my mouth, which surprisingly opened to receive it. We lip-locked for a minute while he groped a little too far into the back of my pants. I could feel my pants fall slightly. Drew then twirled me around so that my back was pressed to his front. He was so excited I had to adjust my position lest I be violated through my pants. Suddenly, Drew the vampire resurfaced and dove into my neck. With one smooth motion he slathered my neck with saliva and settled to the base of my neck and chomped. Hard.
I spun around, resisting to Lucy Liu his ass (a la Charlie’s Angels) and told him, “I have to go.” I left him trailing behind me not realizing until I was in the lights of the bar that I was more than tipsy and more than a little bothered. I’d completely forgotten of the whiskey shots we’d just had before I was stolen away to dance more hip-hop. I made a beeline for Martino. Disturbed, I couldn’t verbalize what had happened. Any other time, this would have had me laughing as I related the story to Martino, but this time was different. Not wanting to make a scene, I had Martino follow me to the cabaret room and take a much needed piss. I found a booth and closed the door behind me, but not before noticing that Martino had spotted Jeremy, a likable, tall, brown-haired, white guy whom we’d both known for a few months now. Jeremy, a likable man as far as I knew had been one that Martino had set his sights on, and I knew when after he was done at the urinal and waited as Martino went to take care of his bladder, they would hook-up. But I had pressing things of my own to deal with.
Composing myself in the stall, I took a few deep breaths. No sooner than I did, but someone banged on the stall door. I exited not taking note of the three boys who were knocking to blow the house down, like “The Three Little Pigs” in reverse with me as the wolf, and them, the three pigs. Oh well. Outside, I didn’t see Martino. I even peeked inside the bathroom one more time, risking looking like a T-room pervert. Nowhere. I wandered back to the bar, where I immediately went around to the opposite side of where Mike and Ron were sitting. Drew was wandering the other side, and I hadn’t wanted to speak to him again. Later that night I would tell him that I’d have to talk to him later when he wasn’t so drunk. It was a stand, and I realized how grave I made it sound, but I was more worried about what was happening with young Mike, who was looking a little perturbed. There was Martino making his way up from the sunken table seating beyond the bar.
What the matter seemed to be was young Mike had lost his wallet. Before being accosted the second time by Drew, Mike had gotten progressively inebriated and was at the point that he slung his arm around me and would periodically drop it to “conveniently” touch my ass. On his last trip to the restroom, I reminded him as he stumbled off the barstool, “Don’t fall. Maintain.” Evidently Martino and I had failed in giving this boy even the basic lessons.
Rule #1: Maintain.
This rule, as the first of many that must be committed to memory for all of those that “work [it]” in our world, had not been drilled into young Mike’s mind, as I suspect that he may have lost his wallet on this last trip to the men’s room. Forelorn, Mike got up periodically to search the path he walked in order to get there. It was for naught and with each of his “checks” I too became forelorn at the bad luck of our friend. Ron literally had the entire bar staff looking for the wallet. He’s even borrowed a flashlight to shine on the darkened floor. No luck.
Martino took this time while Mike and Ron searched like Scully and Mulder for the missing wallet to tell me that he had lost me in the quiet bar and had left Jeremy in the interest in making sure that I was “okay.” I felt horrible knowing that at least one of us should have had some action this night. The things he sacrifices. I promptly assured him that he need not have left that honey of a man just for me, but that I appreciated the gesture. Honestly. I knew I may not have been so thoughtful were the roles reversed. But then again, we’re talking a drowning man now (I would say that would be “me,” Regis and that’s my final answer).
The night would end with a sad and even teary-eyed Mike who was as receptive to all our words of comfort or mock levity as a fish is to air. Martino tried his hand but only became annoyed and let Mike know so. By now I was sober and didn’t argue with Martino, although I did think Mike was justifiably letting a little of his age show with this display. When Martino picked his jacket up to go, I mimed him and said good-byes to Poppa Bear and young Mike. Lighten up, sweetie, it might never happen, I thought, but quickly abandoned the sinking ship.
Martino received his unwrapped gifts with the best sense of humor that he could muster or at least feign to muster. Actually there was no feigning, as he said, “What is this? They’re not even wrapped.” To Martino, part of the fun is the unwrapping of the gift, wondering what it is. For me, as a wannabe environmentalist, I refuse to contribute to the already sky-high waste sites that we have and not use paper for wrapping gifts that will be immediately discarded. Either that or you may think it is because I’m just being lazy, which is nominally true. But even so, I would choose the alibi of tree-hugging than that. One has to keep appearances.
“Fine. You can keep them in the plastic bag until Monday,” I retorted. “That’s sort of a wrapper, isn’t it?” I knew it wasn’t. The gifts inside were in their original boxes and wrapping. One I had added a bow to, the other had an American Lung Association special print holiday label (which should have read “To: Juggernaut. From: Slut.”) Come to think of it, Martino may have thought I was trying to hint for him to quit smoking. What was I thinking? If he didn’t smoke, could you imagine how much less tolerable he’d be after a hard day’s night?
December 16, 2000It had been a while since I’d done consecutive nights at OZZ, and for old times sake I suppose, Martino and I made our rounds on Friday and Saturday nights. Martino was coming off of a very bad day at work and I was coming off of a very tiring day of playing Cinderfella at home (while sick with the cold, mind you) that I think we were both ready to try to relax.
The evening was a bust for me, as far as men were concerned. My losing streak continues as we approach the year’s end. There was the one guy that I may have mistakenly thought was looking at me, but who Martino confirmed had been checking him out. They had met through a “common acquaintance” and I’ll leave it at that. No doubt I could attribute this deflation of my confidence to the mental exhaustion I was feeling at the onset of what I knew was to be the cold that everyone in my office had conspired to infect me with by not staying home while they coughed and hacked mercilessly, almost to the fugue tempo of “Christmas Bells.” The remainder of my evening was spent talking to Poppa Bear, who I was proud to note, referred to himself as “Poppa” during our conversation. “It’s like he’s accepting us,” Martino exclaimed, or rather, “He’s accepting us calling him names!” “Poppa Bear” I corrected him. Not quite right, (“Poppa” is still reserved to Ron from Revolver, even though he’s sick) but close. We made promises to meet him and his friend, Mike, the next evening.
The next evening was actually a lifetime away since I had such a busy Saturday of errands and wrestling practice to attend to. I did however fit in a training session for my mother (father was also in tow, though he ignored me most of the time) whom I had signed onto my membership with 24-hour Fitness as a holiday gift. If I was going to be gouged monthly in the amount of $58, I was damn going to have something to show for it - new fitness-inspired mother who would soon loathe to sit on her butt watching her Filipino channel shows (which are corny at best, what with the melodramatic soap operas that daily feature a crying scene and the drag shows with horribly made-up men – That’s not a girl, look at his feet!). Also, I was fulfilling my wannabe dream of being one of those cute overly peppy trainers who don’t care if you’re doing a spread eagle thigh press, so as long as you’re doing it right. That, or I was living out my Bela Karolyi coach dream. “You can do it,” or “That was not goot” I’d say as I showed mom how to bench press properly. She did allright and I vowed to take the time weekly to train her on Saturdays.
Despite the inevitability of my getting sicker by the hour, I trudged on, not wanting to miss another week of wrestling. The previous week’s practice with the Russian coach had been cancelled due to low attendance on our part, which left me particularly determined not to miss another week. The drive was a good indication that I wouldn’t fair well as I dozed off in the unseasonably warm weather, the muted hum of the car a lullaby since my sinuses were building pressure. Were it not for shear will to not crash, I would have not have made it to West Hollywood Park. But I made it fine and wasn’t sure to what extent I would participate. At any rate, I expected to see the crazy guy and see if he wanted to wrestle me with his “toy soldier” that another wrestler purported he was to have had during the last practice.
My illness progressed as practice wore on, much to my dismay. As I sat out the last half-hour chatting with Big Tony and Matt, I silently noted that crazy guy might never step foot in this gym again. Ron (different Ron – this one coordinates the wrestling practices) related to us before he picked up and left that he had called crazy guy on the topic of groping wrestlers as they worked out with him and made it clear that that was not tolerated. Oh well, I figured that it would do no good bringing that to the club. I’d have to rely on the generous offer of Big Tony, who boasted that he knew many guys he could possibly set me up with. “Just tell me what you like,” Big Tony said. I could only laugh as Ron was present. I didn’t want to burn any bridges with him. I like to think that our e-mails contain the beginnings of a friendship that could burgeon into love, much like the Chia pet does overnight, except this one would take more than a month. I wasn’t in the mood for making Ron my “December” guy. Actually, he would have to become October, November, December guy, considering this rut I’ve been in.
Big Tony boasted of setting up a couple who were now married. I resisted the urge to burst out, “THEN HELP ME, PLEASE!” and told him “That would be nice.” Funny how he thought it peculiar that I didn’t pick up at Akbar the other week at his party nor at the Abbey, where I went to afterward. “Believe [it],” like Cher.
The plan was to meet Martino at OZZ. He wasn’t due off work until 11:00 p.m. which left me with two options: 1) Arrive earlier (10:30 p.m.) and hope that Poppa Bear or someone else could stand my company, or 2) Arrive later than 11:00 p.m. and hope that Martino would be there already. I opted to take a coffee break at Starbucks and wander the aisles of the adjoining Barnes and Noble looking for erotic gay literature under the guise of thoughtful introspectiveness. Actually, I had made an unsuccessful attempt to join my church for a special Holiday party for church servers, lectors, and choir members alike. But when I saw from the outside that there was no more food and that the caterers were packing up, I sniffed my nose at their inability to accommodate those, like me, with so many engagements that we can’t help but arrive fashionably late. I mean, I was only 3 hours late. What the hell was this, Northern Iraq?
I savored my coffee and the pseudo-drug-induced buzz I had from the Tylenol pills I had taken. I wandered quietly and carefully, eyes alert and comfortably unconcious of anyone else around me. I reminisced at how once this was a quiet place for my friend, Marjorie, now since working for a major broadcasting company (hint, they have a logo that looks like an eye), to sit and “people watch.” I remembered that handsome guy with thick black-rimmed glasses with yellow tint. Then I snapped out of it to relieve my bladder and get out on the road that I feared would be wrought with too much traffic.
I’m glad that Poppa Bear was indeed there, with said friend, Mike, in tow. It was uncanny his resemblance to Martino. As I walked on the side of the building toward the entrance, I glanced inside to the bar and saw the mistakable frame of Poppa as he looked right out at me from the windows which the bar had not shut closed yet. Beside him, I thought was Martino, but turned out was Mike. The dark eyes and thick eyebrows and hair could make him pass for his brother or cousin. Inside, introductions were made and I immediately liked this young man who really was irresistible in his palpable naivete. He looked at me with the eyes of a boy not yet jaded by the scene and all too excited at all the unknown prospects. One of which was to be Martino, the juggernaut.
It wasn’t an immediate thing, but it was bound to happen. As I talked with our other friends, another Mike (another wrestler) and Jose (the darkchild we call him, due to his dark complexion – he’s a dancer), I earnestly whispered, “Martino” to get his attention. “What?” he would say smiling, “I’m not doing anything.” I would leave him at that all the while gauging the responsiveness of the young Mike, who didn’t himself know what was hitting him.
Juggernaut: (n.) 1. An unstoppable force. 2. Martino Perez
As I know it, this is what Webster intended to write in the dictionary. So when I saw that young Mike was becoming quite engaged at Ron’s and Martino’s conversation, I began to watch closely at what might happen.
Jose and Mike had just finished finals and it was fun to remind them that I was so glad that that sort of pain was almost two years in my past. Bonding with them again was so important as they really are quality friends. I made plans to visit them soon, which sometimes in Tony-time is a month from the time I’ve made the promise.
Another nice face to see that evening was Jimmy, the one whose Asian boyfriend I went to UCI with. Jimmy’s boyfriend believes that I snubbed him while we attended college. Jimmy had no more to offer me in the way of a score than a compliment to my mohair sweater. “I like your sweater,” he said smiling precociously as he normally does. “I know, it’s fuzzy,” I continued, hoping he’d want to see what else was fuzzy on me. “You look good fuzzy,” he said as he walked away. Real deep conversation, I thought. I didn’t quire know if there was any innuendo at my being drunk from time to time, or if he was making small talk. At any rate, I did like his new hair-do that was cut zero on the sides and back. Very “OZZ,” I thought.
The night drew to a close when the house lights went up and Poppa Bear, young Mike and myself exited OZZ. We wondered where Martino was. Last I saw, he’d been talking to Balding Paul (we know this because he won’t ever take off his cap in public). As we waited outside in the cold, Poppa Bear spotted Paul’s truck just pulling out of a parking spot. I ran over and stopped the car. Peering inside, Martino wasn’t inside, only Paul and an inebriated friend who asked if I was with anyone. Tonight, or for the long run, I thought, but quickly dismissed any thoughts of a one-night stand when I saw his head loll about like a bladder on a stick. “He’s was waiting for you inside,” Paul said. “He’s gone to meet you at Denny’s.”
I reached Denny’s before the other two did just as Martino was stepping outside to have a smoke.
“Where have you been?” I playfully accused. “What? I tried looking for you guys.” “We were right outside,” I said, exasperated.
I reserved a table knowing that we were being joined by Namebrand Jesse. This Jesse is never to be found without some sort of designer label on him. One night it’s a Hilfiger shirt, the logo emblazoned on his chest. The next it’s a ski jacket by Polo. He’s a walking advertisment. But as I knew he was nice company and since he always tells me that I was too good for my last boyfriend, who he chased for a while incidentally, I had no problem with him trying to work Martino whom I knew might be interested.
With the early morning exhaustion hitting me and with no appetite to speak of, I ate almost none of my Sampler, consoled in the fact that I needed less calories this time of night anyway and that at least it fed three other people. I felt like Christ feeding the many with the bread. The entertainment of watching the young Mike and Jesse work their magic on Martino while a disinterested Poppa Bear barely noticed was amusing. I knew it was time to leave before I fell asleep as I placed my head on the table, the weight of another numberless, scamless, and lately, the all too familiar feeling of being something less than scandalous. A minor slump, I reminded myself. Or the funny F.O.B. highlights in your hair, Martino’s voice chimed in my head.
November 4, 2000Honestly, I almost feel guilty for only talking to Chris when we go to Dragstrip 66 every month. Chris is one of the cutest and honestly nicest guys I know through Martino, albeit in a very cursory way. I may not know or will ever know some of the things that he is into (let’s just say “BDSM”) but I do know that he is humble and in all respects harmless with a sense of humor. All the same, I don’t ever see him much less talk to him until Martino and I say to each other on the Thursday before this monthly Saturday event, “Hey, isn’t Dragstrip this week-end?”
Thank god Chris is so nice about it. I think he may even think to himself the more the merrier. So it is on his good intentions that we ride to the front of the line every month at about 11:00 p.m. without having to wait in the long line that usually stretches the length of the building, snaking its way doubly so as not to crowd into the parking lot. Tonight’s fetish – Feathers and Leather.
I didn’t have any leather much less any feathers, but I was dressed like a Roman as they say. I had just had my hair bleached with highlights (something I’d promised myself never to do, but have since needed an antithesis to my rapid maturity) and went for a relaxed look with jeans and my Bad News Bears T. The junkiest but hippest of places, the crowd is more of the Silverlake breed, more relaxed, less stuck up than the West Hollywood crowd that has recently adopted me and Martino as its sovereign princes. But at any rate, we frequent Dragstrip 66 not to dance or get drunk (although both seem to happen without our intention) but to mingle with this attractive and approachable crowd.
Also in tow was Chris’ friend Crack. I wish I could recall his name, but Crack is fine. A soft-spoken mellow man, his company is always comforting, reminding me that I could be that much more shy and unobtrusive. Martino on the other hand had his hands full revitalizing old relationships, the likes that did not require my attention, nor involvement, which left me to my own devices, which I honestly half-welcomed.
Wandering about I made small talk with some people or others, all the while thinking that someone better looking was bound to interest me in some good conversation at the very least. This was not to be, for I had to discreetly excuse myself from conversation with a Mexican man, who although was cute enough, seemed too shy about working for Home Depot in Santa Ana, at which I could only promise to “come back in a minute” (wink, wink).
Besides this man, I had met an interestingly dressed man in feathers and old grandma/Elton John/Liberace drag. His large over-sized sunglasses covered an aged face which peeked from beneath his wide-brimmed white hat and jeweled ears. His matching outrageous outfit was a hodge-podge of material and jewelry. We chatted briefly about how cute I was and upon reaching this agreement quickly, he made his way through the crowd to another friend.
I had expected to see Peter, whom if you recall was at Dragstrip last month dressed in a sailor’s outfit sans the front of his pants. That was also the night where I unintentionally found out exactly what type of underwear Martino wore as it was the center of conversation and display. That was not to be, he wasn’t in attendance as I later found out later in the week. He was off at OZZ as it turned out. Sort of conducting Slut Club operations for Martino and myself. And I do mean that in the nicest way possible. Lighten up ye Christian missionaries.
It was a tired night for a tired foursome, the foursome being Chris and his friend (who we saw little of that night), Martino, and of course myself. Chris and company bailed before the end of the night leaving Martino and me to fend for ourselves.
“We’re leaving,” Chris said. “Already? Are they closing?” Martino replied. “I know, are they?” I half-heartedly, half-hopefully added. “No, but I guess I’ve fulfilled my usefulness for tonight. You got yourselves in by my good graces, and never even bothered to hang around with me or Crack. You manipulative bitches. If you were both dying of thirst on the side of the road, I wouldn’t give you any water. I would leave you alone and let the vultures have their way with you two.”
Well that’s not exactly what Chris said. Okay, actually its how much of a heel I felt like and it wouldn’t have been too bad if he did say that – it would’ve been something for me to talk about besides the disproportionate ratio of ugly to cute that I observed around us – but they left, I felt guilty. Truth, I don’t know of anyone who would ever say such mean things, unless you’ve just been voted off the island by your ally and you’re peeved enough that you let loose your inner bitter lesbian.
Get your ass back to the intro page
