Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Too 30 for this Shit, Part 1

During my adolescence and early teen years, I keenly honed my business skills, navigating fiscal pitfalls as a concession stand cashier and private-residence muralist. Money became my impetus, for if I could serve up frozen pickles and pixie sticks in 90-degree weather or paint a lovely riparian scene on a bedroom wall, I could mature into Ross Perot or Thomas Kinkade. Little did I know, Ross, Tommy and I engaged a mutual love for prescription-pill cocktails. Ross, or "Penpal #27," as I called him, will officially divulge his pills of choice in his posthumous memoirs, tentatively titled Ears: An Empire. My burgeoning entrepreneurialism waned as I began to sprout public hair, however. While I roused rip-roaring peach-fuzz parties for my pubes, business savvy succumbed to fear of everything heterosexual and/or of ugly evangelicals. For each new pube-popping, I'd endure my penis popping to gay stimuli. Oh, the shame. I tried to hide it, and for years I managed to sometimes unsuccessfully not allow myself to have the life I needed or wanted, not partying with gay boys, not building a homo network, not modeling for the LGBT quarterlies or participating in NAMBLA. My twenties hit, and I decided to make up for lost time much like my mother has in her empty-nest years.

A couple of weeks ago, Adam, Craig and I decided to put on our high-heels and hit the streets. This night we would toss vodka in a few bars and not prostitute ourselves in search of semen or cash from circumcised penises. We did not actually wear high heels (although when I strut down 8th Avenue in Chelsea to get groceries, I secretly pretend to clack on fiercely), but our wardrobes still breathe slutty significance. Naturally, my uniform, a striped green lady-scoop-neck and dark skinny women's jeans with a cowboy belt for a bit of butch whimsy, flatters all the right tendons and ribs on my body. Oh, a lady-scoop-neck is a tank top or tee shirt that I cut into more revealing, avant-garde blouses. Adam dropped by during my three-hour getting-ready process to chat, start drinking and discuss our plans for the night. Adam is very attractive, with a solid dancer's body, cradling a great, effortless and eclectic style. However, he is delightfully dirt poor. His outfit consisted of once-too-short red bell bottoms from Goodwill cut into shorts and a Burberry plaid button-up he kept from a one-night-stand. By kept I mean stole. His brown, worn leather loafers came from a "classy dumpster" on the Upper East Side.

As I finished blowing out my hair and got a recapitulation of his ensemble, Adam poured the first round of vodka sodas, and we chatted about our itinerary for the night:
Adam: So, what are we doing tonight?
Me: Well, I'm wearing a cowboy belt buckle, so I'd really like show off my twattal area at Flaming Saddles.
Adam: Oh yeah, I love that place! And after let's make Craig pay to cab us down to the Boiler Room.
Me: Oy. I'm afraid if we go there I'll want to sleep with everyone. You know I'm hot for Lower East Side boys, but they could care less about me?
Adam: We can have fun with it. If you get frustrated, we can dick around and slowly swap clothes with each other throughout the night.
Me: Whatever Craig strolls in wearing, I'm not switching with him. I don’t have the strength to look like a gay lumberjack having sex with a frustrated ginger. The last time I did that, I ended up contributing to the Santorum presidential campaign. He can pull it off. Not me.
Flaming Saddles echoes the honky-tonk version of Coyote Ugly, except gay steers prance and line dance on the bar instead of supermodels lip-syncing to Leann Rimes during her chunky days. Two mason jars filled to the brim with well vodka and fifteen minutes later, I seriously began to eye-fuck one of the dancer-barback-waiter combos as the crowd swelled inside the bar. He only smiled because he's paid to flirt. Cuntry-fried whore. Saddles matched its reputation and devolved in to a veritable cattle call. Fag hags stumbled in and outnumbered the vaquero queers. If you replaced the bulls in Pamplona with drunken bridge-and-tunnel heifers, you would appreciate a solid representation of the scene. Once I began to sway amongst the heavy cattle, endeavoring to fist my empty mason jar and sing along to the fifth Billy Ray Cyrus song, Adam wrangled us together and led us out of brokeback bar before I really started acting my age.

We rolled into Boiler Room around midnight, yet we were already two mason-jar-sheets to the wind. In the cab ride, we'd mutually resolved to plan out our actions on arrival in a two-pronged approach. It seemed to make sense at the time. Craig and I would bob and weave through the crowd, assessing the "talent" (talent means the attractiveness of the patrons) on our way to the bar. Adam would immediately position his assault on the juke box and select songs from the Britney Spears and Gloria Gaynor catalogs. We executed the prongs flawlessly…with superior improvisation I may add. Craig identified four boys he'd previously spotted on Grindr, which surprised me because they were not Blacktino; I spotted eleven guys I'd like to fuck, and we nabbed six shots of tequila for the three of us. Adam had a spectacular find in Dusty Springfield on the magical music maker. We celebrated. We sang. We had the impromptu-yet-staged photoshoot. We bought three shots of vodka to "clear the taste of tequila from our palates," as Adam declared. Adam and I also decided to switch into each other's outfit. Again, it seemed to make sense at the time. After a quick twenty-minute wardrobe change in the bathroom, we boldly stepped, duds and dicks, out. "Craig, bring me fresh drink and a stale hipster." I remember little of the bar visit after this.

Before I realized the rapid change in scenery due to an alleged blackout, we exited Boiler Room and taxied back to my neighborhood to hit up a diner. I figured after eating ice cubes and lettuce for a week, I should eat some French fries covered in chili with a side of French dressing and a strudel for something sweet. The three of us piled out of the taxi and crossed 23rd Street as a middle-aged man, reminiscent of a younger, gayer Ernest Borgnine passed the other way. The details remain fuzzy and spotty, but someone ran into someone, Craig apologized, and then Ernest invaded my personal space and began to berate me, three-inches from my face. Mutherfucker wanted throw down with me in Chelsea. Meanwhile, I just craved some carbs. Craig took on his protective honey badger stance, pushed me to the side and stood in gay Ernest's face, politely informing him to back the hell up off us or he'd go Kentucky on his ass. Craig is so chivalrous. Ernest backed down, and the confrontation thankfully dissipated, but I thought a nice closing remark was needed: "You have pleated fucking pants! Leave me alone! I don’t talk to your kind of people! Where in sin are my fries?"

The next twelve hours excruciatingly devolved from there…