I found my way into the best gay party in town last night! Once upon a time, the bride was lesbian worked in politics. Many attendees were members of the city and state’s judicial system. As I arrived, U.S. Senate candidate Tammy Baldwin was leaving. I hope that was spurious. The dancing was impressive. It also took place on the first floor of the Children’s Museum below a human-sized hamster wheel that lights up when it gets going fast enough. I was told I missed a “Like a Prayer” flash mob and chicken petting, though not at that order.
Despite a few months of not having much of an inclination to imbibe, I had to have a drink to get into the awesome dance party blasting the stereotypical, yet not unawesome, wedding music. Mid-dance, a hypothesis formed. The ratio of Americans who’ve been to McDonald’s in the past month is probably on par with the amount of Americans who’ve danced to or sung “YMCA” in the last year. (Doesn’t that kind of sound like a good question to rhetorical “God” right now? [Why MCA?]) After hearing all of the currently or recently popular songs I only know the names of because of their mention in pop culture. They were as good as I imagined. Which is not very good.
Fast forward, post wedding sweaty dancefest, the drink at Genna’s with awesome, hot hometown friend of a college friend. There would be no hookup. She’s still talking about her ex of 2 years ago now, how’s she’s an “all-or-nothing” person” in regards to relationships and how she doesn’t just want to hookup. Dammit! In retaliation, Then I expounded upon the glories of my commitment-free relationship plan where you can still be open and intimate and close to people without …. and then I realized I was talking to a lesbian. Part of my subconscious hesitance with the ladies is the lady factor. Stereotypical female clingy… The thought makes my semi forclempt. Still, I will prostylitize polyamory until it no longer makes sense to me. Dear Science, please let that day never come.
Sidenote: I get way more dolled up or girls than I do for guys. I also go weaker in the knees. A charming lady can be very influential. I’m mildly regretting being under that and other influences at this very moment.
Post-wedding sweaty dancefest, we were directed to Argus, but it was packed and Maduro looked cooler. We smoked a cigar and she bought me a few cuba libres (they had Flor de Cana! (Nicas, you did good there), but only 7 and 12 year —tooo coool for the normal 3 year, no doubt. And the pretentiously mustached 30-something that served it to me neglected to include a lime. The nerve! I had asked for it with Coke with sugar, if they had it. Nope, but that set the pretention stage. Her boyish, drunky friend showed up in a Johnny Cash outfit (I also have a weakness for black button-down and black pants with nice black shoes on a thin person. So sexy and classic.). We proceeded to take photos of cigar smoking at the bar that are sure to show up on Facebook within hours and commented on the killer DJ. Let it be noted that the DJ refused to play a request lest he face the disinterested wrath of the dudes in the bar where college- to middle-aged with receding hairlines (this is an indirect quote, but I trust the source).
So femme and I returned to their hotel room to smoke. Joanie Cash soon followed, quite stumbly. We came upon a salacious film (apparently with all the god sex scenes cut out for late-night cable viewing) Unfaithful, the cast of which included Dewey, the youngest kid on Malcom in the Middle. I’d like to see it in its entirety. Let me note that I have never encountered a Frenchman who was in any way similar to this dude. French dudes are not that tall and broad-shouldered. And they don’t wear sweaters like that. It just does not happen! Anyway, I cuddled up between the two ladies and that is where this part of the story will end like a record player turned off mid song.
I made myself leave around six (after whispering, “Thanks for the dirty movie, ladies!”) and walk-of-shamed braless through a pre-marathon crowd to my bike on the other side of the square. Liberation, thy name is a triumphant walk of shame!
Moral of the story: I can’t refuse an alluring femme buying me drinks. I was helpless against her powers. Please, let no one use this against me too cruelly.
Tip for the Weekend: If you’re toying with the idea of playing an open mic the next night, don’t share a cigar. Your ears and throat will not thank you. I’ve made a terrible mistake.
