Summer Of Dubachery
The Gay Pride Parade and the street festival that followed was an enjoyable, if not somewhat predictable affair. Jamie and I perched ourselves early on a corner at the end of the Parade route, and got to see the marchers and floats as they arrived at the finish line. The highlight for me was when one of the first group of marchers arrived all carrying Hillary Clinton signs.
“Oh my God! It’s her!” Jamie gasped as I mopped sweat from my head.
Sure enough, Hillary Clinton was standing not 20 feet away from us, waving and shaking hands, having just marched in the Gay Pride Parade. And she did the whole event with hair teased out like a drag queens. As I watched her greeting her homo supporters, who all went crazy for her I was overcome by the idea that in front of me is a woman who is one day going to make history. When she finally does the inevitable and decides to go for the big job, I suspect it’ll be the first time I’ll actually feel compelled to get politically active, and do whatever I can to help with her campaign. There’s something about this woman … and I’d love to see her to be the first woman elected President … and I’d love to see her have that same big draq queen hair at her god-damn inauguration.
Later, after Jamie went to bed, I stood outside the hotel and watched the fireworks and the gay boys and girls around me, holding hands and enjoying the moment in each others arms. I realized that as cynical as I was about the day’s events, I had actually been harboring some secret hope that I’d have one of those great stories about how I met the boy of my dreams at gay pride. As everyone around me celebrated their common bond, I felt a deep loneliness wash over me. I guess for all of my past relationship horrors, at the core of me I still believe there is a “him” out there for me somewhere. The “him” that I, and many of my gay (and straight for that matter) brother and sisters wait to meet one day, and live “gaily ever after…” with. As explosions of light and color filled the sky, I watched and wondered if “he” was watching them too.
Now my life has proven to me that whether or not there’s a God, there is an evil bitch called “Fate” who for whatever reason, has decided that I’m one of her favorite targets for gaining entertainment. The bitch likes to mess with me!
Monday night was rainy and so it was just me and Jose waiting tables at work. The night wasn’t completely dead, and we kept busy through most of it. One of my tables was a guy I dated when I lived here years ago. For the life of me I can’t remember his name, or very much about him, but know I had pictures of him in the photo albums that I lost in Florida. It was all the drugs I did in Florida that probably wiped my memory clean of more details about him, but now he comes in to drink at my restaurant sometimes, and for the first time Monday I waited on him. We always exchange pleasantries, and I get the sense that he probably is nearly as fuzzy on the details as I am. If memory serves, I think at the end he turned a little “stalkerish” … but I couldn’t swear to it.
Sometimes it’s flattering to be “stalked.” Not in the Glenn Close, Fatal Attraction way… but a nice healthy obsession can certainly do wonders for one’s ago.
A few weeks ago I waited on a rather buff, young guy of an ethnicity that I couldn’t quite pinpoint but who tipped me $40 on a $60 check. He was accompanied by an asian girl, who I thought sure he was trying to impress with his big spending.
In the coming weeks I saw him in a few times, and he was always polite and nodded and smiled at me, even if I wasn’t waiting on him. I knew he was straight, and not even my usual type at all. I don’t like men with too many muscles! (10 points if you can accurately name the movie that quote is from.)
Well last night he was in again, with a blue collar looking guy with scruffy facial hair and torn jeans. I hooked him up with lots of drinks, and we chatted when I’d come to the table. (I’d put 5 large margaritas in me over the last two hours of the night, so I was quite the chatty cathy.)
As it turns out he’s a publicist (whose biggest client is a well known B-list Hollywood actor) and also a bit of a party boy. Our discussion turned to drugs at one point, and he made it clear that he was a fan.
“This is my summer of debauchery.” He told me.
Inside I noted and gave him points for his use of one of my favorite words. He asked me if I wanted to go out for a drink, and said he could get us into a few different exclusive hot spots. He’d also hinted a few times that he if I ever decided to get back into “the business” again, he could introduce me to some people who could help me out.
After the fourth of fifth instance of such behavior, I opened my big fat mouth and told him that I was an independent boy, and I thought he was cool but didn’t need to try so hard.
He and his friend waited as I cashed out, and at one point he came back in the restaurant and handed me a rolled up piece of toilet paper. I snuck in the bathroom, unrolled it and found inside a bag of coke and a straw.
“Cheers!” I said as I made myself a line on the sink in the bathroom of my work.
I left with them, and we walked to a nearby apartment building where “Buff Boy” (Which I’ve designated his blog name) lived. His girlfriend, who he is apparently supposed to be marrying was in the apartment, so in stairway the three of us did a few lines, and then proceeded to smoke a little opium he had tucked away in his pocket.
This guy was just a good tipping customer a few hours earlier, and here I was hangin with him and his boy doing drugs in the apartment building of a nice midtown apartment building.
I decided to allow them to think I was straight, and kept my mannerisms on the more butch side. (They naturally see-saw back and forth a bit.) His friend left after about 15 minutes, and I’d already begun wondering if this straight boy was corruptible. I decided to open the possibility by revealing to him I was “bisexual.” The idea was that I could open up about the liking dick part of myself, but he’d not find me as threatening since he’d think I liked the punani also.
He handled it better then cool … he actually thought it was cool.
We ended up getting in a cab and heading back down to my hotel residence, where Jamie was sleeping. We decided to do some more coke, and ramble about whatever came into our heads. As conversation went on, it became clear that I wasn’t actually hanging out with a straight boy. He liked the dick too, and eventually made a stunning revelation.
“You know I come in to your restaurant to see YOU. I think you are so fucking hot.”
I had absolutely no idea how to react. After taking a moment or two to process his statement I reacted in the only appropriate way I could think of. I snorted a line and passed it to him.
We traded stories of our dubaucherous experiences with guys, and he commented at one point that it was almost hotter when he thought I was straight. He said that, but still appeared interested in me as we sat and talked. He even repeated a few times (after pausing to look at me for a moment) that he thought I was extremely attractive.
He then revealed that he walks by our restaurant all the time to see if I’m working. (We have a huge outdoor seating area, so someone sitting in the plaza could easily watch us work and never the watchee would never be the wiser.
I couldn’t imagine what he’d have to gain from paying me disingenuine compliments. I’d already made it clear he could get lucky if he wanted to, which in the end he decided not to, but said he wanted to do the next night. I couldn’t get a read on this buff, possibly engaged, frat boyish, party boy publicist who was sitting in front of me shirtless.
At 3:30 he decided he had to leave, and as I walked him out he gave me his card, asked me if I wanted to hang out the next night, and then as he was leaving leaned in and kissed me.
And at the beginning of this night, I had no idea that he was anything other then a hot straight boy. Wow! A lot can change in a night.
It’s now the next night, and I’ve left a message for him to call me if he wanted to hang out. As of yet, he hasn’t.
Maybe he will … maybe he won’t. Maybe I’ll end up with some “dubaucherous” stories to tell about my adventures with “Buff Boy” … or maybe he’ll just not call, and stop coming in to my restaurant for margaritas.
Either way, it was a great night of dubachery, that might actually lead me to something other than loneliness. Or maybe just a summer of dubachery.
“Oh my God! It’s her!” Jamie gasped as I mopped sweat from my head.
Sure enough, Hillary Clinton was standing not 20 feet away from us, waving and shaking hands, having just marched in the Gay Pride Parade. And she did the whole event with hair teased out like a drag queens. As I watched her greeting her homo supporters, who all went crazy for her I was overcome by the idea that in front of me is a woman who is one day going to make history. When she finally does the inevitable and decides to go for the big job, I suspect it’ll be the first time I’ll actually feel compelled to get politically active, and do whatever I can to help with her campaign. There’s something about this woman … and I’d love to see her to be the first woman elected President … and I’d love to see her have that same big draq queen hair at her god-damn inauguration.
Later, after Jamie went to bed, I stood outside the hotel and watched the fireworks and the gay boys and girls around me, holding hands and enjoying the moment in each others arms. I realized that as cynical as I was about the day’s events, I had actually been harboring some secret hope that I’d have one of those great stories about how I met the boy of my dreams at gay pride. As everyone around me celebrated their common bond, I felt a deep loneliness wash over me. I guess for all of my past relationship horrors, at the core of me I still believe there is a “him” out there for me somewhere. The “him” that I, and many of my gay (and straight for that matter) brother and sisters wait to meet one day, and live “gaily ever after…” with. As explosions of light and color filled the sky, I watched and wondered if “he” was watching them too.
Now my life has proven to me that whether or not there’s a God, there is an evil bitch called “Fate” who for whatever reason, has decided that I’m one of her favorite targets for gaining entertainment. The bitch likes to mess with me!
Monday night was rainy and so it was just me and Jose waiting tables at work. The night wasn’t completely dead, and we kept busy through most of it. One of my tables was a guy I dated when I lived here years ago. For the life of me I can’t remember his name, or very much about him, but know I had pictures of him in the photo albums that I lost in Florida. It was all the drugs I did in Florida that probably wiped my memory clean of more details about him, but now he comes in to drink at my restaurant sometimes, and for the first time Monday I waited on him. We always exchange pleasantries, and I get the sense that he probably is nearly as fuzzy on the details as I am. If memory serves, I think at the end he turned a little “stalkerish” … but I couldn’t swear to it.
Sometimes it’s flattering to be “stalked.” Not in the Glenn Close, Fatal Attraction way… but a nice healthy obsession can certainly do wonders for one’s ago.
A few weeks ago I waited on a rather buff, young guy of an ethnicity that I couldn’t quite pinpoint but who tipped me $40 on a $60 check. He was accompanied by an asian girl, who I thought sure he was trying to impress with his big spending.
In the coming weeks I saw him in a few times, and he was always polite and nodded and smiled at me, even if I wasn’t waiting on him. I knew he was straight, and not even my usual type at all. I don’t like men with too many muscles! (10 points if you can accurately name the movie that quote is from.)
Well last night he was in again, with a blue collar looking guy with scruffy facial hair and torn jeans. I hooked him up with lots of drinks, and we chatted when I’d come to the table. (I’d put 5 large margaritas in me over the last two hours of the night, so I was quite the chatty cathy.)
As it turns out he’s a publicist (whose biggest client is a well known B-list Hollywood actor) and also a bit of a party boy. Our discussion turned to drugs at one point, and he made it clear that he was a fan.
“This is my summer of debauchery.” He told me.
Inside I noted and gave him points for his use of one of my favorite words. He asked me if I wanted to go out for a drink, and said he could get us into a few different exclusive hot spots. He’d also hinted a few times that he if I ever decided to get back into “the business” again, he could introduce me to some people who could help me out.
After the fourth of fifth instance of such behavior, I opened my big fat mouth and told him that I was an independent boy, and I thought he was cool but didn’t need to try so hard.
He and his friend waited as I cashed out, and at one point he came back in the restaurant and handed me a rolled up piece of toilet paper. I snuck in the bathroom, unrolled it and found inside a bag of coke and a straw.
“Cheers!” I said as I made myself a line on the sink in the bathroom of my work.
I left with them, and we walked to a nearby apartment building where “Buff Boy” (Which I’ve designated his blog name) lived. His girlfriend, who he is apparently supposed to be marrying was in the apartment, so in stairway the three of us did a few lines, and then proceeded to smoke a little opium he had tucked away in his pocket.
This guy was just a good tipping customer a few hours earlier, and here I was hangin with him and his boy doing drugs in the apartment building of a nice midtown apartment building.
I decided to allow them to think I was straight, and kept my mannerisms on the more butch side. (They naturally see-saw back and forth a bit.) His friend left after about 15 minutes, and I’d already begun wondering if this straight boy was corruptible. I decided to open the possibility by revealing to him I was “bisexual.” The idea was that I could open up about the liking dick part of myself, but he’d not find me as threatening since he’d think I liked the punani also.
He handled it better then cool … he actually thought it was cool.
We ended up getting in a cab and heading back down to my hotel residence, where Jamie was sleeping. We decided to do some more coke, and ramble about whatever came into our heads. As conversation went on, it became clear that I wasn’t actually hanging out with a straight boy. He liked the dick too, and eventually made a stunning revelation.
“You know I come in to your restaurant to see YOU. I think you are so fucking hot.”
I had absolutely no idea how to react. After taking a moment or two to process his statement I reacted in the only appropriate way I could think of. I snorted a line and passed it to him.
We traded stories of our dubaucherous experiences with guys, and he commented at one point that it was almost hotter when he thought I was straight. He said that, but still appeared interested in me as we sat and talked. He even repeated a few times (after pausing to look at me for a moment) that he thought I was extremely attractive.
He then revealed that he walks by our restaurant all the time to see if I’m working. (We have a huge outdoor seating area, so someone sitting in the plaza could easily watch us work and never the watchee would never be the wiser.
I couldn’t imagine what he’d have to gain from paying me disingenuine compliments. I’d already made it clear he could get lucky if he wanted to, which in the end he decided not to, but said he wanted to do the next night. I couldn’t get a read on this buff, possibly engaged, frat boyish, party boy publicist who was sitting in front of me shirtless.
At 3:30 he decided he had to leave, and as I walked him out he gave me his card, asked me if I wanted to hang out the next night, and then as he was leaving leaned in and kissed me.
And at the beginning of this night, I had no idea that he was anything other then a hot straight boy. Wow! A lot can change in a night.
It’s now the next night, and I’ve left a message for him to call me if he wanted to hang out. As of yet, he hasn’t.
Maybe he will … maybe he won’t. Maybe I’ll end up with some “dubaucherous” stories to tell about my adventures with “Buff Boy” … or maybe he’ll just not call, and stop coming in to my restaurant for margaritas.
Either way, it was a great night of dubachery, that might actually lead me to something other than loneliness. Or maybe just a summer of dubachery.
posted by Kevin at 7:37 PM
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