October 2000

October 2, 2000

Martino and I decided to go to visit Poppa Friday night, an unusual course of action since we had of late made OZZ our Friday hangout. In the interest of giving some variety to a routine that unexpectedly was becoming just that, routine, we made it first to the Revolver to start things off. Slowly, at that. We only noticed one dark-haired man in a black tank-top, looking our way. Correction, Martino’s way, as has been the norm for a good many weeks I reminded myself. I did force myself to be a little less selfish and feeling sorry for myself and noted to Martino that he did look familiar. Maybe he was the Argentine we’d met sometime at the beginning of this year.

I’d remembered that night after leaving Mickey’s or Rage. There had been this dark-haired cutie with a black tank top unabashedly jocking Martino. As usual, I got sick of this guy not saying anything (‘Do you have something to say’ I am apt to bark at someone who just stares and stares, not speaking like a goddamn mute), so I “Hey” him down and the two talk. Tank-top guy was sassy and said he was Argentine at which we sort of thought was just a jazzy line. I think he was one of the ones that Martino just never “got around to calling back.” ;)

This night, tank-top guy was working it slowly, spending too much time making eye-contact with Martino and not making any move to buy Martino and myself a drink. Which brings me to one fact of life hanging around one who is the object of many men’s affection. Case in point, Martino – he who ensnares without trying. And as a by-product of his ensnaring, free drinks are bought. Not only for my friend, but for me. I have yet to figure out the exact mentality behind these would-be scams. Maybe they think they are making nice, maybe they hope for a threesome (doubt it) but I don’t complain if I get a nice drink out of the deal. At any rate we decided to take leave of Poppa – at least until later and perhaps a shot special.

We did return later that night only to find that our shy Argentine was making nice with a thickly-built white man with sandy blonde hair. Not one to be deterred, at my suggestion we decided that Martino would compete better if we moved to the bar area. It would have been a sad night for me trying to play matchmaker for ‘he who needs no hook-up assistance,’ were it not for some big buff white guy with the Chinese character tattoo for which I had no enthusiasm for, but realized I could make nice on that as a conversation piece alone. He reminded me too much of Mr. April, Steve the 36 year-old, which immediately put me off, but not before I found out that his tattoo meant “Mother” in Chinese, for his mother who passed away last year. While I was distracted at the sentimentality of the tattoo, it seemed that Martino had gotten the better of tank-top guy much to the dismay of the sandy-blonde-haired guy, who we were courteously introduced to as Rich. Rich sat just opposite of the Argentine, Mike. Mike was nice enough finally to offer us drinks, at which I heartily accepted.

After some small talk it was apparent that Mike may have been a little more inebriated than originally thought. He must have had two more cocktails in the next half hour. And as the bar began to close, it was clear that Rich had struck up conversation with Martino (how quickly we change gears ;) and was not going anywhere quite yet. It was unanimous amongst the three of us less drunk ones that Mike was not to drive home in the condition he was in. It took almost no convincing to have him share a cup of coffee with us at the Abbey, the local outdoor coffee bar/restaurant/bar with the neo monastery decor. It was then that the fiasco began.

Getting Mike out of the bar and to the Abbey was a task. Leave it up to my good sense of humanitarianism to even bother with such a drunk. I’m not even sure if Martino would have bothered with this debacle to be if Rich hadn’t suggested Mike not drive. Leave it up to Rich’s sense of humanitarianism. Whatever. We literally dragged the man down the street between Rich and my shoulders (Martino wisely walked behind us, having a smoke) all the while making a big scene, which is very hard in WeHo where every homo tries to be a scene all by themselves. Mike at one point fell to the sidewalk, laughing to himself, at which point some girls came up to him laughing at something or other, while Rich reminded him that he could be arrested for public drunkenness. We were right across the street from the police station.

We eventually made it to the Abbey where Mike immediately took it upon himself to go to the bathroom, which I sorely doubted he could handle on his own in his present state. I did, however, keep an eye on the bathroom door to make sure he came out in a timely manner. Rich kindly ordered coffee for Martino and me and seated us in a nice corner table away from most of the patrons who had given us the evil eye for dragging a drunk into their quiet night at the Abbey. Fuck them, I remember thinking.

In retrospect I scold myself for bothering with this Mike, for here I was again, tending to someone who needed help – which is all my long-term relationships ever boiled down to. Domingo needed my help in high school to deal with his increasingly crazy home life. Shawn needed my help to get over an insane, distracted mother whom surprisingly I thought was somehow cool, but the cause of Shawn’s misguided frustration with his life that ended up manifesting itself as a loathing of me. Of course, it all could have been because he needed variety of dick. Last, Romeo. If there ever was an opportunist in need, it was him. And I applaud how well he could work it. After all, he worked me pretty well.

At any rate, Mike spent most of the remainder of the evening hopping from table to table accosting people who were probably amused that such a good-looking man (let me not forget to mention that he was a honey) would actually talk to them, while Rich, Martino and I chatted a storm with a twosome we’d met - a guy and a girl who were so nice and refreshingly welcoming. Martino and I knew we’d like them when the guy, Tomek, Song Writer, could finish the quotes we would start off from “Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion.” All the while I kept an eye on where Mike was, even as he intermittently visited with us only to buzz off again and again.

Mike made it a point not to deny us our share of his obnoxiousness, like when he grabbed his cup of tea and demanded that I leave the patio with him to roam the streets. We only got as far as around the corner, right on Santa Monica Boulevard. “Great,” I thought, “now we both can look like streetwalkers.” But there on the street is where we had a nice tete a tete, if not a drunken tete a tete. He told me how much he appreciated the way I’d looked after him and not been mean. It melted my heart enough that I told him that it was no big deal and that I was really doing him this favor all because he was cute. Then I snuck a kiss on his lips.

He didn’t even know what he was saying, so I don’t think he even realized that I took that minor liberty. Okay? Okay.

It was fast becoming late, and we’d all finished our coffee. On our way out to our cars, we made our way through the West Hollywood Park, directly behind the Abbey. There, while propping Mike between our shoulders again, he informed us that he needed to puke, at which we immediately let him go. I followed him to some bushes where he then decided that he couldn’t “go” if I was watching. I left him. Tomek had given Martino his business card (“Tomek Fiord – Song Writer”) and though seemingly pretentious, the man was not. We wished his friend and him luck in getting the apartment that they had just applied for and promised we’d be there for the housewarming. Of course we were lying, but they were nice enough to humor them. We’re not that snobby.

I had to drag Mike away from this group of kids who seemed as enthralled by him as we had been before we left the club. We joined Martino and Rich for the walk to our cars where Rich had offered to have Mike stay. MMMMMhhmmmmm. That’s what we thought, especially since he offered the same to Martino and me. We got to our cars only to have Mike nearly burst into tears after he realized that he had lost his cell phone. “That’ll be $150 out of my pocket,” he lamented as he pressed his palms to his probably now throbbing eyes. We lamented with him for about 2 seconds before we bid Rich and him goodbye, helpfully suggesting they retrace their steps and particularly the bushes Mike had thrown up in to see if he’d dropped the phone there. We left, but not before Martino got a phone number – from Rich.

October 14, 2000

I’m beginning to forget most of what happens when I go out. That is almost a clear sign of drinking too much. But hey, I’ve got brain cells to spare, don’t I?

Friday night Albert and I were to be booked. Last month, I had wanted to see the original cast reunion for John Carpenter’s horror masterpiece, “Halloween.” In attendance were to be Jamie Lee Curtis herself, the original scream queen. Later, we were to see our friend’s performance in “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.” And even prior to that I had planned to have dinner with my brother for his 26th birthday at Dave and Buster’s at the Block at Orange.

As is our usual custom, Martino called me after getting home from work. Calling me a little bit later than I had expected we confided in each other that “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” was not going to happen. We had other priorities. And our actor friend would understand. I told Martino to tell our friend that I was sick. After all, I had been ill all week and in all respects I should have been staying home to make sure my body was completely healed. But always a fighter and particularly in light of my recent downfall from elite scamming (a very difficult sport of Slut Club, of which few friends are a part of), I decided to make it tonight, sick or not.

So the night was to be completely not what it should have been. Already I had flaked on my brother’s evening invite and we were on our way to OZZ. Real original. Almost as if to insult me, La Mas Maximum Services Agency, my erstwhile employer of alcohol promotions, were in attendance, conspicuously without me as one of the MGD models. Those who were in attendance looked so meek and so disheartening, it would have broken my heart were I an actual MGD representative seeing how this gay club promotions was working out. “I mean, I’m cuter than any one of them, aren’t I?” I demanded of Martino. I said my polite hellos to the agency second-in-command whom I thought would have been my best advocate. He gave me some beer coupons after I declined the Mardi Gras beads that are their hand-out staples. I handed them to Martino who then offered to get me a beer, as I grimaced and rushed away to the restroom in a state of fear.

Quickly locking myself in a booth, I pulled a blood clot from the back of my mouth. The bleeding I had been experiencing all week had intensified to a fever pitch (another ailment I had battled all week) and was beginning to get out of control. I spat into the toilet bowl and nearly wept at the sight of all the blood. Mentally, I pictured Bela Karolyi coaching me to return outside and have some fun.

“Don’t worry about, Tony,” he barked in his Romanian accent. “I can’t,” I whined. “You can do it!” Tightening my lips together and exhaling a few quick breaths and composing myself, I stuffed some cotton into my mouth and returned outside for my drink, images of a successful Kerri Strug vault spinning to the beat of the house music.

At OZZ we went by the book. Poppa Bear had bravely joined us that evening and Peter was to rendezvous with us, his other Slut Club members. Humbled by my recent failure to lure even the most naïve and innocent of men in recent weeks, I felt the spark of renewal at seeing my closest of sisters, Peter and Martino, out together for the first time in a month. It was going to be time to work with a vengeance.

It was almost immediately that Peter and I spotted the potentials of the night. Case in point, the nice tall white boy with the shaved brown hair and goatee. He wore a wife beater, khakis and tennis. Peter had spotted this guy’s friend in red whom tall white boy was talking to a little too personably. They caressed and flirted and even mock copulated at the bar. Although my alarms went off, wanting to move on and dismiss these two, I recalled the barren desert of the recent weeks and decided to work on what would seem to be an easy catch. Something to redeem myself and prove myself worthy of the Club. Without further notice, I challenged Peter to go with me across the bar so we could tag team the two.

We watched the two interact with the group of homely women they had obviously brought with them. I thought that it must be a sight for these women – the beautiful men who don’t want them because they are ugly. These beautiful men who do not want them because they don’t want any women at all. Our men were engaged in more mock sex, so we decided to attack a little later. Conveniently, I had spotted an acquaintance from Long Beach.

Reluctantly, we went over to say hellos. Russ is the portly, loud, graying older man who parties as hard, if not harder than, the men half his age whom he is likely to be found in the company with. But that’s not what kicks me in the head sometimes. What it is, is that as friendly as Russ is, he tends to get overly exuberant and actually makes a pretty good scene out of saying “Hello” to me.

As I walk over to Russ, I nearly wince at what I liken to the emasculating of a man to a boy in one bear-like gesture that should otherwise be warm, friendly and fuzzy-wuzzy. “Hi, Russ,” I manage to say before he picks me up and gives me a bear hug that makes me nearly pee my pants. Then he adds a few shakes before he lets me down. I dare not look around at the stares of men who wonder just what exactly happened to the little man and the big man just now?

Suffice to say, maybe the bear hug was for good luck, for almost as soon as Russ placed me down, white guy came over to say hello to our common friend. Russ graciously introduced us, which probably was only a formality since we had been making eye contact most of the early evening. His name was Patrick, which is subject to correction later (I was two drinks into the night at this point), and it was apparent that he was a little more drunk than I was. His words were nearly slurring, and when after two minutes of non-sensical small talk he began to aggressively guide my hand toward his crotch, I knew that I would give him a break and not be offended. I did however, decline to fully explore how big a dick he had, but snuck in one more belly rub to try and imagine what that soft downy hair would feel like a little lower in the pubic area.

The remainder of the night read 0 again for me, but I had to put it into perspective, which I had until tonight left for the minutes in bed before I nodded off to sleep after going out. Was this probably a sign that I was losing it? That this was a sign that I’d grown tired of this cat and mouse game (it’s actually more like and dog and dog game, right)? That after a good 2 years of working it, it was time to grow out of it and be a respectable adult just as I’d always promised my mother since I was 17?

Hell, no. I decided that everyone tonight was beneath my notice and to hell with them if these ugly men thought they were getting any of this tonight. They’d best not even try because they should know that they weren’t even in my league. Better luck when I’m drunker, and on their dime, yet. So I had resolved this and went to take a mean ass piss I’d been holding since the beginning of the night.

Peter fared a lot better than I did. He found himself an artist man whom Martino had briefly been acquainted with. We had even gone to Denny’s with him and a couple other persons I don’t remember meeting. It was a nice Denny’s night with me at my most sarcastic and Peter and I throwing “Absolutely Fabulous” lines so well, they were appreciated by his artist friend and most around the table (“Do you speak “AbFab”?).

Saturday, Martino and I made another night of things, this time at Dragstrip 66 in Silverlake which we had mistakenly allotted for last week. We weren’t going to bother with waiting in line, so Martino called in the assistance of his friend originally from El Paso, Texas, Chris, who has a Member card to this monthly meat market. We met him at Akbar, another small Silverlake bar, which had a surprisingly good-looking crowd. Chris correctly mentioned that it was the pre-Dragstrip crowd, for I later saw most of them at the venue.

After a small nightmare with parking near Dragstrip, we settled to some beers in Chris’ car, giving me flashbacks to 1997 when I was 20. In classic fashion, I urged us to hurry on in before my bladder burst.

The lines into the club stretched the entire length of one wall outside the club, the longest of which was for General Admission. The second longest was the line that Chris got us into, Members. The shortest was for Performers and Guest List. I quietly hoped that Martino would somehow make an extra effort to get on the good side of one of the owners to eventually get us a Members Card or at least on the Guest List next month. All things were possible this first of the many cold nights ahead of us in these, the second night in a row of the meeting of Slut Club.

Peter was already inside. After getting a drink, but not before waiting in the heinously long line to the toilet where more cruising went on than actual peeing, Martino and I were talking to Peter who was done up famously in a sailor’s outfit and not-so-matching, but very much Halloween-y, feather boa. Martino and Chris had made their way elsewhere, leaving the two of us to lament on my ailing body which was continually making me want to spontaneously burst into tears. It wasn’t until Martino came by to join us that I noticed my sailor boy had the front of his sailor’s pants down to show off the leopard print bikini he was wearing. That was the great Slut Club gregariousness I had longed to see surface in these Halloween months.

We didn’t dance all night. That’s not what we go out for just to clarify.

Most of the night I wondered where Martino was. Smoking outside I figured, although the fact that there was some underwear showing on his part to our compatriots whom we’d met through Peter, I should have thought better (or is that worse?). My time was occupied with a nice psychotherapist that I’d noticed outside in line. At the bar with Peter, we engaged this man, Arthur, beginning our small talk about his UCLA Athletics shirt that gave a good physical outline. Peter left so that we could talk and I found out many interesting things about this man, most of which I cannot recall. We got nice and friendly to the point that when we were speaking close enough face to face and when I noticed his obvious shyness, I leaned over and kissed his lips. It almost sent me into a frenzy. But a frenzy not borne of passion, but one of pain as my mouth pains doubled in intensity. I resolved to get a second one in to drown out (or justify) the pain of the first, but I was rebuked. He smiled and refused the quick pace I had set and handed me his card. Confirming that I’d call him, we parted. I was so surprised I had no rebuttal, no jazzy line to give him.

In the end of things the scorecard was a not a zero. I counted my blessings. It helped as I firmly resounded my friend Martino’s triple score night, although I’m doubting any callbacks (“He was a good scam,” Martino commented on one). It was a little before the end of the night that Martino made one last round, leaving me on the outside porch with another acquaintance, Ron. Ron, being a dentist, tolerated my whining out of pain and suggested a look-see. Embarrassed I only allowed him to feel my swollen lymph nodes at which point I grimaced and began to cry “I’m in so much pain!” to which he replied, “Ohh, poor baby” and hugged me. I smiled inside and imagined Martino complaining on my big baby tactics. Hey, I get sympathy at the very least, don’t I?

October 21, 2000

Its saving time again for the holidays which explains the partying rather than bar-hopping that preoccupied most of the week-end. Friday was a nice birthday party of an acquaintance of Martino’s, Frank. Frank is actually the boyfriend of Martino’s friend Manuel, and as was last mentioned last month or the month before, we had last seen Manuel at a less successful birthday party of a certain man who shamelessly and simultaneously hit on both Martino and myself. At any rate, this was Manuel’s boyfriend’s birthday celebration at the Copacabana, which also happened to be owned by Manuel’s parents.

Not knowing what sort of restaurant this was to be I had figured that it couldn’t be too fancy since nothing seems fancy in Pomona, the location of the party. A gift was certainly in order and wanting to impress both Manuel and Frank with an appropriate gift that said, “Hey, have some fun, have some of both of us tonight,” (both are so beautiful) Martino and I purchased a nice expensive bottle of Buchanan’s whiskey hoping we wouldn’t leave the party without partaking of such fine liquor. Satisfied that this would save face and show some class (translates to : “Hey, it was expensive allright?”), I half wondered if this was appropriate for a man just about to turn 19. What the hey, it’s alcohol and who doesn’t ever want a nice drinky-poo?

The restaurant was not the Mom and Pop place that I thought it would be. In fact I thought it was quite ritzy for Pomona, although I don’t know Pomona that well. The Copacabana was at the top of the hill, with a nice entryway up the hill into the parking area. Palm trees that were back-lit were the main staple of the landscaping. In the parking lot, Manuel was fetching a camera from his car. Mark, Martino’s ex, accompanied Manuel. We walked down the paved walkway to the entrance which included a large cage housing exotic parrots. I sniffed at them, thinking that they weren’t that neat-o since they couldn’t even greet me with a “Hello, welcome to the Copacabana.”

The floors were a dark marble with patterned inlay work and the lights were not at all offensive, although later, Albert would comment on the harsh lighting at his spot at our table. A sunken bar area was near the entrance and to the left a hallway led to three or four dining rooms. Each room had at least six round tables with about eight seats all around. The room reserved for the party was the second one down, complete with table settings and a nice view of the city below. A porch below the view was accessible via a walkway from down the hall. Inside there were family members and in the corner sat most of the homos of the night.

I proudly handed Frank his gift and we all noted how nice his leather pants were tonight. Manuel teased that he was taking after Martino’s savvy dressing, but I knew it was just that Frank knew how hot he looked in his hot pants. He replied with a very warm and honest thanks and hug.

I didn’t notice at the beginning, but the lot of us, the friends of the celebrant and Manuel were tucked into the corner of the dining room. The room was not full, so we could easily have been seated closer to the center of the room. But here we were, a bunch of Rosa Parks sitting in the corner of the room, at least a table between the family members and us. More, the air-conditioning blasted in our faces the ribbons that hung from the balloons that were floating on the ceiling. In a failed attempt I tried to curl the ribbon up and away from our faces with my knife to no avail. I quickly ordered a drink as did Martino, who at this point was engaged in conversation with the not so good-looking new boyfriend of his ex.

Despite these things I still had a good time. I had a nice glass of wine while we talked amongst the people. Martino left to have a smoke with ex’s new man and I was left entertaining my table companions, two of which were from the last party mentioned. These ladies were stressing about money to pay for the drinks they were having. I sort of thought that they should remember that they were not only paying for the drinks but for the ambience of the restaurant as well. What it boiled down to was that I thought “Don’t be so cheap, goddammit. Otherwise for Christ sake I’ll buy you a drink.” I’m glad I didn’t actually say that because they were actually very nice. One sang happy birthday to Frank – she’s a vocalist. However, she did complain in a very Freudian way that she couldn’t get a record contract because of her weight, which though not the best, did make her stick out – especially in the hips.

A cake was cut and people were gorging on the very delicious and melted ice-cream cake, Frank’s favorite he said. By now, our Manuel and Frank had moved to our table and all the friends were at the table. It was nice chatting up a storm in a group situation. I took advantage to try to pick at Frank’s brain, finding out about him and what he was really like, which up until this point all he had been was the quiet half to the Manuel-Frank duo. As a man from up north (California) I knew he was a nice guy, because anyone from up north naturally is. Manuel began an informal roast of his man – how bad a driver he was and how dingy he could be. His dinginess rivaled, if not surpassed, mine. Frank retaliated with jabs at Manuel’s Madonna obsession. They kissed and made up later as they shared a moment out of the group conversation. Frank was seated and Manuel crouched to whisper in his ear. They embraced and spoke inaudibly to each other as the conversation flew around them with a life of its own. I was probably the only one to notice. I envied them.

Large platters were brought out with calamari, stuffed potato halves, shrimp and a few other things that were tasty. By now it was time to open the whiskey to toast the birthday boy. At my request we opened the whiskey and after a short study on how the damn spout poured, all had a nice shot to toast Frank. We did and he grimaced. Martino and I smiled at how smoothe the damn poison was and I eagerly waited for someone to toast again, which did eventually happen.

Martino left for yet another smoke with his ex’s new man and I decided that the second party for the night was waiting. But wait, Frank had the urge to dance. “Dance?” I thought. I didn’t see a dance floor and was very curious as to where he wanted to dance. The whole table got up only to follow a now buzzing Frank to the bar which had some music playing. I opted instead to empty my bladder.

Exiting the men’s room which literally was a room – single occupancy – Frank was waiting outside. After declining his offer to join him inside the bathroom (sorry, I don’t do it in the bathroom – anymore), Martino had come back. We were ready to go. We kindly said our good-byes and made tentative plans to see them on the Santa Monica Boulevard on Halloween. But as goodbyes are apt to do, they transformed into conversations and my particular conversation turned to a man named Paco. Or Pedro. Something like that. We’ll call him “Dancer Guy.” Dancer Guy related to me his travels to India and Italy and Turkey with this Flamenco (or was it Salsa?) dance troupe. Enamored by his accounts and quietly judging his physique and face, I silently admitted, a la Karen-style from “Will and Grace”, ‘You’re kind of hot.’

We went to Fullerton to Mike and Jose’s party. It was their first official house-warming party and our instincts fore-warned us that this was the sort of party we had long been away from. Meaning the party was ghetto. Honestly. Ghetto was great while I still had the temperment for them, when I had that shaved head and was infatuated with the cholo look. But the cholo in me had evolved into the sophisticate that now prowls West Hollywood more frequently than Oasis or Alibi’s. At any rate, after parking, we walked to the apartment with much apprehension and hoped for the best. Outside people were talking. When we walked in, the room was crowded and hot. Music was playing on a stereo (it could have been a boom box) and people were talking loudly, a few were actually dancing, and small clicks of people were gathered here and there. I immediately sought our hosts the first who I found was Jose. It was good to see him considering that the last time we had visited these two, they had just moved in and we ended up bailing on them, only to later hear that I had offended him by leaving so early. I meant to speak to him more, but he quickly moved around the room tending to other guests. A drink was in order.

We would only settle down for about two hours of relaxing and hanging out. No buzzing around, no creating trouble. A quiet end to the night.

The next night was another relay. Again, Martino was in tow. I had talked him into going to this straight costume party that my friend, Cheri, was throwing in the evening. I had made other plans for the night, but was resolved to see my friend and to see how embarrassed I could possibly get with the get-up I had designed myself. The costume was not so much a costume but a mish mash of S&M and make-up. The best description would be “Dead Ghoulish Biker Sadist.” Picture this: Faux studded leather gauntlets, choker, handcuffs, cat-o-nine tail, Halloween goggles made to look like bone and sinews, and a matching belt with skull. My skin was covered in a white grease that gave me a pale complexion. Around the eyes I applied black make-up, making me racooned.

So that was my costume that upset my mother and made most people just stare. Martino concurred with mother, commenting, “You look dead.” Funny, I’d just taken my high energy vitamin packet. That didn’t faze me. I was going to let them have it at this party. Besides I was living out my (faux) leather fantasy that may have come in handy when I was dating Shawn. I’d successfully coaxed Martino into his old Classical outfit, a la Madonna’s “Vogue” stage appearance in the MTV Music Awards, sans make-up, tights, and wig. I was very relieved that he agreed to wear his outfit, as I didn’t want to be the one half of a pair that didn’t look normal. I.E. I didn’t want to be the only foolish one around in case nobody else dressed up at the party. More, Martino was so reluctant to don his old outfit which by this time had seen one too many appearances on Halloween. If he wears the outfit one more time he has threatened to retire it permanently. His family’s response indicated this fact for when they saw him pulling it out of the garage, they said in perfect Dolby surround sound: “AGAIN?”

By the time we got to the party, it was about 10:15pm. Surprisingly, I had not gotten us too lost and despite Martino’s grumbling as to how he so didn’t want to wear his costume, we made it to the party. At once, even before entering the apartment, which was nicely decorated with all types of decorations, from webbing to lights to pumpkins, I could feel the stares from the women and men on the porch. Were this high school and were I as timid as I’m known to be, I’d probably have said, “Martino, how does OZZ sound?” But having a major testosterone high from the high energy vitamin pack, inside we went. I could feel Martino dragging reluctantly behind me and I felt his apprehension. Immediately I made a beeline to the kitchen to see Cheri.

She was one of three slutty school girls. Her white collared shirt was unbuttoned and her short plaid miniskirt showed lots of leg. Her hair was in two braids on either side of her head. We greeted each other warmly as I did all my other ex-co-workers. One, the only other Filipino from the company, Ron, was dressed in black leather pants, a satin shirt, and yellow-tinted sunglasses – like he had another party to go to. I asked what he was supposed to be. “I’m supposed to be Tony,” he laughed. I guffawed and thought, “I’d never wear a shirt like that,” and noted that Martino was engaged in what seemed to be a lukewarm conversation with some woman in a red devil’s outfit. I quietly thought he was again unwittingly charming some woman who had no idea that he likes men. He was fine so I turned my attention to have some small talk with my friends.

Well, turned out that not much had changed with anyone. The two handsome men that I’d remembered were not in attendance, which was a disappointment. The tall Italian one was at another party that night, and the other’s whereabouts were unknown. Reading the angst in Martino’s face I bid goodnight to my friends, but not before spending some time on the porch where Cheri’s cautious and seemingly neurotic roommate shushed everyone repeatedly for fear of the Irvine police being called again for the non-existent noise coming from the gathering. I thanked my lucky stars I was out of Irvine. “What the hell is this,” I wondered, “Nazi Berlin?”

On the way to the next party, actually on the walk from the door of Cheri’s apartment to my car, Martino and I decided that the second party was too far to drive (it was in Whittier) and that since we were so close to Buena Park (we were in Orange County weren’t we?) we opted to do the OZZ thing. I struggled the most to get de-costumed, as Martino, non-chalantly removed his jacket to reveal, wah-lah!, a full regular going-out outfit which made me think he hadn’t planned on me actually dragging him to the party all the way in Whittier. Satisfied that the slightly dark circles left by the make-up under my eyes only made me look sort of like a handsome Egyptian instead of a malnourished Ethiopian, we made our way to OZZ.

Textbook evening is what I would describe it as. Nothing here nor there. I did appreciate the nice Halloween decorations, including the “web” that stretched above the bar area. It was a sort of metaphor for all the cruising that goes on at the bar. There is the possibility that you can get caught in someone’s web if you hang out at the bar. Seemed like it had some familiar names etched on the web.

The only Slut Club highlight of my night was me trying to work Jimmy, an Italian man who already has a boyfriend. Oh, and if you consider that Chad was also there that night, then maybe this was a funny night. Jimmy is about 5’6”, with dark brown hair, a nice smile and a very nice tattoo on his back that he was more apt to show off before he had his current man, who happened to know of me in college. “Know of me” is the best way to describe this since I have no idea where I may have seen or known this man from. At any rate, as Jimmy ordered drinks from across the bar, I would flirt with him, his boyfriend none the wiser as he stood just behind him, looking the other way. Jimmy mouthed the words “You’re so bad” as he smiled. “Leave him at home” I mouthed back, just as his boyfriend turned his attention Jimmy’s way.

Later, when Jimmy walked by without his man in tow, I took the opportunity to talk to him. He related that he had lost him in the crowd and that he was at his wits end. Prime opportunity, I thought, but before I could offer to make it up to him with a nice wet one, he told me how he and his boyfriend were having trouble lately and that he was indeed literally near his wits end. Suddenly, an overwhelming déjà vu hit me and I remembered feeling that desperate feeling when you are still in love with someone (Shawn) and you know things are not working out but you both are still together (for about 2 more years) out of some sort of duty (in Irvine). I then sincerely told him I wished him good luck in working things out at which he thanked me with a hug and patted my chest just as he was about to resume his search. He noticed the bump in my nipple and asked, “What’s this?” He was smiling which made me smile as I replied, “Something.” He grinned broadly and said, “Wow, you’ve just shot up in my book, like, BIG time.” Then he left.

He’s SO mine when he dumps his boyfriend, I thought.

I did speak to Chad briefly that night. He looked impeccable as ever, wearing a nice blue fitted shirt with dark blue ribbing on the neck and arms. I noted how big he looked and when I came over and he gave me a hug, the smell of him made me swoon. I buried my face in his chest and told him to give me a big hug, to which he replied, “That’s only for when we’re in bed,” and smiled. We made plans for a “date” later in the week.

October 28, 2000

This was the second week in a row that I did not have Friday off. The previous week which had been my normal Friday off, I had the tooth extraction that forced me to take Tuesday off, and without any sick days yet, I had to work that Friday. This ultimately had thrown my regular party schedule off, leaving me without seeing Poppa for nearly two weeks. I had whined to my partner in crime Martino about this on the second Thursday of not seeing Poppa, to which we heartily resolved to visit him Friday night.

I needed money so we went to the ATMs where we bumped into, or rather I was bumped into, Carlos and his friend, Paul (I think). While I withdrew money, Carlos bear-hugged me from behind and said into my ear, “You don’t have a boyfriend waiting for you behind me, do you?” I almost creamed my pants, but just laughed and said, “No, those guys behind me are just paying customers, but for you, I give you the ‘Tony week-end special rate.’” He thought it was funny and we promised we would see them at Club 80s at the Love Lounge.

To Mickey’s to Rage to the Motherlode or wherever is what the summation of the night was. Rage was the first stop as I did not want to run into a line later in the night. For those that don’t already know, there are ins and outs and if you’ve been stamped, you can re-enter without waiting in line. Pretty neat, right? I love going straight to the front of the line at about midnight and feeling like, really smart because I got there early enough and the rest of the poor slobs who took too long to get ready and got stuck in traffic on Santa Monica are now freezing outside in line while I just show the doorman my stamp and walk right in.

Of course we paid and immediately exited to start the night with Poppa, who was more than happy to see us again. He greeted Martino with a kiss on the hand and as I eagerly offered my hand in similar fashion, he instead gave me a firm handshake. No matter, he made up by giving us each a worthy Cape Cod. After enjoying the videos and laughing at the SNL skit about a new gadget that siphons farts through a funnel attached to your ass only to translate the fart into some generic verbal phrase in a robotic voice like, “Wasn’t that a nice movie,” or “Did you see the movie,” we decided to make good on our cover charge to Rage.

I wish I could remember what we did. It must not have been eventful or I may have just been past the point of drunkenness. So we headed back to see Poppa.

One of the nicest things about Revolver is that you can actually see how people look like. The lighting is bright enough that you can usually decide if you’re interested in someone without getting too close to them and then having to bail out very conspicuously while they wonder why you’re walking away. To this day this place has fast become a comfort zone to me with many older men that are more mature and less the party hearty guys I had become used to in the past year with my ex-boyfriend Romeo, who at the ripe age of 19 ensnared me so well that I think I actually regressed a few years in maturity to the point that…I digress. Point being, the more mature, the better. For now at least.

Martino is somewhat on the same page with this thinking, though he has let himself indulge in the occasional “snack” (20 or younger) recently. But not so tonight as he eyed a mature man at the bar who Martino had deemed “cute enough, tall enough, and gosh darnit, do-able,” which I think must be engraved in some Greek frieze relief or something. Older man was about 6’2”, dark hair, slightly balding, nice long lines and was comfortably dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans. Eye contact, some small conversation (I think Martino for once initiated conversation) and things were looking good for the both of them. Obviously older man was enamored with my Puerto Rican bombshell friend (“Don’t call me that, I’m a Puerto Rican lady, Senor” – From “Superstar”). Older man had a nicely dressed friend with spiked blonde hair, a white full-turtleneck sweater, black blazer, matching pants and black square-tipped shoes. He looked shy and his freckled face gave him a look of some Midwesterner. His Sean Penn smile was unique and I was glad that he wasn’t a thumping bore to talk to.

Well he did more than just hold my attention. He also held my hand, my ass and whole slew of other things. Well, that’s a little exaggerating, he was quite courteous. I found out he was 20 and for the rest of the night I had to carefully block the whole Romeo debacle from my mind or I would have quickly lost my interest. He was a great kisser and as I realized that Martino and Older Man were hitting it off fine (it almost seemed like we were competing on who could hold their breaths the longest), I was more than happy to accommodate my new friend’s lip-locking appetite, which I admit hasn’t been my thing for a while, what with Chad and all. So there we were, this peculiar foursome, dimly aware that we were still at Revolver and making a scene for everyone to watch.

Time came to leave, and honestly I was exhausted. Not from the lip-locking but just tired. My new friend and I went to fetch his car while the other two waited for us. Surprised that my new friend had a car (he did say he was from Virginia going to school at USC), I was more relieved – I wouldn’t have to worry about a date without transportation. It had been a drag with other men who couldn’t meet me somewhere because they had no car and mostly these men were just boys in the diaper age group of under 25 years old. We made plans for a date later next week.

Saturday Martino had been invited to a Halloween party by one of his many lady friends that work in cosmetics alongside him. I imagined they had talked together, laughed together, bitched about work together, maybe even cover each others ass while the other one went on a break that went a little over fifteen minutes. As with the last few parties either of us had been invited to, he made it clear that he was to make a cameo appearance and then split to have some fun, and would I mind coming with him in that case. How could I resist, and wouldn’t you know it was another costume party.

Turned out Martino wasn’t in the mood for dressing like a Halloweenie, so we both went dressed normally, which in the end wasn’t so bad since others were not dressed while the majority of people were indeed dressed in costume. The party, being in Chino was a little farther than I had wanted to drive that night, but it was all worth it just to see the house of Hortencia (sounds like a fashion house in Madrid), Martino’s co-worker. The house was on a quiet street of newly developed homes in the boonies. I was grateful that not a trace of livestock (and their shit) was in the air. It was an impressive two-story home with a decorated front yard for the occasion. I thought it a wise touch to light the driveway with jack-o-lantern paper bags with tea lights. The trail led through the garage and directly to the backyard. A very smart way to keep your guests dirty shoes off your fabulous carpet, I thought.

The backyard was nothing short of what I had always imagined moderately rich people live like. The bar was directly behind the garage in the yard, and behind it was a gazeebo where the food was laid out. A stone waterfall fell into the heated jacuzzi which in the cold of the night was steaming nicely. To the left of the jacuzzi was a raging firepit surrounded by concrete seats. The landscaping of tropical plants, including many more palm trees (I counted thirteen) which gave the yard a taller, more secluded look, that surrounded the perimeter of the yard was only broken by the grass areas in the middle, which themselves were interrupted with smaller palms. Heat lamps were on and people were milling around, most of them beautiful women who no doubt were from the workplace. It all gave me a sense that this is what the circle of beauty must be like. Beautiful surroundings with beautiful people.

Our hostess, dressed as a geisha, greeted us and directed us to help ourselves to the bar, which her husband, dressed as a Mexican in a poncho and over-sized straw hat, manned. Immediately, all I had the urge for was to sit not just by the fire, but actually in it, I was so cold. Martino occupied himself with his co-workers who were not in costume. The ones that were dressed, milled around with others who were costumed. A sort or fashion politic had established itself and I knew I’d be counting the minutes until we left.

It was not that bad in the end, I had talked briefly about my job with some people, all the while wondering, “Where are the other fags at. This IS cosmetics, isn’t it?” An Asian woman looking like Jackie Brown (disco outfit and Afro and all) and her boyfriend dressed in USA Gymnastics warm-up gear were my favorites over the Zorros of the party, with the girls dressed as the Limp Bizkit chicks or Eminem chicks or something coming in dead last. I didn’t realize that wannabe ghetto could stink more than actual ghetto – these girls wore baggy jeans, red caps (turned backwards), white tops that threatened to burst with over-enlarged breasts that read “Rollin,’” and sneakers. Silly White Chicks, ghetto is for hood-rats, not Orange County girls from Huntington Beach, I thought.

With two beers falling quickly from my belly to my bladder, I bid farewell to my buzz and made it to the bathroom. Good thing, I was nearly bored senseless were it not for Martino’s friend Ana and her sister (sounds like a movie, I know) who were entertaining enough. Inside the house, like outside, candles were lit on the banister, on the mantle, and even in the center of large glass dishes filled with dried maple leaves. I almost swooned with the fear of all the fire hazards I was seeing. I watched painfully as the flame of one candle lapped dangerously at the paper mache floral arrangement it sat beneath. It was too much for me. Although I resisted blowing out the flame since everyone was outside, I whizzed and decided we couldn’t leave soon enough. The wonders of how the rich really can have everything go up in flames.

Point being, please, during the holidays, don’t go the route of the house of Hortencia. It could be the difference between a holiday with pretty lights or a house alight. Do not leave open flames attended – except for the ones in West Hollywood. They burn out on their own and usually after 2 a.m. unless they like afterhours.

The highlight of the party may have been the straight boy that doesn’t get along with Martino and his outfit or lack thereof. Wow, kinky, I thought, until I realized that that was not his intent. His costume was a diaper and baby bonnet, whicht didn’t leave much to the imagination – his tight physique was pale and nicely toned and the abs and bare chest screamed to be licked, they were so smooth. His face wasn’t bad either. His underwear peeped over the diaper and I could tell he was cold. Good for us, bad for his nipples. Although I was hoping one of the women would tempt him to do a group lap dance (nice package), I was more intent at moving on to the next event for the night. At any rate it was nice eye-candy, even though he was straight.