...but you are gay, after all, so avoiding them ends up being extremely difficult. As far as you're concerned, lipsynching, in and of itself, is not a talent. Nor is lipsticking. But Miss Richfield 1981 is not your typical, tired old run-of-the-mill D.Q. Oh no, no, no. Miss Richfield 1981 is a Drag Goddess. And you are her groupie. So you and your friends go to see her Christmas Show and, as usual, she has you in tears from start to finish. And we're talking the good kind of tears, not the "I'd-rather-be-slitting-my-wrist" kind of tears that a typical performance by Shequida can induce.
Anyway. A good time is had by all and afterwards everybody is hungry so you end up going to get a bite at HK since it's around the corner from the Zipper Theater. Your poor ass orders a $9.95 hamburger and an $8 glass of swill (of course it's a gay burger sans bun, and you substitute salad for the pommes-frites, bien sur.) However, when the bill is split, somehow you're expected to cough up $45, obviously to subsidize someone's three course meal which included the $25 fish special along with appetizers, desserts F.T.T. (For The Table) and a steady stream of elaborate cocktails that you couldn't even pronounce. But you digress.
After the sticker-shock from the meal wears off, you get a text from your B.F.F. who's out having gay cocktails at The Ritz. And, more importantly, he tells you, "You should come. It's cute." You inform your friends about the cuteness factor and you all decide to grab a drink. In fact, you're almost there when your B.F.F. sends another text that says, "The Writer is here..." and your heart instantly drops. Or perhaps that was your hamburger? Whatever it is, you know it ain't good because what it means is that you're obviously still hung up over The Writer.
You met him on Connexion in September and had a week-long whirlwind romance that actually had you telling your friends idiotic things like, "I think I'm falling in love," and "I think this is the one." Your friends, of course, just rolled their eyes as if you were the little boy who cried wolf. Anyway. After one blissful week, The Writer went on a business trip, and you went away on a two-week vacation to South America before he got back. So instead of whoring around in Rio de Janiero and Buenos Aires, you pined away for The Writer and couldn't wait to get back. The whole thing, of course, imploded before you even got over your jet-lag, and it actually left you quite heart-broken. And now, two months later, you're about to run into him.
You freak out and think about bailing, but then you ask yourself, "What would Miss Richfield 1981 do?" You realize that she would face her demons and belittle them cleverly along the way so you decide to go through with it. After all, you know that you're gonna run into The Writer at some point, and at least this way you can be mentally prepared so you won't break into tears and run out of the bar with mascara dripping down your flushed cheeks.
You see The Writer as soon as you walk in the bar. And he's with someone. Of course. Your friend orders drinks and then everybody wants to do a Fruit Loop so you follow them toward the back. It's packed and The Writer is leaning against the wall and, of course, traffic stops as soon as you are standing in smack in front of him. You want to let him get a whiff of what he's missing out on, but now you feel like a fool, so you turn toward him, nonchalantly of course, and when you catch eyes you say, "Hey." Just like that. Emotionless. No smile, no dimples, no nothing. Even though you're dying inside your face exposes only indifference. The Writer says, "Hello," and then asks if you are going home which you deem to be a ridiculous question. "No," you tell him as you raise your brand new cocktail, "I just got here." Your subtext reeks of "Duh," as the crowd begins to push you toward the back. Someone else starts chatting with you even though you don't hear a word he says because you are too busy wondering how, after all these years, you could have fallen in love with the wrong person. And then you sip your gay cocktail as you wonder how many more years will have to pass before you can fall in love with the right person while you scout the crowded bar for someone way cuter than The Writer who you can have a locationship with tonight. Anyway.
You see The Writer as soon as you walk in the bar. And he's with someone. Of course. Your friend orders drinks and then everybody wants to do a Fruit Loop so you follow them toward the back. It's packed and The Writer is leaning against the wall and, of course, traffic stops as soon as you are standing in smack in front of him. You want to let him get a whiff of what he's missing out on, but now you feel like a fool, so you turn toward him, nonchalantly of course, and when you catch eyes you say, "Hey." Just like that. Emotionless. No smile, no dimples, no nothing. Even though you're dying inside your face exposes only indifference. The Writer says, "Hello," and then asks if you are going home which you deem to be a ridiculous question. "No," you tell him as you raise your brand new cocktail, "I just got here." Your subtext reeks of "Duh," as the crowd begins to push you toward the back. Someone else starts chatting with you even though you don't hear a word he says because you are too busy wondering how, after all these years, you could have fallen in love with the wrong person. And then you sip your gay cocktail as you wonder how many more years will have to pass before you can fall in love with the right person while you scout the crowded bar for someone way cuter than The Writer who you can have a locationship with tonight. Anyway.
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