Mar. 5th, 2018 10:08 am
Tawdry but tame
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muckefuckSaturday night I did something in the backroom at Touché I've never done before.
I made a massage appointment.
I'd been suffering my by-now-familiar vacillations about whether or not to host cocktails beforehand until a friend (whose Sekrit Aleus I've long since forgotten) messaged me and was like "You doing your party?" and I was like "Sure if you want, but invite people or there'll be no one there," which he did so it was a good crowd. My Not-Famous Newspaper Friend got to meet one of his Insta fanboys who was too shy to out himself, so I did later via text. He and his pharmacist husband, who I think I've met before, live just up the street. I promised to have them back in warmer weather for pisco sours.
At the bar, it was a good crowd. As per usual, I became obsessed with two unobtainable studs to the exclusion of everyone else. One was a guy in a Boy Scout uniform who looked right at me from a couple feet away without showing the faintest glimmer of interest. The other was beefy fireplug who I even tried to talk to strike up a conversation with, but he just gave me a confused look. In case I wasn't eating my heart out enough already, he later took his shirt off and kept shuttling between the front room and the back so I was guaranteed to keep seeing him. I also ran into that Anvil trick from last April and we pretended to meet for the first time, which was amusing.
In general, I wasn't feeling up to much chat. I wasn't that tired and I wasn't that down--the cocktail night went really well and I hit the room in a good mood--but I just couldn't think of much that I felt like saying to vague acquaintances in a noisy crowded space. But I did chat up a transplant from Houston, a massage therapist who's driving a truck while he tries to land a job at a studio. He told me about something called a "four-hand massage" where he works over your shoulders while his partner--also a masseur--does your legs.
He told me he didn't see anyone that night that he found interesting, so I confided my hopeless crushettes to him. Later, I ran into him again in the backroom as I was coming the conclusion that I should be heading home. He told me a bit more about his partner, who's Persian and was "playing safe, I guess" not far from where we were standing. We fell into rhapsodising about hairy Middle Eastern men and I told him about the Human Carpet. At some point, he asked me if I was still interested in the four-hand massage. I told him I was so we discussed schelduling and worked out that the two of them would stop by my place with their table this evening, since he'd be in the neighbourhood anyway. "There's my partner, by the way" he said, indicating someone coming back from "behind the fence" (not that it matters much these days).
[If you guessed that he was one of the two guys I was obsessed with, you get partial credit. If you guessed that he was the shirtless fireplug, you get full credit.]
According to Mr Truck Driver, he's shy about his limited English. Not for the first time in my life, I regretted not ever making a serious effort to learn Persian. He'd, ahem, finished up with what he came there for, so they told me they'd be heading at. I said my goodbyes and as the fireplug leaned in for a peck, his partner said, "He wants a hug!", which I got. On the way out, I ran into April Trick again and it all had me chuckling about the absurdities of gay life all the way home.
I made a massage appointment.
I'd been suffering my by-now-familiar vacillations about whether or not to host cocktails beforehand until a friend (whose Sekrit Aleus I've long since forgotten) messaged me and was like "You doing your party?" and I was like "Sure if you want, but invite people or there'll be no one there," which he did so it was a good crowd. My Not-Famous Newspaper Friend got to meet one of his Insta fanboys who was too shy to out himself, so I did later via text. He and his pharmacist husband, who I think I've met before, live just up the street. I promised to have them back in warmer weather for pisco sours.
At the bar, it was a good crowd. As per usual, I became obsessed with two unobtainable studs to the exclusion of everyone else. One was a guy in a Boy Scout uniform who looked right at me from a couple feet away without showing the faintest glimmer of interest. The other was beefy fireplug who I even tried to talk to strike up a conversation with, but he just gave me a confused look. In case I wasn't eating my heart out enough already, he later took his shirt off and kept shuttling between the front room and the back so I was guaranteed to keep seeing him. I also ran into that Anvil trick from last April and we pretended to meet for the first time, which was amusing.
In general, I wasn't feeling up to much chat. I wasn't that tired and I wasn't that down--the cocktail night went really well and I hit the room in a good mood--but I just couldn't think of much that I felt like saying to vague acquaintances in a noisy crowded space. But I did chat up a transplant from Houston, a massage therapist who's driving a truck while he tries to land a job at a studio. He told me about something called a "four-hand massage" where he works over your shoulders while his partner--also a masseur--does your legs.
He told me he didn't see anyone that night that he found interesting, so I confided my hopeless crushettes to him. Later, I ran into him again in the backroom as I was coming the conclusion that I should be heading home. He told me a bit more about his partner, who's Persian and was "playing safe, I guess" not far from where we were standing. We fell into rhapsodising about hairy Middle Eastern men and I told him about the Human Carpet. At some point, he asked me if I was still interested in the four-hand massage. I told him I was so we discussed schelduling and worked out that the two of them would stop by my place with their table this evening, since he'd be in the neighbourhood anyway. "There's my partner, by the way" he said, indicating someone coming back from "behind the fence" (not that it matters much these days).
[If you guessed that he was one of the two guys I was obsessed with, you get partial credit. If you guessed that he was the shirtless fireplug, you get full credit.]
According to Mr Truck Driver, he's shy about his limited English. Not for the first time in my life, I regretted not ever making a serious effort to learn Persian. He'd, ahem, finished up with what he came there for, so they told me they'd be heading at. I said my goodbyes and as the fireplug leaned in for a peck, his partner said, "He wants a hug!", which I got. On the way out, I ran into April Trick again and it all had me chuckling about the absurdities of gay life all the way home.
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