Saturday, July 11, 2009
Mobile-blogged while catching some rays.
Last night I landed at 10:40pm and was home by 11. Great flight, but I hadn't slept for almost 48 hours. No big deal.
I texted a mass of individuals, hearing back from a solid dozen. Paulo, Celine's boyfriend of many years, invited me to hang out with the guys. I chose that.
I threw on a gorgeous club-style dress shirt, my most hipsters jeans from Theory, a new pair of shoes and a silver wrist brace under my long cuffs. Then I bounced to Uptown to a trendy and dead pub.
Paulo looked like shit, which happens once every few years. His pack of male-model types was out in full effect but not too happy with the lack of ladies. Celine was there, nursing a martini cocktail with a lemon. We hugged and smooched lips and Paulo hugged me and smooched my cheek.
I ordered the same drink as Celine, a lemon vodka martini cocktail. Refreshing and solid. As the music changed to 90s pop, Celine dragged me out on the dance floor, and I shook my ass for an hour. She saw my abs flex through the custom fit shirt, and would casually dance with her fingers on my obliques. What a flirt.
As Paulo's friends bounced to other venues, he called for a change of pace: boystown. We piled into my tiny car, Paulo, Celine, some cute-ish gal Kenny (don't ask) and a fast-talking Vegas type guy named Paul. We zipped to Boystown and wandered into my favorite gay bar.
The bartenders at this place love me, mostly because they can serve me free cocktails and get my shirt off and dancing by midnight. Instead I refuse the drinks, settling on diet colas and talking to Kenny and a friend of hers who joined us, Margie. I named K & M because I will see them again.
Around 1am, my queerful friend Manuel popped in with a gay butch bartender I have the hots for, Laura. We made out off and on over the years, she's even talked about LFH but has never seen him. It's cute fun play.
Celine was trashed, touching my back muscles as I danced with Miguel. We have this drunken synchronized shuffle that we call E-boney and Eye-vory, but I'm getting tanned so the joke was beyond most people.
Paulo came up and hugged Miguel and they kissed like brothers. Celine was losing her balance, so Paulo said his goodnight. Laura took my phone number and cabbed with them back. Damn it.
For the next 3 hours, Laura's hot ass butt-dialed me 19 times. I was going to kill-a-bitch. Miguel's buddies paired up at 1:30 as last-call was called, doing the gay Friday thing attentively. Miguel said his latino monster was hurting from some biting he got a few days ago, so he passed going home with his live-in boy toy.
As we were leaving, 3 ladies Miguel knows from the area wandered past our bar. The valet had my car waiting out front and left it tagged so it wouldn't get ticketed. I grabbed the keys from under the floor mat and left it there as we decided what to do.
One of the ladies is Cara, another butchy gay bartender who remembers me from the dive bar she works at. I have no memory. The other gal is a casual friend of mine, Bea, who is tall (5'8") and pretty and has the most vulgar mouth. She phonesexed me twice 2 years ago and we still laugh about our close call after those.
The other gal was gorgeous but left before I could associate her name with another word. I have to do this or I forget. Miguel, Cara, Bea and I hopped to a Mexican restaurant in Logan Square and ate, coming out with late night plans.
As we finished our triple fajita platter, my hipster friend Jerry texted me: party in Logan, full keg. I hate beer, but I keep some Scotch Whiskey in the trunk.
Bea says "I hate hipsters." Free beer. "I hate beer." I have Scotch Whiskey. "I'm in." We cab back to my car and tear off back to Logan, where I double park in an alley.
The scene sucks. Ugly girls, uglier boys, ugly music, shitty beer. The notorious foursome drinks my firewater, and Bea and I slow dance to some crazy Irish funeral music. Her hands are on my sides and she comments on how I feel like steel. Whoa.
Miguel and Cara are talking to boys, most of whom probably go both ways because it's cool. No thanks. Bea and I break from the high school prom moves and sit on a railroad tie, swigging my brown water of life, her more than I. We talk about our lives.
"You're a writer?" I am. "Is it hard to find work?" Not at all. "What do you write?" I give her a website that has a list of some of my topics, and also forward her to some posts I have on some major newspaper websites throughouy the country. She promises to read them.
As 3am comes and goes, I'm starting to catch a buzz. Bea can hold her own, not looking trashed at all. I notice that she's not wearing a bra, and I'm having problems focusing on her face. Small boobs but a great bod for 26. "How old are you again?" Too old. Don't think it. "Haha, really?" I lie to her, adding 3 years. "That's not too old." Don't think it.
We drink, slow dance, make fun of hipsters to their face and pick out which grotty kid hasn't showered for the longest time. Big crowd to choose from, too.
At 4, we're bored, Cara is wasted and burp-puking, Miguel has a cute skinny latin guy rubbing his back, and Bea wants to bail. I'm sober, not wanting to have to cab it and find a place for my car.
We all pile in the small beast and hightail it back to Boystown, where I find a spot 5 meters back from Miguel's door. The Scotch Whiskey latecoming drunkenness hits me, and I feel tipsy upon walking into his house.
Cara goes to sleep on the loveseat in Miguel's room. Bea and I sit on the couch and continue talking. Miguel goes into the bathroom and comes out completely naked. The boy is hung like a horse, wandering into his boytoy's room. "Take the bed, one of you. Or both." Bea says "we will" as I throw her a sideways glare. Don't think about it, woman.
To be continued in Part II. Today.