R.B. Winters's Blog: Rent (minus) Control, page 16

You’re a Lumpy Space Princess – Part 2

You’re a Lumpy Space Princess – Part 2

#Hangover Sunday

The Russian made the executive decision to have a small holiday party that was perfectly timed as a change of pace was needed from the bar scene. It was also beneficial as I’ve been doing my best to not drink beer with it’s delicious calories and carbs that magically erase time spent at the gym. This is easier to accomplish at a house party than it is at a bar – the bar always has a beer special that I can’t resist.

Stopping at Ricky’s Pup Up Shop to grab the Russian’s kitty a bow tie, I made my way to Astoria. The Russian has many fun friends to play with; over a giant decanter of Cougar Town we ate Larrymore’s meat pit and made generally mockery of all things. The conversation fell on Grindr and stockpiling messages. Now let’s recount the people in the room: the Russian, Larrymore, Me and two couples. Both couples have been together for gay light-years and appear to be happy. But one couple is actively on Grindr, which makes no sense to me if they’re “committed.” One partner has over 2,300 messages, which seems like a recipe for crashing the app. This gives even more pause to the idea of being on a hook-up app; why are you there if you’re not going to talk to anyone? This question remains open to the public, I have no answer.

Once the couples exited, the Russian, Larrymore and I remained to finish the wine and provide me an education in Duran Duran music videos from the early 80′s. They are my musical mentors. And wouldn’t you know it, right in the middle of our lesson, Late Night sends a text. Long story short, he wanted to hangout. It would be logical for me to rejoice with excitement, but instead I was annoyed, he was a day late in my mind. I like to go out on Friday, not Saturday…which is when he tends to go out…minor details.

In support of Cougar Town drinking… A filter was applied to make this photo less tragic.

This brought up an old question with my friends, “What does he look like?” I don’t take photos of people so I’ve never been able to answer the question. But at this moment the question was asked when we had easy access to a laptop. I pulled up his LinkedIn profile. See, I make a point of not locating people on Facebook because it is inevitable that there will be something there to piss you off. Can anyone say that Facebook stalking someone has ever turned out well? With LinkedIn you more or less see things you already know, there’s nothing personal and nothing that can set someone off; the perfect site for the self controlled stalker.

Sadly, the LinkedIn photo didn’t really answer the question because it’s sort of artistic black-and-white business. The Russian located Late Night on Facebook with ease giving him a review as “hot,” a positive in my mind. After scrolling through the photos I pushed the laptop away not wanting to get a look at the Facebook page, why open Pandora’s Box?

Late Night told me to text him once I was back in the city. Which was my intent, but on the long train ride home at two in the morning I found that fun voice in my head getting me worked up. It wasn’t Late Night pissing me off, it was me pissing me off. Back to this need of structure and schedules my mind started processing how the evening could work out: Arrive home around three, send text, have to leave home and head Downtown, arrive around four, fall asleep, wake up late in the morning, stress out over waking up late, rush home, have a frenzied day of catch up to recover lost time. Just thinking about it is exhausting. So what ended up happening was: Arrive home around three, face plant on bed, fall into a wine coma, wake up hungover at an appropriate hour and go on with my day as planned.

Late Night sent a text this morning to confirm my lack of text the night before. I’m not entirely sure of the point of his message, we both know I didn’t text, though if that mattered he could have sent a message upon leaving the bar. Not that I would have heard the phone, when I’m passed out it’s like waking the dead. Like a goo television show, we are ending the weekend at the same point where it began, with nothing changing from the unscripted plot of life.

I can sum it up to the Lumpy Space Princess video the Russian showed me at his party: At least it’s material for my trashy novel for ladies.

R.B. Winters
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You’re a Lumpy Space Princess – Part 1

You’re a Lumpy Space Princess – Part 1

In a summer flashback moment, this Friday was a traditional Margarita Friday. Giving the evening a twist, the Russian, Business and I met at Two Lizards, a swanky Mexican Bar in my neighborhood instead of HK – a welcome relief from our usual haunts.

I was early of course, the Russian following and then Business, but Business came with an additional person. My memory can be shaky, not certain if I had previously met the guy, I assumed a standard hug greeting was appropriate, quickly halted as a hand jolted forward for a shake, giving me a slight jab in the gut. It may help to know that in order to receive the happy hour drink price we had to remain in the bar area. The four stools were taken by cougars, we were crammed against the wall between the bar and the kitchen. Aside from constantly being run over by the guacamole cart, it was hotter than the Sun and menopause combined. Had we been in a normal spacing circumstance my failed greeting would have been visible to all [embarrassing] and the jolt would have likely been avoided.

The new Business BF is a decent guy, points for keeping up with our inappropriate commentary and highly offensive humor. My reason for referencing him is based on my question to Business regarding the length of time they had been dating. “Two weeks.” Mathematically insignificant, but in terms of concrete definition and gay dating it’s highly significant. The two of them can say that they’re dating after only two weeks, this to me is impressive. I love structure, rules and control; being the dictator of some small island country would be an ideal job. However, when it comes to my personal life there’s no structure or rules around anything. It’s maddening.

The evening began on the Upper East Side, but of course we wound up in HK; it’s gay catnip. Once at Industry, the five of us [Salvation arrived at some point], had a great time. The best of the 90′s were playing and the gays were standing around like lifeless, personality free, statues just as gay culture intended. The Russian and I had a fantastic time dancing with ourselves as bitter glances came and people tried to pretend nothing was happening. It’s a bar, what’s the point of not having fun?

Once I reached just the right level of drunk, I was willing to ignore the rational voices in my head and listen to the fun voices telling me to text, Late Night. It wasn’t a booty text, I was really just in the mood to dance with him. Sadly, he was out and about and couldn’t come play. The night ended shortly after, probably a good thing as the rain was coming down hard and as much as I enjoyed the run to the subway [without my glasses it was an adventure], I’d probably have ended up sick if we stayed out wet and cold much longer.

Home early and still feeling the joyful effects of intoxication, the fun voices in my head started an internal debate. Things with Late Night are fine, he’s not doing anything wrong, though in my head I’m going a bit nuts because there’s no structure. Business has some sort of dating structure after two weeks. I’m not in need of the commitment, but it’s odd that after months of sleeping with someone there is zero definition around anything. In a sick twist, I would probably be satisfied just by the idea of a set booty text schedule, at least then it becomes predictable and fits into a box that can properly be filed away in my head.

Then there was Saturday…

R.B. Winters
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Your Whore Hands

Your Whore Hands

Previously I mentioned two bartenders, one of which is dying to take me home. Though I’m not sure why…it could be the flirting for free drinks giving off the wrong impression…or perhaps there really are so few gay people in Utah that I’m exotic. I think I’ll go with the exotic option. As exotic as another incredibly white, white-person can be in a sea of other white people: A.K.A Utah diversity.

Anyway, I was thinking about when I first met this particular bartender in my days of underage bar hopping. Back then Ray Ray was sneaking me into clubs to dance and generally misbehave. The first time the bartender and I met, he grabbed my hand across the bar, me an underage, under-weight twink, terrified I was about to be carded or perhaps even booted from the club. That’s not what happened, the bartender rubbed my hands in a rather perverse manner and commented on how smooth they are. This could really be a plug for a lotion company. I mean soft hands on a guy, the masturbation joke pretty much writes itself.

Me being uncomfortable with a stranger touching me as well as the compliment made a masturbation joke. The only funny part about this joke is that I make it every single time he grabs my hands and rubs them. (Note it’s been eight or nine years since we met, so I’ve made the joke at least thirty times.) My sad little hands are far more callused than they were at age twenty. I’ll attribute some of the wear and tear to the gym, but I’ve also had my fair share of “dates.” My hands are sort of whores…maybe I need to invest in more gloves.

Getting back to the point, the bartender has heavily pursued me, going so far as to share what was intended to be a sexy photo during my most recent visit. I’d love nothing more than to share it, but even I’m not that cruel. I think for me it’s more fun to play the game, which is really stringing him along, making me a dick. If the bartender were to lose interest it’s highly likely that I would have an intense interest. I know that’s worked for some of his coworkers and one boss. Actually, the boss wasn’t my decision as much as Ray Ray prostituting me out for a free annual club membership. Gotta love someone who takes advantage of the situation.

So cheers to all our bartender friends, this song is for them:

R.B. Winters
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