By Anthony Paull
All right, if you're going to tell me you're going to top me in the first five minutes of our first conversation, at least be a man about it and take off your wig and earrings.
I mean, seriously? Is this my pay-off for entertaining a chat at the bar? Well, if so, I'm not impressed. But then again, I suppose that it's my fault, because I'm making myself more "accessible." Why? Well, because my friends say I'm a dick-tease, and I need to lower my standards.
So fine! Tonight, I'm talking to everything with or without a pulse. And slowly, I'm getting used to the fact that not every frog is a prince, particularly when it comes to a beer kiss. But meeting the parent of a stranger I have no intention of kissing? Well, this might be too much. But then again, I can't be too picky. You see, this drag queen with a Bette Davis wig, he wants to control me; he wants to lurve me. But first, he wants me to meet his mother.
"Mom, Anthony Paull; Anthony Paull, mom," he says, making the introductions.
Smoking alone on a bar stool, she waves a proud hello, urging her son to buy me a beer. "For God's sake, have some manners!" she tells him.
"Can it, mother! I can take it from here," he groans. Then turning to me, he takes a long drag off his cigarette before fluffing his wig. "So. Anthony. Before this relationship goes any further, I need you to know something. I don't need some damn stupid man." Hence, this is when the surrounding gay hipsters, in skinny jeans and lumberjack plaids, clear out. "I got a job. I got a car. I got a house. Why the hell do I need you?"
"You don't. I'm just a poor writer who lives with his dad," I say, turning to follow the hipsters. But no, that's not enough to deter him. You see, he wants me to know that he just raised $10,000 for some gay benefit, and I guess I'm supposed to give a shit. But I don't, because he just freaking spilled wine on the sneakers I spent my entire paycheck on. Therefore, I turn away, dancing off to an electro-pop number playing on the jukebox.
"Don't walk away when I'm talking to you. We got something!" he calls – his blue, sequined dress reflecting off the disco ball.
"Dude, I'm straight," I attempt to explain.
"Mmhm. Straight to the next dick," he remarks.
"Fine, I'm shy. Look, I don't even know you…."
"Oh, but you know my mom!" he snaps. "You don't know me…but you know my whole family!" Shaking his booty, there's wine flying here and there; and saving the day, his mom joins the conversation, telling him to calm down or he might scare me off. But it's too late. That happened the minute we made eye contact. You see, his Bette Davis wig, it merely got in the way when I was peeking around for someone who wasn't wearing a mini-dress. But again, maybe I'm being too picky. Yet, dear God, how can I not be? Once you've been loved right, it's so hard to be loved wrong. Can I come down from this cloud?
"Yeah, you got to let your guard down a little, man," my friend Max tells me, as I haul ass to the jukebox, pretending to be preoccupied with finding a song. I'm thinking: this is why I don't date. I have this code. Like hey, if you like me, come up and say "hello." I really dig that. Call me a traditionalist, but I don't like some guy talking about sticking his penis in my ass when I don't even know his name. As a matter of fact, that idea hurts, especially the thought of him lifting his dress to top me.
But I'm not giving up! No! There has to be a nice guy somewhere in the midst. After all, I'm here, and I'm nice. So I must go on, I think, as Max introduces me to a few co-workers – one of which who approaches me with a drunken leer.
"Aw, you're pretty," he says, tipping his fedora hat. Then he tells me it again and again, and I kind of like it, except he's already leaning in to kiss me, and his breath stinks like corn chips and bacon. So I push him away, saying "no" – an act which he takes as an insult, resulting in a conversation with Max, where he inquires if I'm a whore.
"Whoa! Are you kidding me?" I respond, when Max relays the message.
"It's no big deal. The guy's drunk. He just doesn't understand why you won't kiss him," Max says.
"Wait a minute. So I'm supposed to kiss and screw everyone who approaches me? Otherwise, I'm a whore? That doesn't even make sense!" Overhearing the conversation, the drag queen's mother attempts to save the day, yet again.
"See?! My son would never call you a whore," she attests.
"No. He would just talk to me like I'm one."
And all the gay hipsters go "oooh" in the crowd. But I'm not joining them. Rather, I'm fleeing the bar, before driving home, thinking how much this hurts. More than being a bottom for any big-top penis, this kills, being single and realizing this is my path, that this is what I have to face in the face of dating. It's pimply, the pursuit of a mate, and I'm picky, because my heart is itching for a love it once had.
So tell me: Where do I go if I'm a prude, and I want a "hello"? I haven't found such a place, so I say it to myself, staring into the rear-view mirror. "Hello, hello." For tonight, it seems me being nice to me is my only reminder of what I want and who I am.
