so last friday night after the hypefest opener, we were sitting quietly on the couch, side by side, shelling greenbeans and smoking our corncob pipes and discussing another long day out on the farm, as we often do when...
me: wanna go to that bar?then he jumped out of his seat and into our magic phonebooth where he did a little spin till his clothes turned into a superhero outfit (HeteroMan to the rescue!) and was suddenly ready to go. so we went.
Boy: where the party was? there's a cover and it's a long walk. Boy is so responsible. there will be no drinkin' and drivin' on his watch. or as i like to call it, bowling.
me: no, dearest love of mine. (this is where i stroke his arm or sway my hips/sweetass and do the baby talking to hypnotize him into doing what i want.) not that bar. *pause* the one with The Dancers. you know. The. Dancers. (and this is where i demonstrate The Dancing by gyrating and shimmyshaking and waving my hand wildly around in the nether regions. to simulate a certain something. like a brain damaged hula girl.)
Boy: i guess.
and oh it was just the romantic night you would think it could be. what with the dim lighting and the alcohol and the drag queens. and the banana hammocks. and the bar top dancing. let me introduce you to our cast of characters.
dean, your everyday typical shirtless bartender, who had previously teased Boy about his solo appearance at said bar, and who was very indulgent of my innapropriately drunken line of questioning, which may or may nothave included questions such as: "do the girls like to be called drag queens or trannies? isn't Boy cute? where did you get that tattoo? do you let customers put the money down your pants? are you gay? are you married? am i being annoying? why is this beer called fuck-it*?"
the DragQueens, for this is in fact what they prefer to be called, wearing flowers on their boobies and feathers on their heads. also singing songs by the likes of tina and mariah, complete with light shows and dramatic drapings of self over tables, and wind effects. real wind! fabulous.
the other customers, who did in fact put money down some peoples' pants, and found me to be dubiously female.
carl, the english owner of said thai gay bar, who chatted with us about england and owning property in los angeles. and who rents apartments for like $700. for a one bedroom. Here. which means either the apartments are hellmouths or he's looney, but it's something to keep in mind. cuz the ants are back.
and finally, jorge, one of The Dancers, who we met when he came wiggling by in his red scarf. he enjoys techno beats, chatting with customers, long walks on the beach, letting men pay him to put it on them and women. that's right. jorge is oh so straight. and financially opportunistic. go jorge.
now in case you were wondering, which i know i was, jorge was not The Dancer present for Boy's initial adventure. i know this now. because Boy told me the other Dancer was better. which he then amended to "more grindy." but he said better first. heh.
Boy is awesome**.
*this would be because it is a thai beer, named for the place pronounced "pu-khet" but phoenetically spelled "phuket." and gosh darn, if that doesn't spell some naughty words. well i'll be.
**last night i was practicing my knitting with this grover colored yarn i bought and he asked what i was making. i told him i was just trying to get a good rhythm. and he said (yes he did), "you need a good rhythm to go with those blues." and then he laughed. at his own joke. and told me i should blog it. which i did, as you know, but clearly because it is actually pretty funny and not because i am blinded by my insane affections for a man who watches other men in various stages of undress parade around a dimly lit theme venue. did i mention Boy is awesome?