Archive for the ‘ General Embarrassment ’ Category

The Heterosexual Boyfriend; Oh God, not again!

My gaydar detector is either ultra-sensitive or it simply does not work (see The Heterosexual Boyfriend). After my cowardly exodus from the absolutely perfect ballet dancer, I went out to my neighborhood bar to have a burger and a chat with the bartender.  I never go there to meet people because there simply aren’t ever any young gay guys in there.

So I ordered my burger, and I finished my 1/2 lb. burger, french fries, and salad in fifteen minutes.  Yeah I’m a fatty. And I was still hungry.  Maybe it was because I was so sad about the whole dancer situation.  So I ordered cheese fries.  And another beer.  The bartender sees that a cute guy sits down next me (I guess I am more into fried potatoes than men), and introduces us.  Now that’s a good bartender.

His name is Angelo, he’s puerto rican, and he is sexy.  Sheesh, he is sexy.  And he smizes.  You know like Tyra Banks says on America’s Next Top Model.  Smiling with your eyes. Smizing.  Okay, I’m embarassed to know that.

I no longer need to eat my fries, because I’m having a wonderful time with Angelo. We have a lovely chat and part ways without exchanging numbers.  I don’t really mind, because I’d had enough dating for a week.  Two days later, I’m keying into my apartment door and Angelo walks by with his puppy. Aww, you and your puppy are so adorable! I emphasized the “you”.  Because I wasn’t really looking at the puppy. Yep.  He grins, and he smizes, and he says, What are you doing tonight? Let’s go out again!

So I met him at our bar.  Because goddammit, I’m going to find my soul mate! We’re chatting, and right off the bat he says, “Oh gosh, what’s wrong with us? Why can’t we land girlfriends?”

EXCUSE ME?

Now I don’t strut around in a pink tutu or anything, but it’s definitely clear that I’m gay. I mean, I bat my eyes more times a minute than a butterfly flaps its wings.

Oh, I’m gay. I said. And he says, “Oh, okay.” and then we continue with our getting to know you chat. So I guess I have a new buddy. Just what I needed…another weird straight friend.

Sheesh.

2010
11/13
POSTED BY
CATEGORY
Dating Disasters
General Embarrassment
TAGS


2 comments

The Saddest Well-Endowed Stripper in the World

Just two blocks from my house is a gay strip club, where I sometimes go to, well, um, for a good martini.  I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that I live in heaven.  But I try not to  go there, actually. Only shady characters hang there. But. It’s two blocks from my house. Just. Did I mention strippers?

Once I stumbled in there on Halloween in my sexy football player costume.  I really was on that night.  Actually, literally on.  I’ll get to that.  Yeah, it was Halloween and I was happy and I was wearing skin-tight footballish leggings with a cut-off football jersey.  Yep, super-gay. The only problem was that I wasn’t the only one on Halloween to think to show a little skin.  Soon, a hot guy in a thong started talking to me and flirting with me and before I knew it, his hand was on my willy, checking if I was wearing a cup. I wasn’t.

OH NO!

Boner alert–ding! ding! ding!

I had to escape…so I hurried through the Halloween Parade to get to the train station but got stopped by endless catcalls: Hey Look! It’s a football player with a fake boner. Only it wasn’t fake. And people would grab at it, thinking it was some kind of strap on, and then look up at me shocked.  Sorry, it’s just really stimulating here. I’m just trying to make it back home so that I can put on some more restrictive underwear.  It was obvious that I wasn’t going to make it through the crowd to the train, so I did what any normal gay guy would do in my situation; I grabbed the nearest shot boy and did a few shots of tequila.  It was then, I realized I could turn my predickament (ew) into a blessing.

So when I stumbled into the strip club, I caused quite the commotion. The hottest stripper was in love with me. He wouldn’t stop saying how beautiful and sexy and interesting I was. And I only had to tip him fifty or so dollars! It was a good night.

Fast-forward to last night.  I was in the mood for a “martini” so I went in to my hot spot.  Men were raining ones and even fives at the stripper on stage.  Then the next stripper, my Halloween guy, comes out. But tonight,  he’s a disaster.

Now, it’s not hard to please a gay man.  Just have abs and wear tighty whities, and I’m all yours.  Bonus points if the tighty whities are under army pants or doctor’s scrubs or something.  But somehow, this stripper only knew how to turn me off.  He walked out with this awful sexual swagger, and just stood on stage.  His underwear, if you could call it that, was simply a string tied around his waist with a flap of foil covering his wang.  Gross.  Let’s not even mention what happened when he turned around. Now, it’s common knowledge that if a stripper comes out in a towel or some kind of garment where his penis is separated from view from a small flap, that you are supposed to tip him and then reach under and feel his, um, martini.

Gross, if you ask me.  I don’t like my martini’s dirty.  Unless you chance upon a virgin gay stripper and you’re first in line and he falls in love with you for it and quits stripping before another guy ever manages to get under there.  But this stripper was no virgin.  He just had this nasty, veteran sex look on his face and stood there trying to will arousal.

No one was interested.  No one. He started to panic a bit. He turned around, confused.  He tried squatting. He tried a side view. A little nipple rubbing. Nothing.  He recognized me and waved. He remembered me. Awkward. I nod, shyly. The icky stripper recognized me, how embarrassing! I mean basically he was inviting the public to come up on stage and masturbate him for a dollar.  I don’t care how good looking you are, that’s nasty. So after a full fifteen minutes he scooped up the shower of one dollar bills on the floor around him…well, two dollars.

By the time he makes it over to me, he is almost crying.  I don’t know what happened. No one wanted to grab it. I instantly feel bad. But I can’t bring myself to reach into his dark abyss.  Next time,  just wear like plain white underwear. Or if you want people to “grab it” then maybe a white towel is in order.  I mean, what is that?, I told him.  The guy next to us puts a twenty dollar bill in his underwear foil contraption and then reaches under.  But not just a quick squeeze, he lingered. He quickly swats the guy away.  He tells me, When I’m on stage it’s okay. It’s such a rush that I don’t even really feel it.  But after, it’s awful. And he’s visibly disturbed. So I chat him up a bit, just to make him feel better. And he does feel better. A little bit too much better, if you ask me.  My hand is on my knee and he standing up next to me.  He decides to lean over to reach something or say hi to someone or do I’m not sure what, because as he leans over his penis rests exactly on my my hand.  I slowly ease my hand free..Maybe the penis is a deep sleeper and I won’t disturb it by sneaking away…no need to hurt its feelings.  But he gets the hint, and I can tell he’s hurt.

He comes back later and tells me he’s decided to quit.  No money in the world is worth this.  He’s going to go to college. Maybe join the football team.

You know I don’t really play football, right?

He’s hurt again. Geez.  Aren’t these strippers supposed to make me feel good?

2010
08/23
POSTED BY
CATEGORY
General Embarrassment
TAGS




Leave a comment

Hey You Guys, It’s a Sally

I don’t have a full length mirror in my house , I know…ridiculous, but I’ve adjusted.

Instead, I’ve found a much more fun way togauge my fashion experiments.  I’ll put on one of my crazy outfits, and strut down the street, monitoring the reactions of each passerby. Middle-aged women are the funniest–they look right at you and then quickly look away. Their repulsion halts their conversation and their husbands look back at you ten seconds later.

The ‘mo’s, though, tell me the most.  One will pass by and he’ll look me up and down and then stick up his nose, and pass by. Yeah. That’s a good sign. He wishes he had my Ted Baker’s.

One day I put together a dream ensemble: brightly colored short shorts with a white tee and matching suspenders.  My shoes were also brightly colored, matching one of the secondary colors in the shorts. Yellow…if you must know.  Across my forehead was a sweatband and the outfit was complete with a pair of Ray Bans.  I thought I was hot stuff.  Then I passed a group of hoodlum type guys.  You know. Sagging jeans, 3X Large T-shirts, and loud nonsensical exclamations.

I have to walk through them to pass by, and they all look at me.  Hey you guys, one of them says, It’s a Sally.

A Sally?

What does that even mean? I’ve tried to google it, but I think it’s original to that gang.  Anyway I like it.  It’s creative.  Had they dropped the f bomb at me, I would have to beat them all up. But Sally is kind of cute.  Like Sally Field.  Who is better than Sally Field, really?

So I kept on the same outfit.

Plus, I’m not putting on a belt unless I have to. Once you first put on a pair of suspenders, oh Barbra, they feel great.. Freeing up my waist freed up so many inhibitions. The jury is still out on whether suspenders are sexy or not.  Just last week some guy tried to pull a sneaky move on me.  Nice suspenders, he says. And he reaches to feel the texture between his thumb and first two fingers. Only he feels the texture of the suspender right at my nipple and pinches it.  Then he snaps it obnoxiously, making it spring back and sting me. He thinks he just seduced me but really I’m just in pain.

Sally doesn’t like to play rough, I say.

2010
08/19
POSTED BY
CATEGORY
General Embarrassment
TAGS




1 comment

Unrequited Jukebox Love

I’m with my crew in a booth at a straight bar, and he walks in.  He’s the karaoke host at this tiny gay bar that hundreds flock to on Wednesdays for their killer karaoke parties. It’s one of those places that are gay in the happy way and not in the “Let’s eff each other right on the dance floor” way.  Seriously, people are kiss on the cheeks to say hello, drink fun, fruity martinis, and I swear, every time a guy smiles a Ray of Light comes shining out.

A Gay Snake

The karaoke host looks like Rodrigo Santoro, only better looking. You know flawless skin, silky black hair, and his eyes are a cobalt blue. There’s little I wouldn’t put up with for a guy with black hair and blue eyes.

I’m in the middle of telling one of my obnoxious stories to my friends, and I stop mid-sentence. I’m like a rattlesnake that has just spied a mouse enter his territory. A perfect treat. My tongue darts in and out uncontrollably, and my friends turn to look at who I’m all coiled up over.

He’s here, I finally whisper.  My friend urges me to go over. I know better. This guy is out of my league. But he turns around and I see his perky little bottom and I can’t stop my tail from rattling.

I try to listen to my friends but really I’m waiting for the perfect opportunity to meet him.  Then, he walks over to the jukebox. Perfect.  He loves music. I love music.

I put on my best James Dean face and I slither on over to the jukebox.  I stand right next to him.  A little bit too close. I lean over and hiss, So…uh…what song are you going to play?

He doesn’t turn to look at me, and he doesn’t respond.  Did he hear me? He had to have heard me! I turn away to retreat but I see my table of friends are all watching intently.  I can’t back down yet. So I boldly turn back and yell, “WHAT SONG ARE YOU GOING TO PLAY”. He turns his head and he smiles.  His eyes are full of seduction, and he doesn’t hurry to respond.  He’s got me in a trance. He’s charmed me like the very snake I am.  I smile at him, expectingly.  Enough time has passed that I’ve forgotten what I even asked him.  How are you? Or, Hey There? Maybe it was, Will you take you right here right now?

He motions for my ear, he wants to whisper something:

I bet you look good without your clothes on.

WHAT?

But I’m cool.  I process the situation very quickly. He obviously just wants sex.  And I’ll take what I can get.  So I don’t even skip a beat.  I give him my dark-Twilight-vampire-seductive eyes. Do you, eh? That’s all I say, with a sneaky smile. Keep him wanting more.  I’m so sexy.

Only he punches me hard on the shoulder and starts laughing. NO silly! That’s the name of the song. Then he gives me a half hug and runs back to his group of friends.

I retreat back to my friends, who by this time are laughing uproariously.

But hey I haven’t given up.  Maybe I’ll run into him at one of those movie rental machine’s. The Red Box, they’re called.  Maybe I’ll be there and HE’ll come up to ME! Yeah, that’s right. And i’ll be sure to rent Deep Impact. Hah.

or Free Willy.

2010
08/17
POSTED BY
CATEGORY
General Embarrassment
TAGS




1 comment

The Not-So-Sexy Bartender

Sometimes I’m  a bartender at fancy cocktail parties and receptions.  It’ll pay the bills for now, and I get to serve drinks to some truly magnificent people sometimes.  Sometimes I even meet a couple cute blokes.

It was my first night on the job, and I don’t actually know how to bartend.  I flirted my way through the interview, lied about having four years experience (zero, actually) and then bought a book called “Everything You Need to Know about Bartending” and read it on my way to my shift.  The clerk at the Borders counter looked at my grocery store bag full of martini shakers and wine openers and then to the book and laughed like crazy.

I get there and it’s a party for…wait for

it…GAY MILLIONAIRES.  To top it all off…these were hot thirty-somethings with their own businesses (and personal trainers).  The work was pretty easy. The first ten guys all want a vodka cranberry.  Another comes–he wants a cape codder.  Can’t fool me–I read the whole chapter on vodka–I pour a vodka cranberry.

Then, the *one* comes up to the bar.

He owns a company that sells private home fitness equipment. He obviously uses his own product, because his biceps seem like their ripping the sleeves of his shirt. As I prepare his dry vodka martini with a twist of lemon, I compliment his belt. This causes him to lift his shirt a little, revealing those two perfect ‘V’ lines and a little peek of his abs! Ahhhh! Word of advice–if you flirt while zesting a lemon, only bad things can happen.

I zest off half of my fingernail along with the lemon and my finger starts shooting blood.

His dry martini suddenly looked more like a cosmo, and my finger looked more like stubbed toe. Now, I don’t quite have a feminine scream, but at the same time I wouldn’t call it masculine.  The host turns off the music and dozens huddle around the bar. A plastic surgeon steps forward, “It’s okay everyone, I’m a doctor.”  IT’S LIKE A MOVIE.

I’ve lost Mr. Dry Martini and I’m obnoxiously over-bandaged, and now I’m the one-armed bartender.  The next Vodka Cranberry comes up to the bar and says, “Oh, poor baby. Did you cut your finger?” Another Vodka Cranberry asks, “How did that even happen–you don’t have anything sharp on your bar!”.  I’ve gotten pretty good at concealing my injury until this cute lil ‘mo asks if I have Campari.  I reach for it with the bad hand, and  my ‘mo gasps. Nope.

When Mr. Dry Martini comes back he motions with two resigned hands, “Just a vodka soda.” and he retreats off to flirt with Mr. Campari.

Fast forward: end of the party. I say to the host, “Were you pleased with everything tonight?” aka “Give me my tip”. He said, “Well, I had a good time–but I don’t think you did (he looks down at my finger). Have a good night”. No tip. I was expecting over $100 from this bloke. No boyfriend, no tip, and half a finger. Oh and to top it all off…it was the ring finger.

2010
08/12
POSTED BY
CATEGORY
General Embarrassment
Leave a comment