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June 15, 2009
my big fat gay weekend ii:
even gayer
My fate was sealed, I suppose, the moment Mike invited me to watch the charity softball game. "It's cross dressers against lesbians," he said. It's called "Bat 'N Rogue."
"What's the charity?"
"I dunno. Does it matter?"
"No. I'm so there." I was certainly not going to miss seeing this.
It was a freakshow, but it was decidedly less so than I'd anticipated. I'm not sure what I'd hoped for, exactly, but it wasn't wholesome couples picnicking in the outfield with their Brookstone picnic basket and poodle.
Mike introduced me to his buddy Matt. "John's from Columbus," Mike said to our fellow midwesterner. Matt's eyes flashed.
"Oh! I heard they have the largest bath house in North America! Is that right?"
"Uh, I wouldn't know," I said.
"John's straight," Mike stage-whispered in a manner that was way too similar to how someone might explain hair loss by whispering "He's got cancer."
"Ohhhh," Matt replied, my obtuseness explained.
And so did it go for the rest of the day. Every time I met a friend, my predilection for vaginas would be quickly explained. Sometimes it was phrased exactly that way. In my regular life, the word "vagina" seldom comes up. Not so on Saturday. It takes some getting used to, as does my obtuseness being explained. I mean, I'm used to being a polka dot, but black friends seldom have to explain that I'm white. Apologize for it, sure, but not explain it.
"From now on, every time I introduce you, I'm adding 'He's gay.' to every sentence," I growled to Mike.
"Oh shut up."
A group of us went to dinner, where good food and much alcohol flowed. They asked me about women. We talked about glory holes and rectal fissures (I'm opposed) and the recreational use of Viagra. Well into my eighth bourbon, I reportedly asked, "Tell me about a world without women. It's saner, right? It's wonderful, right?"
More booze flowed. I toppled my drink on some guy's lap, and everyone lunged to dab it off with their napkins.
I made that part up. The dabbing part—unfortunately, the drink part is true. We drank some more.
Feeling bad about my clumsiness, I picked up the check. They were delighted. Elated. Kinda crazily happy about it. Matt declared "We are SO getting John laid tonight!"
"Uh."
"Trust me."
"I don't."
"You should."
"Why's that, exactly?"
"Oh, you."
They determined to take me to a gay club called Purr in the gayest part of Seattle, and that's saying something. Matt wouldn't let it go. He pulled me aside. "What type of woman do you like?"
"I have only two requirements: 1) no living relatives and 2) low standards," I replied. "Disease free is a nice-to-have."
"He likes tomboys," Mike interjected. "Brown ponytails pulled through baseball caps."
"Man," Matt replied. "Wow. That's a pretty tough order. Not many of those in Purr."
We walked into Purr, and I was stunned to see it full of attractive women. It was a bachelorette party. The place was filled with the usual Capitol Hill freaks, but as far as gay bars go, this seemed tame. Why there were women in schoolgirl outfits, I could not guess. At first I thought they were trannies, but no. They were women in plaid miniskirts and vests.
Our group sat down. "So back before you all chose to be gay," I said. They all glared at me, waiting for me to finish an offensive thought. "I don't have a second half to that sentence," I finally admitted. "I just wanted to begin a sentence that way."
"What you'll quickly understand about John..." Mike began.
"...is that he's kinda an asshole?" Vince said. "Yeah, we got that."
Time passed. They all tried to hook up, but they did check in on me once in a while to shoo away a guy and to be sure I was having a good time. I was. I was a fascinated observer in an environment truly alien to me.
Matt took a break and plopped next to me. "So who's the best looking woman in the room?" Now this was not an alien environment to me. This is how guys normally converse. I surveyed the veritable buffet before me and selected a statuesque blonde in a tight skirt.
"I will procure that vagina for you," Matt chirped confidently.
"No no. I was just answering your question. I'm not actually interested."
"You, sir, are going to tap that tonight."
"You're insane. No. I'm not. Don't do anything."
And then he disappeared. Within 20 minutes, there was another plop on the couch next to me. It was the blonde. Seriously? What the fuck?
"Are you really straight?" she asked, touching my arm, not unlike like a stripper.
There was only one thought on my mind: committing a hate crime. Matt must die. And slowly.
"Are you really straight?" she repeated.
"God yes," I said with probably too much defensiveness. We chatted for a bit, and she was an utter imbecile, not that you expect any less from a woman your idiot gay buddy sets you up with in a bar named Purr. I chatted politely for a couple minutes, then excused myself and ditched her on the couch.
"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" Matt screamed, to the general agreement of all assembled. "YOU BLEW IT! I GIFT-WRAPPED HER FOR YOU, AND YOU BLEW IT!"
"I'm not really in the market for an STD right now, but if I change my mind, I'll definitely give your matchmaking services a try."
They all stared at me. It was a familiar stare. I've seen it on my friends' faces before, most often on the basketball court when I've blown an easy layup. In my head, I hear the caption I'm friends with this? Really? I can't do better? I've also seen the stare on girlfriends' faces. I debase myself with this? Really? I can't do better?
I, too, was feeling contemplative. I thought about my odds of getting anywhere with that woman had I been left to my own devices. 100 to 1? 1000? A million? Something like that. What on earth had I just blundered across? And more importantly, how can this heretofore unknown gay superpower be exploited for my heterosexual benefit?
Matt's continuing rant interrupted my reverie. "What is wrong with you? I mean, she had low standards!"
posted by john at 7:00 AM • permalink