I stumble out of The Stud in to the chilly San Francisco night. It’s 2 a.m. on a Saturday morning, I’ve consumed an entire flask of whiskey by myself, not to mention the 4Loko I had before leaving my apartment. Fortunately, on occasion, I actually know when it’s time to call it a night, scrounge together whatever dignity I have left, and go pass out in my own bed with a half-eaten burrito from Chavo’s resting on my exposed stomach. Naturally, a miscellaneous episode from The Golden Girls season two box set lights up my room until the disc runs out of episodes.
The decision to end the night wasn’t brought on by California’s 2 AM liquor licenses and thus any sort of last call. The Stud stays open until 3 or 4 to let the queer hipsters and drag queens that flood it on a Friday night dance their way in to as many bad decisions as possible. My resolve to leave was brought about by one of these bad decisions – though, for once, it was somebody else’s and not my own. I was stumbling around the bar, waving and smiling at people I know when I decided to head to the dance floor. I walked past the curtain barrier that separates the front bar area from the back stage/dance area and saw JJ kissing Andy fucking Dick.
OK, so it sounds so middle school and you, the reader, only know who one of those people is and it wasn’t even the real Andy Dick – just someone who looks similar and is probably as big of a mess as the real one. And, so yeah, OK, I was also kind of ignoring Juan-John (JJ), the typical, awkward treatment I put a guy through when I’m trying to transition from the “We’ve spent a lot of time naked together” state of being to the “Let’s be fully-clothed friends” type of existence. And really, in retrospect I don’t care that he was making out with Andy Dick. Whatever Pride-weekend-centric habit of falling asleep next to each other that JJ and I had indulged in had quickly become nothing more than a fond memory and a potential for friendship after the realization that nothing serious was going to come from it.
Still, in my state of inebriation, walking in on this ridiculous moment combined with my general lack of having any sort of logical reason to stick around the bar for much longer queued my “early” exit.
Rolling over alone in my queen sized bed the next morning, slight hangover to prevent me from falling back asleep, groping for my phone in my constantly pitch-black room, and texting my friend Marc who had missed the previous night’s festivities for a detox weekend at his family’s house away from the city: “Last night. JJ tried to make me jealous by talking about fucking some Australian guy earlier this week. Asked if he could come home with me. Then caught him making out with Andy fucking Dick. All in that order. Usual drama.”
These are the sort of laughable, petty instances that I masochistically missed about being single. Yes wary readers, as my last post (a little treat to make the ‘summer’ hiatus more bearable) months ago alluded to, I am single again. As a result, my life has gone from ‘domestic homebody’ to something loads more reminiscent of my life that involved nearly 100% of my favorite retrospective entries contained in this blog. That said, I’m excited to be writing again and I think I have an exciting new batch of misadventures planned out to share in the coming weeks.
DROWN THE CHILDREN:
SEASON TWO
