Loring Park Episode #6: Dismissed

After working an 11-8 shift at work last Saturday, I drove to my parents’ house to collect some dress shirts I still had over there (some days it feels like the transition of moving will never end). Kevin had eloquently texted me “Hey”, and I asked how his formal dinner went.

“Tragic,” he wrote. “I was actually in tears not too long ago.”

“OMG,” I wrote back like a teenager. “Are you okay? Tell me what happened.”

“I’d rather not talk about it over text,” he wrote. “Why don’t you stop by the liquor store and come over?”

“Okay,” I agreed. “But I won’t be there until 11 because I have to stop at my apartment, change out of my work uniform, and take a shower.”

“Just shower here,” he wrote. “You don’t need to waste all that time.”

Literally five seconds before I was about to leave, my mother came home. We had genial conversation and then she told me that she noticed the muffler on my Honda CR-V was coming undone and about to fall off.

“You better keep your car here and I’ll bring it in on Monday,” she said. “I’ll drive you to your apartment and you can take the train to work tomorrow.”

I could feel my face start to turn red. “But I’m …. going somewhere tonight,” I said through gritted teeth. This honestly just wasn’t about a boy. I mean, it was, but it was also etiquette! I had already confirmed my presence and I knew that if I backtracked on him (or swerved him, if this were pro wrestling), that he would likely never speak to me again. Okay, fine, this was totally about a boy.

“Where are you going?!” she asked. When I told her, she was livid. “What if your muffler falls off on the freeway? That is gonna cost you so much money! Who lives in [redacted]?”

“…..A boy,” I said, while staring at the floor.

“Oh, a boy,” my mother sputtered. “Well, at least if you die of carbon monoxide poisoning, it’ll be worth it because you had a boy.”

“Oh, that is going in the quote book!” I cried. Once I gave my mother a collection of her most memorable quotes for her birthday (#1 began with: “Jacob, are you being slutty?”).

“I just wish you were being sensible!” she cried back. “Is this even going to be worth it?“

We had a circular conversation for five minutes that finally ended when I was at the front door.

“Mother,” I began. “Do you remember what you were like when you were a teenage girl?”

“Yes,” she said softly, and we had a moment of unspoken clarity.

Ladies and gays: You may not see eye to eye with your mother on a lot of things -- or maybe even anything -- but when it comes to boys, she is always right.

I stopped at the liquor store where I bought Three Olives because despite my poverty I couldn‘t bear to bring over the cheap shit, then stopped at my apartment to get my phone charger but kept my work shirt on so he wouldn’t know I had stopped at my apartment, and was off to the suburbs, purposely blaring my music too loud so that if the muffler fell off I could be in denial and say that I didn’t hear it. Also, worrying about the muffler was a great way to not worry about Kevin. I strangely wasn’t nervous about him. I knew we weren’t going to be doing anything physical, I didn’t have my face on (but I had $200 worth of Clarins product in my car in case I really wanted it to be there), and despite the fact that we had cuddled and he had licked my face, I still barely knew anything about him, and the superficial crap like if he only preferred boys built like me and Joey, or if his last boyfriend had an alpha-male rugby player build.

I arrived at his estate by 10:20 P.M. When I parked in the lot, he summoned me to his door by whistling ridiculously loud. I grabbed the Three Olives and my short-sleeve blue Cockpit button-down to change into. “Shhhh!” I hissed as I walked in. “You’ll bother your neighbors. I had such a horrible drive here, I got lost and my muffler is about to fall off.”

“Come in and have a drink,” he said. “You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

I changed my shirt while he played bartender. “I’m drinking sake,” he explained.

“Are we in Japan?” I smart-mouthed. He poured my vodka into a brown chalice and it tasted bitter. “What did you mix this with?” I asked. He explained that it was some sort of ginger extract and that it’s very good for you, and I appreciated that we were trying to be health-conscious with our binge drinking.

His roommate, who is bespectacled, in his mid-thirties, and spends all of his time playing Civilization on his computer, came out of his cocoon to briefly introduce himself. He is also gay and has known Kevin since he was 15. I don’t know if I want to think about it too much.

Then we played board games. And by board games I mean …. board games. Upwords, to be specific, which is like Scrabble for stupid people. We did not last very long, as I had to argue for “faps” being a word, and he did not consider UrbanDictionary.com to be a credible source, and then I couldn’t figure out how to keep score. I started drinking the Three Olives neat.

“Let’s watch a movie,” he said, and I thumbed through his collection, expertly organized in a CD folder. Amidst typical guy movies with things blowing up, I came across When Harry Met Sally.

“That’s so weird,” he said. “I actually just watched that yesterday.”

“But I love this movie!” I cried. I’ve actually never seen it, but I’ve read the screenplay and read both of Nora Ephron’s latest books, so I feel like I have.

He agreed, and we sat on the couch together.

“I miss New York,” I said at one point.

“I miss Hawaii,” he said. “Y’know, I could have stayed there? I was 21 and I met this billionaire. I mean, legit billionaire, with a B. He owned, like, half the companies in America. He wanted to ‘keep’ me. But I turned him down. I have pride!” He began to slip into a Southern accent.

“You’re getting all Southern again,” I said, trying not to blush.

“I can’t help ee-it,” he grinned. “Meg Ryan is so pretty. Just perfect in this movie.”

“Are you Harry or Sally?”

“I dunno. Both.”

“Fine. You can be Sally. I’ll be Carrie Fisher.” I loved Wishful Drinking!

“Carrie Fisher?”

“The friend that always dates married guys!”

“You don’t even see yourself as one of the leads. That is so sad.”

“Well, I can’t be Billy Crystal and you already claimed Meg Ryan.”

He started quoting lines before they came up. He erroneously thought the “I’ll have what she’s having” lady was Meg Ryan’s mother, and I told him I would figuratively bet him a thousand dollars that it was Rob Reiner’s mother. He teared up at every interstitial with a geriatric couple talking about how they first met and re-connected. We got to the 45-minute mark, where Harry and Sally are in the music store and Harry runs into his ex-wife while he and Sally are singing karaoke and he subsequently melts down, and that is when Kevin started tearing up again, worse than before, and sweetly asked if we could put in the BBC version of Jesus Christ Superstar.

“Of course,” I said.

“My other favorite movie is Ghost,” he explained.

“Shut up!” I exclaimed. Then I realized that while Kevin is very boy-like and dudely, his taste in movies is ridiculously gay. “I used to watch that movie all the time when I was a kid! But I only like the Whoopi scenes.”

As he switched DVD’s, he looked at me with skepticism. “Only the Whoopi scenes?”

“Only the Whoopi scenes,” I repeated. “My mom had taped it when it was on CBS, and I would fast-forward to around 45 minutes when she first comes in.”

“You don’t like … any other scenes?” he asked, and his grin let me know exactly what scene he was talking about.

“The pottery scene is too messy,” I said, and then I looked at the ceiling so I wouldn’t blush. Then we both took turns doing the “Molly, you in danger, girl” line.

Speaking of Ghost, I then spilled vodka all over my button-down. “I swear I’m not trying to be like Carl in Ghost,” I said, referencing when Tony Goldwyn’s character purposely spills coffee on himself so he can de-shirt and seduce Demi Moore. We marched to his closet, where I chose a purple Hollister tee-shirt that read “IT ONLY GETS SWEET WHEN YOU GET DEEP.”

“A stripper gave me that shirt,” Kevin smirked. "It was in Hawaii. He was in the Navy, too." I totally compared.

He sat on the couch with me again and his phone started playing the Super Mario Brothers theme. “This guy,” he snickered. “I texted him this afternoon and now he finally texts me back asking ‘what’s up’. I know just how to get a reaction out of people. ‘Since you are so proficient in texting people back, I highly doubt you even care what is up.’ Send. I give it thirty seconds.”

The Mario theme played again right on cue, and as sexy Mary Magdalene sang to sexy Jesus Christ (have you people seen the BBC version of Jesus Christ Superstar? It’s like Baz Luhrmann meets Passions meets the “cool” videos you would watch in confirmation class. Also, am I going to hell if I announce that Simon is fucking hot?), the night turned on its axis.

“He’s gonna come over,” Kevin announced. “I haven’t seen this kid in, like, a year. We hung out on New Year’s Eve. You’d like him. He’s really good-looking.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, and I could feel the panic striking across my face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “What are you so afraid of?”

“Because!” I eloquently cried out. “You say he’s all good-looking! Y’know, if he’s all like …. Looking like a model, and I’m all ….. Y’ know …. This ….” Did I mention I once dreamed of being paid to speak in public and write books? Such eloquence.

He stared at me with his jaw wide open and a look of incredulity. “You have self-image issues?” he balked. He was so adamant in his shock that it took me a few seconds to register that he wasn’t being sarcastic. “You. You have self-image problems?”

When I look back, I realize that if I was ever going to kiss him, it would have been then. But instead I drank.

Two minutes later, Prince Eric arrived. He was very good-looking, but I wasn’t initially threatened, in part because we don’t look similar. Prince Eric is about 6’3” with olive skin and jet black hair. If he would have been blond and slim (“twinky” for lack of a better term), I would have jumped out the window. Still, I knew I was staying the night as I had drank way too much to drive. I’m friendly. I’m not bitchy. I can do this. I can mingle.

Prince Eric wasn’t a bitch, either, and the three of us sat at the kitchen table. Kevin started getting drunker and talking more Southern, and was dancing in his seat. Eric regaled us with his excitement of being an uncle. His niece or nephew is going to be half-black.

“Now, I am not racist,” Eric said.

“Do not start your next sentence with ‘but’,” I challenged.

To his credit, he did not. After twenty minutes of conversation, I started yawning and downed a 5-hour energy drink because, unlike Eric and Kevin, I do not have an Adderall prescription. I discussed my history of antidepressants as a youth, when I was batshit crazy.

The dynamic wasn’t necessarily like the two of us were competing. It was something stranger and more complicated. For starters, Kevin kept crying off and on and was proud to be emotional. At one point Eric told me I was a good person, then purred “Hang on to him” to Kevin. But Kevin and I aren’t anything! We haven’t even made out! His roommate announced he was getting Mountain Dew from the car, and brought out ginger snaps cookies from the freezer. We each had one, and then he lectured us on the importance of sealing the Ziploc bag shut. I would later be chastised twice that evening for not shutting the freezer door shut tight.

I went to the bathroom to weigh myself and try to take a Grindr pic that didn’t suck. Prince Eric jokingly accused me of vomiting.

But at 2:30 A.M., the gauntlet was finally thrown down. “You’re sleeping on the couch, right?” Prince Eric asked me in a silky, baritone voice.

And I said yes. Because I was not going to get in a catfight. Because I was better than this. Because maybe I really was tired. Because I should never have come over. Because I didn’t know what I should have expected when I drove to the suburbs with a bottle of vodka and a car ready to fall apart at any given moment, in a decision based on a combination of lust, curiosity, and guilt.  Because I should have known better. Because my mother was right.

The three of us went into his room to watch Child’s Play. Then they started kissing. Then I snuck out to the couch, like the loser contestant on MTV’s Dismissed.

Remember that show? It was on MTV and it would have an attractive male date two attractive females at the same time (Maya Rudolph, Amy Poehler and Jonny Moseley greatly lampooned it on Saturday Night Live once). He never picked the girl who was necessarily more interesting or more compatible. He always picked the girl who put out. What was the name of that little card you could have where you got 5 minutes of alone time? The Slut Card? My phone was in the bedroom and I sure as hell wasn’t going back in there. I should have cuddled with his roommate.

Instead I laid on the couch in sleeplessness and self-pity. At around 7 A.M., his roommate sweetly closed the blinds and asked if I needed anything. What a gentleman! At 10 A.M., I realized I needed to get going if I was to drive my car back to my mother’s house and get a ride to work for my 1 P.M. shift.

I knocked on the bedroom door, then marched in. “Are you decent?” I whispered. They were both silent and shirtless, and I grabbed my phone and walk-of-shamed myself.

I kept the fucking Hollister tee. He texted me later that day. 'You didnt have to leave so early. We didn't do anything.' I wrote back, explaining the situation going on with my car, which I now affectionately call the Death Mobile.

My mother and I got in a stupid fight about finances. I felt worthless and hopeless. The muffler cost $500. Now the speedometer is broken.

I texted him on Wednesday. "How's life?" I wrote. He did not respond.

And that is when I went through all of the feelings I needed to (he would give me shit for ending a sentence in a preposition, but fuck him). The whole thing lasted a week (and our time together only 48 hours), and I had already gone through all of the stages you go through in a relationship: The initial crush, the getting to know each other better and seeing yourselves together in some sort of capacity (I really only wanted a friendship -- he is much more serious about his future than I am), then you don't treat each other the way you should (the Prince Eric situation was bullshit, but I did not help matters by refusing to stick up for myself in or after the moment), and then you finally realize that the two of you just weren't gonna work out.

Most couples have this happen in a few years, or even decades. I had it in two days. And in a strange way, I was proud of myself, because I realized that, for me, at 25 going on 12, Kevin is an emotional milestone for me. This was the first time in my life that I allowed myself to go crazy about a boy who was not:

*Heterosexual
*Born in the 1990's
*A bartender
*From the Internet

And it was real feelings I had felt, certainly not love but certainly something deeper than a schoolboy crush (should I send Star Quarterback a fruit basket?). As bummed out, disappointed, and maybe even heartbroken as I was, I also welcomed the pleasant realization that I am now at a point in my life where, unlike in high school, college, and my subsequent years of being a screw-up, I can actually like people who are ostensibly attainable.

Coming up: The Adventures of the Traveling Hollister T-Shirt!

Loring Park Episode #5: A Departure, A Mugshot, and a Surprise

Previously on "Gays of our Lives": Joey prepared for his departure, but not before introducing himself to Kevin, he of the frat-boy demeanor and the pouka shell. Jakey threw up.

                                                   A Departure

Two Sundays ago, I was preparing for the inevitable. Joey, who had become my newest running buddy over the past month (and my first experience at what gay parenting felt like), was moving back to Wisconsin, and it was to be his last hurrah. After work that night, Jared called me and said that his friend Rachel wanted to venture to the St. Paul bars instead, as she had grown weary of the insular gay high school that is The Saloon. I empathized, but told him that it was Joey's last night in town and crossing the river just wasn't feasible. Joey arrived at my apartment at around 10, and because I am such a considerate host, it took me half an hour of gabbing before I finally put pants on.

"I was so worried about you the other night," I said, trying my best to not address the elephant in the room (*cough cough* didyousleepwithkevinnotthatIcare *cough* cough*). "What time did you get home?"

"Oh," he said nonchalantly. "We ended up going to his place."

"Doesn't he live in the 'burbs?" I asked, my eyes narrowing into slits.

"Yeah, it took us a while," he said. "We played chess."

Now, I use "board games" as a colloquiasm for intercourse all the time, so this did not faze me. "Joey, we're grown-ups," I said as I spackled foundation all over my face. "You can call it sex."

"No, we actually played chess," Joey laughed.

"Wait, isn't Kevin dumb and fratty?" I asked, and this is when I realized that I am absolutely awful at snap judgments.

"No, he just looks like he is," Joey explained. As it turns out, Kevin is older than me by a few years (this never happens anymore), works a lucrative big-boy white-collar job, and is still reeling from a relationship that crashed and burned after two years. "He's actually really deep," Joey went on. "Like, he started crying when he started talking about his ex-boyfriend, and what his family means to him. He's not at all like we thought he was."

"I am not good at this first impression thing!" I exclaimed. "Like how during the entire time we were doing the play, I thought you were this snobby twink who probably goes to The Saloon all the time and never gives anyone the time of day, when really you're a shy boy from Wisconsin who hardly ever went out until you met me!"

"It's because I have natural bitchface," Joey said. "I can't help it. Everyone always thinks I'm a bitch before they get to know me because I can't control my face. It's a problem."

On our walk to The Saloon, he dropped another bombshell. "Oh, he said you're cute, by the way," he shared.

"Joey, don't!" I cried. "You don't have to say that. But, oh my god, really? Like how?"

"Yeah," he said. "He was like, 'Oh, Jakey's cute'. Oh, and he doesn't know you threw up. He just thinks you passed out."

"So embarrassing!" I cried. "My #1 crush is in my apartment and it's the one time of year I vomit. My life is a crappy young adult novel. It's even worse than when I drunk Facebooked Star Quarterback."

We made it to The Saloon, where we soon met up with Jared, and later ran into Liam. Hanging out with Liam at The Saloon is weird because you will try to have a conversation with him, but every ten seconds someone walks by and grabs his ass. The life of a gAy-lister.

I need to write about these things sooner than two weeks after they happen, because that night at The Saloon is all a blur. Liam and Joey did the whorebox together while I told Jared all about Kevin, ordered another drink, forgot I told him about Kevin, and then told him the whole story again. Jared took the train home, and Liam, Joey and I walked across the park. I regretted my decision to wear dress shoes and decided it was more comfortable to walk home with my dress socks hitting the pavement. Liam checked into my Grindr and messaged dozens of people, which made for an awkward morning. I used a bed sheet as a makeshift blanket for Liam to sleep on the floor (unbeknownst to me, my mother packed a sleeping bag somewhere in the closet -- whoops!) and gave him a Minnesota Twins T-shirt to cover up his tank top, and we fell asleep to the MTV Movie Awards. Twilight and Hunger Games won damn near everything and I just felt flipping old.

I remember Channing Tatum. I remember Josh Hutcherson. I remember Joey asking in a whisper if he could be the big spoon. I remember him whispering in the darkness that he was leaving. I remember the door closing. I remember looking at Liam sleeping peacefully on the ground underneath the bedsheet that he thought was a blanket and realizing that had I been left alone that night, I would have bawled my eyes out. I am blessed to have a great number of friendships in my life, and while I would never think to rank them, there has been something very cosmic about my friendship with Joey. It was the most positive thing to come out of an experience that left me otherwise sour and bitter  (seven months of rehearsing a play that never came to fruition). When I entered the gay world of Minneapolis at 22, I was jaded and abhorred myself, and seeing it from the perspective of a 20-year-old from Wisconsin allowed me to view it from a more appreciative and optimistic lens. He encouraged me to dream my dreams while never losing sight of his own. I thoroughly enjoyed introducing him to not just my gay friends but also people from Big Louie's Bingo ("How do you know all these people?" he had asked. "Oh, Mike is my dad," I said nonchalantly after half an hour of conversation, and when he cracked up, Marcie the Bingo Queen was convinced I had said something dirty), and my longtime friends Greta and Erin. For the past few weeks, almost every day had been an adventure, of seeing the city in a new and refreshing way, and while I realized that the boy wasn't dying, he was just moving, his absence was still something I secretly mourned for a few days.

A Mugshot

Later that week, Liam messaged me and told me he was going to be at the 19 Bar with Markie. Since the 19 is a block away from my apartment, I decided laundry could wait and I could make a cameo. Markie, Liam and their friend Marty were outside on the patio, and I quickly became weary of the smell of smoke. Anthony was there but I did not greet him because I only talk to him when he is in the mood to say hello to me. I know, did I learn nothing from the Jim Wilson fiasco (Episode #2)? Markie has always been supportive of my comedy "career", and I began to fully appreciate getting to know Liam as a person and not just a pretty face at The Saloon. Marty was in the mood for deep conversation, and kept talking about getting over his ex-boyfriend (it's one of those disgusting situations where they're roommates so they're broken up but they still fuck. Never let this happen to you, ladies and gays). I started talking about how I should stop feeling so insecure whenever Anthony is in the same room, and he was half-listening and thought Anthony was my ex-boyfriend, and I was too tired and wheezy from the smoke to explain that Anthony isn't into skinny dudes, but then I felt bad because the only reason I know that is when I was on his Facebook (by sheer and total accident! Not really!) and he and a friend were talking about boys from the Boardwalk and he admitted such. In a related story, if I looked like Izak Pratt, I would be naked right now.

Still, Pride Weekend is coming up, and every day I have been saying that I am going to work out (oops), eat right (oops), and not go out drinking in order to protect my wallet, waistline and liver (oops oops oops). Friday, Liam texted me and asked if I was going to LUSH for 3-for-1's with our friend Michael. I had first met Michael the same night I first met Liam, and only the second night I hung out with Markie. It was in November and was the first time I had ever done a stand-up comedy show at Ryan's Pub, and I still look back on it as one of the best nights of my life. Not only was I on a real show with real comedians, but Markie had brought along Michael and Devin, two remarkably dressed and attractive gays who intimidated me to death until I actually met them and found them to be as friendly as they were tan. That night, we went to The Saloon to celebrate Liam's birthday, and Michael and I were the only ones in the bar who knew all the words to "Shoop". Michael has a boyfriend, a day job, and a house in the suburbs, and therefore he doesn't go out as much as he used to, but he's someone who I always wish I hung out with more than I do, as he cracks my shit up. LUSH, voted best gay bar in Minneapolis/St. Paul by City Pages magazine, is my favorite place hands down, but it is in Northeast Minneapolis and therefore I am not a regular like I once was (I once had a ridiculous crush on the heterosexual barback who went to my high school. And yes, I drunk Facebooked him once, too).

For budgetary reasons, I decided to take the 10 bus from Nicollet Mall to LUSH. On Fridays, 3-for-1's go from 7-9, and then at 10, 2-for-1's begin to kick off Blush Fridays, which is the bar's lesbian night. All of Minneapolis was on the 10 bus when I got on at 7:30, as it was the first time in my life I have been on a bus that was at full capacity (at one point it went past a guy waiting, and he gave us the finger!). The bus was full of children, and four young girls who couldn't have been older than 15 were standing next to my seat, loudly talking about how drunk they were going to get and how the last time one of them came to work hung over, she successfully convinced her boss that she had the stomach flu. Kids today!

We arrived at Central & Spring, and I got out of my seat and nearly ran over the four teenage girls. "Sorry, this is my stop," I said meekly. "Ours too," they said. "Are you going where we're going?!" It turns out that they weren't a quartet of tweens, but rather four lesbians with amazing skin! "Yay! I have a posse!" I cried, and we marched into LUSH together. I grabbed my first of the 3-for-1's (instead of making you triple-fist it, LUSH gives you tokens for your other two drinks) and met the usual suspects outside on the patio.

First, Liam and I ran into a burlesque dancer we know who very politely critiqued my make-up (I was wearing SET liquid foundation). He recommended I go to the Armani counter at Nordstrom. I appreciated his advice, but the next day I found myself spending over $200 at the Clarins counter with John Paul (and ladies and gays, you must go to him and imagine you have a money tree in your backyard. The boy is a miracle worker).

I reunited with Michael and hugged Devin, who lamented that we don't hang out anymore. Devin and I had one sexual dalliance and I have always been attracted to him, but life gets in the way sometimes, y'know? I promised I would make a better effort to text him. I finally sat on the patio with Markie, Liam, his gal pal, and an attractive bartender that did not find me amusing at all. Devin and Liam moved to another table and stared comic daggers at us. Marty started crying when talking about his roommate/ex-boyfriend/fuck buddy and had to go inside for a little bit.

"Devin got really good-looking," Attractive Bartender said. "I wonder what he's been doing."

That made me feel confused.

"Did you guys hear about Star Quarterback?!" Markie asked. We were on the patio so it was okay to shout, but Markie really has no inside voice. "He got arrested in Florida for cocaine possession and a weapons violation! His mugshot is online!"

"What, who?!" someone (Liam?) asked.

"STAR QUARTERBACK!" Markie shouted. At the risk of being Captain Obvious, I should make it clear that Markie was not shouting "Star Quarterback", but rather the kid's real name.

"Shhhhhhhh," I cried. "Don't gossip."

"Who's Star Quarterback?" Gal Pal asked.

"It's complicated!" I cried.

"Did you guys fuck?!" Gal Pal asked with wide eyes.

"It's complicated," I repeated, because then I realized that if I shared that I had a crush on him for several months and drunk Facebooked him once but he never knew I was alive, that it would be a much less juicy story than the possibility of us once having a one night-stand or quasi-relationship. "Just don't say his name so loud," I gently told Markie. "Call him Fred."

"Oh my god, anyway, we will not be seeing Fred for a while," Markie said. "He resisted arrest, too. What a fucking idiot. The mugshot's online. You can Google it."

 I later Googled the mugshot and sincerely regret it. It felt wrong, voyeuristic, and like a violation of an implicitly established trust. I do not really owe Star Quarterback anything -- hell, especially now that our paths will never cross -- but it still felt unsavory of me to gawk at his mugshot like he was some celebrity on TMZ or The Smoking Gun. Speaking of TMZ, I think maybe I was most curious about the possibility of him doing a Paris Hilton smirk. He didn't, of course -- he looked as broken and scared as anyone would in such a situation -- but because he is, or was, the Star Quarterback, he also managed to still look flawless and beautiful. Nothing is greater proof that you've won the genetic lottery more than managing to look like a movie star when you're facing 10 to 30 in the hoosegow and you've got the ass of a 16-year-old girl.

Liam and I decided we were heading to The Saloon, so I called Favian. We were going to ride from Loring Park in the stretch Hummer, but because I am a dumb-ass and temporarily misplaced my wallet, we got downgraded to the regular town car because Favian got a call from a group of 14 during my frantic search. In a related story, my birthday is next month and I IS GETTING A STRETCH HUMMER, Y'ALL.

Our driver was talking to the dispatcher at the beginning of our trip, and Liam was getting antsy. "Is he gonna talk on the phone the whole time?" Liam said, and then, fresh off his 3-for-1's, he mouthed off. "Are you not gonna talk to us at all!?"

"He's just joking!" I cried. I was mortified. I adore Favian and his drivers, and thus I felt like a parent whose child throws a temper tantrum in the middle of Cub Foods.

Jared met Liam and I at my apartment, and it took us an hour to decide on my outfit. Liam and I split a Lean Cuisine (twink diet?), I slathered SET make-up all over my face again, and this trio was ready for an all new episode of "Gays of our Lives".

A Surprise

Liam met up with his Gal Pal, Jared was put in charge of my keys, and we mingled like the socialites we are. I again told Jared all about what Joey had told me about Kevin.

"I know," Jared told me as we moseyed up to his favorite bartender. "You told me twice on Sunday night and again at work on Monday."

"Right," I said, almost disappointed. "Why can't I ever remember anything? I will have Three Olives lemonade, please." I think I answered my own question.

A gorgeous Latino boy in barely-there briefs walked around with a tray of Jag Bombs. It was an identity crisis, because I absolutely hate Jagermeister, but I adore a tan and visible abdominal muscles. "Can I call you Menudo?" I asked. "Is it offensive if I call you Menudo?" Lesson: Usually if you have to begin a question with "Is it offensive....", the rest of what you are going to say is probably offensive.

"You can call me Tony," he said through a pained smile. He totally wanted to kick me in the Caucasian balls, I knew it.

"Do you even know who Menudo is?" I asked. "Oh, youth." I overtipped him and chugged the Jag Bomb, pretending that I didn't have to be at work the next day at 11.

It was a Jagermeister Miracle, because right as I downed the drink, MARIAH CAREY CAME ON THE SCREEN! I figuratively lose my shit when Mariah Carey comes on. It was the "Honey" remix, and I was drunk enough to think that I could hit a high C note (I tried. It wasn't pretty, but Jared found it hilarious). We were next to two black guys, one of whom was in a tank top and was so built that I assumed his body fat percentage was subzero.

"Oh my god, Jared," I slurred. "Check out Chocolate Thunder over there."

"Oh my god, go talk to him!" Jared encouraged.

"NO!" I cried. I did my usual shy-boy routine and stood in the corner and pouted.

"Oh my god, Jakey," Jared said with an eye roll that was nearly audible. "How are you ever going to meet people if you never approach them? I wonder if Gay Oprah is here and we can talk about eyebrows again."
"STOP BOTHERING GAY OPRAH!" I shouted. Nicki Minaj blared on the dance floor, and Jared and I went to go dance as was our duty. I checked my phone to see the time (1:30), and Liam was asking if he could sleep over.

As Jared booty-popped and I did whatever the white version of booty-popping is, we realized that Chocolate Thunder was next to us.

"Jakey...." Jared smiled with a mischevious grin. "Come on."

"No!" I cried adamantly and I downed the rest of my Three Olives lemonade. As I set it down on the bar, I looked from across the whorebox and through the artificial fog, and there he was, sporting a tight blue tee-shirt, a lost look on his face, and that damned pouka shell necklace.

"Jakey," Jared said softly. "If you don't go talk to him, I'm disowning you."

I walked over like I knew him and smiled hello, then danced near him. The boylesquer would be so proud.

"I want to go to the patio," Kevin said.

"Okay," I smiled, and I took his hand and walked him over there.

"It just gets too hot in there," he smiled.

"Why do you have a Southern accent?" I asked.

"All my clients are from there," he grinned. "It slips out." He said out like Matthew McConaughey.

'"I'm sorry I puked when you came over," I shared. Why did I bring this up?! Damn you, Jagermeister Truth Serum!

"I didn't even know you puked," he said. "I just remember you passed out in your closet."

"I miss Joey," I whispered.

"Me too," he grinned.

"Come dance with me," I said, and took him by the hand to the dance floor. I made him go on the whorebox, and he peeled off his shirt like a model in those awful Bod commercials from the mid-2000's.

"Who's your friend?!" a man in his thirties shouted over the music. "He's fucking hot!"

"Ugh, I know," I said, rolling my eyes. I was rolling my eyes at Kevin's goofiness, the fact that I so predictably found him irresistible, and the brazenness of our fellow whoreboxer. I hopped off the box for a bit to give him some distance, and then quietly freaked out like a middle school girl next to Jared before he did the splits. Kevin licked my cheek like a dog and I immediately worried that he would start coughing and complaining about the taste of liquid make-up.

Jared left for the train, but not before throwing my keys back at me (lifesaver!). Liam regrettably agreed to crash at Gal Pal's house. And before I knew it, 3 A.M. had struck and I was walking out of The Saloon hand-in-hand with Kevin. This was happening.

We made it not half a block when we encountered a pretty blonde girl in her early twenties. "I'm sorry," she said. "Can you guys walk me to my car? I just don't feel safe."

"Of course," I said. "We're two strapping young men. We'd be happy to protect you."

"Where are you parked?" Kevin asked.

"The University of St. Thomas," she said. "I go there for law school!"

"Oh, no shit!" Kevin said. Then they started talking about grown-up stuff like LSATS and local law firms and I lost interest. The blonde girl graciously drove us to my apartment building, and I thoroughly enjoyed the moment, selfishly wondering if the blonde girl was attracted to Kevin, if she realized that he wasn't on her team, then hating myself for thinking that "straight-acting", whatever the hell that means, is something that should be prized or seen as better than its alternative, because the only females that have ever assumed I am heterosexual have been sixth-graders or sheltered conservative Christians who honestly believed I hadn't met the "right girl" yet.

He took his shirt off the millisecond we got into the apartment. Seriously, dude? I put on my iPod. He criticized every country song I had. He made me download "A Whole New World" and sang it at an embarrassingly loud pitch. He flipped open my computer, saw Microsoft Word open, and sharply criticized my writing. "Oh, that's real choppy," he said at one point, and then he kept reading out loud the Jim Wilson episode in his strange, pseudo-Southern accent that wasn't. I showed him my name in size 10 font in Lavender magazine as if it meant something. "Does this mean I can do jokes about Gay Oprah?" I asked. "I'm actually good friends with Gay Oprah," he said. "I had dinner with him last week." "Of course you did," I scoffed. He chastised me for not having a college degree. He talked about money, which I found gauche, but then I stared at his pectoral muscles and then it shamefully made it acceptable.

We did not do anything physical other than spooning (also, I have a twin bed that I really need to upgrade to a double). I was surprisingly fine with that because I felt myself actually starting to like him, and I hadn't Naired my legs recently.

When I woke up, I was sure to be present in the moment for as long as I could. I snuck in a Listerine strip and he stirred, mumbled, then crunched his muscular arms harder around my torso. I wanted to stay there forever.

I dropped him off at his friend's house, but not before explaining that I'm a terrible driver. It took me three minutes to back out of my parking lot. He couldn't help his laughter. "DON'T JUDGE!" I cried. "I just like watching people live their lives," he said. "That's all."

I love summer.

Coming Up: My Life Turns into an Episode of 'Elimidate'!

　







　

　



　

　

　

　

　

Loring Park Episode #4: In Which We Meet (and become) Gay Oprah

Previously on "Loring Park": Joey went home with Kevin and was almost declared missing. Jakey threw up.

I had an awful day at work on Saturday (the mall, stressful on a Saturday? Pray tell!) and while I was planning to save my liver and wallet for Joey's farewell party Sunday night, Jared read my mind when we were on break. "I think we need an episode tonight," he suggested, and I was in full agreement. I think if it were a film, critics would describe it as a "lighthearted romp".

We decided to take the elevator, despite the fact that I live a floor above the exit. In a rare occasion, there were other men on the elevator, and then I felt doubly embarrassed.

"How lazy are we?" I asked aloud. Then, the doors opened, and from the You Can't Make This Stuff Up Department, we were all face-to-face (I'm 5'7" so it was more face-to-pec) with a shirtless, sweating Adonis who had just got in from his Saturday night run. He smiled at the other men in the elevator (whom he recognized) has he toweled off. I responded as any proper adult would, which meant that I giggled uncontrollably all the way out of the building.

Jared and I stopped at the 19 on our way to The Saloon, and South Dakota was there buying a pitcher of beer. He recognized us and we greeted him with smiles, and then I felt strange tingly feelings in my groin area. I continued my streak of maturity by spending the entire walk to The Saloon bitching about the Kevin/Joey thing.

"I totally don't care if they slept together," I went on. "I mean, really? Why would I care? I have no reason to care. Bro's before ho's, right? Besides, maybe I don't even like Kevin that much. I mean, I don't even know him. And you know what, I'm not even gonna ask Joey about it, because we are good friends and after spending all of last night thinking he was dead, it's just, like, not important in the grand scheme of things. Although do you think Kevin is good in bed? I mean, not that I care, 'cause I don't, I mean, I don't even like sex, we've been over this ..."

"HAVE A GOOD NIGHT, SEXY!!!" a black queen yelled from his car as we stopped at a LaSalle Avenue stoplight.

"Oh my god, was that for you?" I asked Jared.

"People really like this sweater," Jared grinned, secretly relieved from the interruption.

We finally made it to The Saloon, ready for a low-key Saturday night. We ran into the usual suspects: Anthony was there and I will admit he was looking good in a light pink Abercrombie tee. However, the only encounter worth mentioning was when we stood in the fireplace room and I noticed the quintessential celebrity of Gay World.

Not everyone believes in the concept of "The A-List", and that is perfectly acceptable. To illustrate this point, I turn to comments written on my friend Jack's Facebook, when he dared write about the warehouse party incident:

"A-List" is such an arbitrary categorization made by people who only care about the shallow surface, and basically just means the more "A-List" the more slutty/insecure the person is.

 The people who consider themselves A-List are preening twats ...

Nice to meet you too, fellas. That being said, you cannot deny that within any subculture, there are social echelons, and there will always be people who enter a room and encounter dropped jaws, gasps, and whispers. And there was our finest example, impeccably dressed and ordering food.

"Jared," I said quietly through gritted teeth, as we stood at the table behindd him. "Do not turn around and don't point. That, right there, is Gay Oprah."

"Huh?" Jared asked, doing a very admirable job of looking without making a scene. I ratted off Gay Oprah's credentials and accomplishments and felt nauseous and anxious.

We went to the dance floor, where there was a bald, shirtless hairy man who DIDN'T DANCE, he just stood there like a statue and scared people. He didn't approach our side of the dance floor, and Jared was due for a smoke break.

The smoking patio was lightly scattered, and the only other duo out there was Gay Oprah and his pal. Jared loudly started talking about eyebrows, and I don't know if he had forgotten what I had told him, drank too much, or simply didn't care, but he went right up to Gay Oprah.

"You have great eyebrows," he declared. I nervously smiled and looked at the sky.

"Well, thank you," Gay Oprah said.

"Do you wax?" Jared asked.

"Of course I do," he said. "But I would never date a man who waxes his own. I wouldn't date myself. I only date real men."

They all laughed, Gay Oprah and his friend walked back inside, and I felt strangely relieved. In my most ridiculous delusions, I imagined that, if I placed well in the ACME contest, then as a mildly mildly mildly famous D-list local comedian, I would naturally date Gay Oprah for a few weeks since we were both local celebrities and therefore it would be required for us. Finding out that he is into dudes more masculine than myself (which, trust me, is really narrowing the field) somehow erased any anxiety I shall ever feel when he enters a room. I could be a millionaire and Gay Oprah will never be romantically interested in me, and finding that out strangely took a weight off my socially desperate shoulders.

It was time to go dancing, and the shirtless hairy man was still doing his Statue pose. This time, however, he was becoming predatory. I would dance, turn around, and he would be right behind me. I don't necessarily mind older men being on the dance floor -- we are all God's people -- but he wouldn't even dance. He would stand there, looking blankly, sweating on people. At first, I subtly moved across the dance floor, smiling as I danced it out to Rihanna, only to turn around and he would be behind me again! After three times of this occurrence, I reacted like shrieking my head off like I was Neve Campbell in a Scream movie. I would run across the whorebox, keep dancing, and HE WOULD BE BEHIND ME AGAIN! But he wouldn't even smile or engage, he would do that scary statue pose, and it all was too much! At one point, Jared and I ran past the bathrooms to the patio, but it was after 2:30 A.M. and the doors were closed!

"Jared!" I cried. "This is how people die in horror movies! They always kill the gay guy!"

"And I'm part black!" Jared cried as we tried to get the doors open. I kept screaming for half an hour, and we finally left the bar in one piece. We must have danced too much, because we decided to take a petty cab out of laziness.

Arriving back at the building, Jared was due for another smoke. As we stood outside, a handsome man in his late twenties who looked like a Van Heusen ad approached us.

"Excuse me," he said. "Do you guys know a number of a cab? I need to get uptown."

I gave him Favian's number, and we sat back in the lobby for a bit. He wasn't overtly emotional, but he was pacing and we could tell he was distraught. He shared with us that he was in love with a girl who lived on the eighth floor of my building, but that he was moving to Tampa for a year for a job, and he wanted to let her know that he was in love with her and wanted her to wait for him to return.

"Well," I suggested. "Don't call her now. It's 3:15 in the morning and she'll assume you're drunk."

"Call her in the morning," Jared said. "But don't overwhelm her. Text her first and tell her you need to talk."

"I'm just so embarrassed," he moped. "Her friends are all up there and she kinda kicked me out."

"But you have to tell her," I said. "You don't want to come back in a year and find that she settled for some loser because she didn't think you were serious about being with her when you came back."

"And women like when men are direct," Jared shared. "You can't live with regrets."

Then he did the token "My friend is gay" response, and shared that he had a hirsute friend who was in the military, is 6'4" and 240. Jared demanded to see pictures.

"I'm into bears," Jared explained. "I'm not into twinks like Jakey."

"I've heard of bears," our new friend said. Then we explained to him all of the lingo of bears, otters, cubs, twinks, jocks and ocelots.

His car finally arrived, and we hugged him good-bye. "Bring it in," he said all dudely-like. His taxi took him uptown.

"I should have asked what room his friend was in," I said. "We could have sent an anonymous note."

"I feel like Oprah," Jared said. "More so than the real Oprah. I mean, Gay Oprah."

"Right?" I asked. "I feel we changed lives this evening."

Coming up:

Joey says farewell to Loring Park -- but not before connecting with another gAy-lister and dropping a bombshell! And we find out why we *won't* be seeing Star Quarterback anytime soon ....

　

　

　


　

　

Loring Park Episode #3: Proverbial Fat Friend

The nights on "Gays of our Lives" went by so fast when Joey was here. There was one night when he desperately wanted to talk to Star Quarterback when I pointed him out. "Come on!!!" he cried. "It'll be fun!!" But I staidly refused. Like Jim Wilson, my conversation with Star Quarterback, should it ever happen, should be organic.

I enjoyed going out with Joey, being his wingman or gay mother of sorts. Don't get me wrong, I love going out with Jared (and occasionally his gal pal Rachel), and I still wistfully remember nights at the Gay '90s with Sina, when we were new to this whole thing and dreamt of one day being recognized (well, actually, I just dreamt it. She actually has it happen to her).

In some ways, hanging out with Joey was like being the Fat Friend, a term I use proverbially at 116 pounds (although I did just eat one and a half Lean Pockets, EZ-Cheese on generic Wheat Thins because I thought I was buying generic Triscuits, and I had chicken drummies at bingo). Our friendship was strictly platonic, and so while we would hold hands in order to keep track of each other, I was fine to let him fly into the world of The Saloon. He was soon to move to Green Bay, and while he hopes to move back by summer and I believe in my heart he will, I also remember that my "living at home for a year and then I'll move out to Los Angeles and see the world!!" plan didn't really take off. As long as he wasn't being creeped on by a skeevy older dude, I was fine to watch him dance with others while I schmoozed with bartenders and acquaintances.

At the end of one of those nights, he was dancing with a cute Hollister shirt and baseball cap. It wasn't until we were leaving that I had realized he'd been dancing with KEVIN, the total fratty-douchey perfect type that I thought was a hologram from the week prior! We then had a very middle school girl conversation on the way home.

"I'm so sorry!" he cried. "I didn't know it was him!"

"No, it's okay," I pouted. "You're cuter than me. You're young and skinny. I get it."

"Oh my god, I'm not even into guys like that," Joey pleaded. "He wasn't even dancing with me that much. He kept obsessing with his hair."

I swooned. "How old is he?" I asked.

"I don't know," Joey said. "I think he's 20, because he pointed to his hand." On Sundays and Thursdays, The Saloon is 18+ but puts a big red X on your hand to let bartenders know you are not available for business and to let ocelots know that you are also not available for business, but please?

I can't remember which night this was. As I said, they blur together, even when I look at the calendar. The Sunday before Memorial Day, we went to the '90s with Sina first and then went to The Saloon. Joey wore one of my T-shirts and I flashbacked to when I was 14, living in Alexandria, and I let my friend for that summer borrow my Quiksilver tee, and he filled it out so well with his muscles that I never dared to wear it again. Sina put a picture of us on Instagram, someone joked that Joey was Vanilla Ice, and Sina, who was raised in Cambodia, asked "what's vanilla ice?" and I made fun of her for a whole week because I thought it was adorable that she probably thought vanilla ice was a beverage or specialty food item and not the first man to have a #1 rap hit in the United States (yeah, think about that fact, America).

                                                 I look 87 in this picture.


His last night in town was the 3rd, so this must have been that last Thursday. I didn't work until late on Friday, so Jared, Joey and I all planned to hit up The Saloon for College Night (there is a story in between here that I will share for a different episode). If you get there before midnight, you get a free drink provided you check in on Facebook (which I can do that, now, because I finally joined this century and got a Smartphone -- that is for a different episode as well). Oh! Speaking of the Smartphone, part of the reason that it took so long for us to leave the apartment was that, as a gay man with a Smartphone, I had to start a Grindr account and then find an appropriate picture (and the whole thing is a joke, really, and I only go on it as an anthropological study). Also, I really hate my Grindr picture and need to just find a cute one from five years ago to use.

Joey was still contrite about his friend that had puked so close to us on our previous episode. "It's okay," I said. "Some people just don't know how to drink. But I don't puke." Then I knocked on the wall. Guess what else you can do when you join this century with a Smartphone? You can obnoxiously "check in" at places! If you do this at The Saloon on Thursdays before midnight, you get a free drink. Unfortunately, we kept gabbing and dancing and taking Grindr pics, and before we knew it, it was 11:40! The Saloon is exactly one mile from my apartment.

We sprinted the best we could, even Joey, who was a cross-country star in high school, but we were too late and strolled in at The Saloon at 12:02. I didn't even want a stupid free drink, but we did scare the hell out of a poor man walking outside of the CVS on Hennepin Avenue. Sprinting gays are the new bath-salt zombies.

Jared and I bee-lined to his favorite bartender so we could get non-free drinks quickly, and Joey went to go dance. Jared is not even a year older than Joey but I am 27 years older than Joey, and therefore we feel that he is our gay child. "We must let him fly," I remember saying, but then Jared went to go smoke so I decided to chaperone on the dance floor. The dance floor was scattered with well-dressed twentysomethings wearing VOTE NO stickers, and I assumed they must have arrived from a fundraiser. I also assumed them to be heterosexual, and so when a very good-looking dude in his late twenties came up to me, making conversation with a smile, I didn't feel like I was flirting.

"No one's dancing!" he yelled.

"Proper whorebox etiquette is to wait until you're invited," I explained. "But right now no one's on there, so we're good!"

We helped each other up to the whorebox, and Joey was behind us. He introduced himself as Scott, and then I realized under the strobe lights that he really was dreamy, built like he probably played football but never pursued it all through high school, and he had dimples you could put grocery bags in. I introduced myself to his friend as to not be rude, but his friend avoided eye contact and was rather distant. Still, how great was it that straight guys were dancing on the whorebox? I thought to myself as I danced in circles how wonderful it was, and how maybe Minnesota really can be the anti-homophobia state this fall, and then I worried if my Twitter was getting too political lately because I do have Republican friends that I respect and I never want to come off as preachy, and oh look, Scott and Joey are making out, wait, what?

I felt weird about it, but I had no idea why I felt weird. Remember sixth grade science when the first chapter is all about the scientific method, and Step 1 is Identify the Problem? I had to Identify the Emotion. I wasn't jealous of Scott; Joey and I are not romantically inclined, although we have admitted that the other is good-looking. I wasn't jealous of Joey because I knew he was moving away soon and I wanted him to live it up the best he could; I instead realized that I felt like the Proverbial Fat Friend. You see them hanging out with girls much prettier than they are, and they usually end up holding all of the purses. It is wrong and unfair and I am not saying it is right, but it is the best (albeit horrifically un-PC) way to describe how I felt.

Jared was still smoking and hob-knobbing, so I went to Danny's bar in the back of The Saloon. While Danny is the Iron Chef of bartenders and I knew he could have whipped up anything he could, I decided on Absolut Mandarin on the rocks. Jared and Joey both came up to me at around the same time. Joey explained that Scott gave him a fake phone number and if he would see him again, he would kick his ass.

"Young man!" I cried. "We will not have you fighting."

"I don't have enough money to bail you out," Jared said. "Starships" by Nicki Minaj blared, and Jared dragged me to the dance floor. "It's our morning song!" Whenever Jared sleeps over and we have to drive to work, "Starships" is what makes us feel awake and ready to take on the day. I think it's because it reminds us that just hours ago we were at the club, and that no matter how stressful the day will be, we can be soothingly reminded that in mere hours or days, we will be back at the club.

After our song, Jared and I went in for refills while Joey sat next to us. Still feeling confused about the Scott thing, I decided to lay my cards out on the table.

"Is it awkward if we make out?" I asked Joey, in a flat tone of voice that suggested I was asking if he preferred to have dinner at the Olive Garden or Applebee's.

"No," he answered, in a completely normal way, like if I were a waiter asking if he wanted his ranch on the side or not. I think I used that analogy because I am starving. We never did make out and we're both fine with that, yet it was a moment that made me realize how gay guys really do get to have the best friendships in the world.

It was time to dance again, and I started feeling like maybe I should not have ordered a goose lemonade without eating anything all day except for a Claritin-D. All I know is that my vision was blurry when Joey was dancing with a boy in a Hollister t-shirt, and it wasn't until I finished downing my Goose lemonade that things cleared up. "Jared," I gritted as I violently grabbed his shirt. "He's dancing with Kevin."

"Well, go say hi!" Jared encouraged.

"No, I'm not gonna C-block our son," I pouted.

"Ugh, I'll go over there and say hello for you," he said.

The next thing I knew, it was closing time and the four of us were standing outside of The Saloon, Kevin staring at all of us intensely and me trying to be outgoing without seeming desperate. After all, he was Joey's, right? I was the Fat Friend who was in charge of breakfast the next day.

We walked the mile to my apartment. I forget if we were in a group or paired off. I want to say we paired off. I think I was nervous. It was KEVIN. My #1 crush, probably more now than Star Quarterback, and he was going to BE IN MY APARTMENT. I didn't have any board games. Was it clean? I knew I made Joey put the sheets on because I have the fine motor skills of an infant. But I don't have a couch! Only two of us could have the bed and two could sleep on the floor. Was Kevin into drugs? Was he expecting an orgy? I mean, I really didn't know anything about him because I'm too scared to talk to him.

These were the thoughts going through my head as I passed out in my walk-in closet, which reeks of cat pee from the previous owner.

"Jakeygggghhhh," Jared spoke from the pillow he was passed out in. "Are you okayggghhh?"

"Yes," I said, and then the ceiling was shaking. Was I expecting Joey or Kevin to come save me? They didn't, but it was for the best, as I, the one who NEVER pukes, was soon worshipping the porcelain god. I took a shower, and when I got out, Kevin and Joey were gone. It was fine. I was too tired and stressed out to care.

STARSHIPS WERE MEANT TO FLY

HANDS UP AND TOUCH THE SKY

The next morning, Jared and I awoke for our usual excursion back to the mall. I called Joey and left a message, but he didn't pick up. On my lunch break, I texted him again. In my head, he had played board games with Kevin and felt bad about it because he knew I liked Kevin and didn't want me to disapprove, but I'm not in eighth grade! I am so down with it! But now it was 4:30 in the afternoon and I was becoming increasingly worried. What time was it when they left the apartment? Did Kevin try to mug him or rape him? Did someone try to mug and rape the both of them?

"How soon is it to file a missing person's report?" I asked a co-worker.

"24 hours," she explained.

I started feeling queasy, queasier than the night prior when I actually threw up. I could have given two shits about if he had done anything physical with Kevin at this point. My child was missing! He had moved out of his Minneapolis apartment and was couch-hopping until Sunday, and he had no next of kin in town to verify if a body got found. What would I tell the police? In that moment, I understood my mother, and the crippling fear that dictated her parenting style to the point that I had little to no independence or survival skills as a teenager.

Joey finally texted back at 5:15 PM. 'Omg im fine sorry haha'. Oh, that child of mine. I wanted to ask a million questions about Kevin, but I decided they could wait until Sunday. It was more important that I knew Joey was alive and well, not if Kevin is a good kisser or not.

Next time: We meet Gay Oprah!

　

　

　

My 15 Minutes with a Headliner: What I Learned

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Gays of our Lives Episode #2: Jim Wilson

Previously on Loring Park:

Joey and I went to a foam party last week. At the time, I had a 1-1 record at foam parties: The one I went to in Las Vegas was truly one of the best nights of my life (I made a go-go boy flex his pec muscles, I made out with an impossibly hot British dude to Britney but then he disappeared in the foam and I still wonder if he was a ghost, and most importantly, I, despite NOT having the body of a chiseled Adonis, decided to run around in my swim trunks anyway), but the one I went to a month after that led to the loss of my cell phone and ID -- On Gay Pride Weekend! Thank goodness for organized mothers and having a passport.

Nothing eventful happened at the foam party, except for almost drowning. I don't think I enjoy them anymore. Maybe I'm officially too old. I didn't even want to go, but Joey is moving back home next month and therefore he is my excuse for going out when I should stay home, saving money and doing crunches. This means that we of course went out again on Sunday night, this time to The Saloon. I went with Jared, and Joey agreed to meet us there.

We first ran into Liam, whom I mentioned last week as one of the kindest gAy-listers there is. He told me delightful gossip, including the fact that Markie, a gay man in his late thirties who is the reason I have even met so many gAy-listers, is banned from The Saloon until July because he gave his drink to a minor. SCANDAL! I also received chap stick from a nice fag hag/gay guy couple, and the guy even had the good Burt's Bee's stuff.

Of course, Cordero was there, with a devilish grin and halfway in the bag. "When are we going out, Jakey?" he asked, and then I got Christina Aguilera "Infatution" in my head. Camille Collins, the drag queen and host of the shower contest, made her way out to the patio, and I took it as a lovely distraction. "I love you, Camille!" I cried. "I love you, too!" she rasped, and my night was complete. Jared and I then made our way to the other patio, where Joey and his friend were. Joey's friend was a senior in high school, and while I often joke about being an ocelot (gay cougar), the dangers of 18+ really hit home.

We then ran into Chuck, one of the gays that I have been lucky enough to meet over the past winter (I lost my iPod at his house, and that sucked). Chuck is 30 and doesn't look a day over 23, and one of these days I need to ask him about moisturizers. Chuck, Jared, Liam and I were schmoozing when I realized that I had abandoned Joey and his friend -- my gay children! "I am the worst gay mother ever!" I cried, and sprinted to the dance floor. Sure enough, Joey, The High Schooler and Jared were all dancing, and all were safe. Jared sweats profusely after booty-dancing, so we all went back to the patio, when the incident happened.

As I was talking to Chuck, I heard a splash to my right, followed by groaning. I thought nothing of it and assumed somebody spilled (and speaking of, I will always be sorry to the boy whom I spilled vodka cranberry all over at NYC Splash many moons ago. If I make it big, I will hire a private detective to find you and personally deliver my apology). Then I looked over, and High Schooler had vomit all over his face. Joey ushered him out, and the rest of us all looked over in panic.

"Did it get on me?! Did it get on you?! Are you okay?! What happened?!" we all shrieked like girls, but were relived to be vomit-free. Despite the guilt that all mothers feel when their children disappoint them, I decided to see who won the shower contest.

There were four finalists, and two of them were twins. Word on the street was that only one of them was gay. The fourth finalist did NOT have a shower-contest body, and therefore I cheered for him the loudest. He and the third candidate were dismissed, and Camille informed us that the final two were the twins, Evan and Ethan. How do you pick a winner? Most of the gays decided they would pick the gay one, but I didn't know which one was who. I decided to brazenly walk up to Ethan. "Which one is older?" I asked, proudly being 19 minutes older than my twin brother. "I am," he smiled. This let me know he was the straight one because a gay guy would have said he was younger since we are so youth-obsessed in our subculture. Nevertheless, I loudly cheered for him, to the point that my voice nearly gave out. How would I explain my laryngitis to customers the next day? Well, Sheila, I would rasp, I was at a shower contest, which is where men dance naked in a stall and the audience judges the winner, and at the end of the night the two finalists were TWINS. Now while I personally am disgusted by the concept of "twincest" -- which is a real thing in European porn -- there was something very sexy and scandalous about the whole thing, and I just had to cheer with the crowd! I got lost in the moment! Anyway, Camille declared that BOTH the twins won the $300 shower contest prize, which was diplomatic and practical, as they probably would have split it amongst themselves anyway. I think that if drag queens were world leaders, there would be no wars. All the conflict would be solved behind closed doors, via lip-synching, gossip, and a well-placed witticism.

Cordero came up to me again, and mentioned that Jim Wilson was across the bar. I went to college with Jim Wilson. He is a few years older than me and looks like a model. I have met him in person once, at a pimps and hos party. Even before officially meeting him, I knew who he was and he knew who I was, because when you're one of a half-dozen prominently social gay guys at a Division-III, small-town school, you're gonna know each other. That being said, he has never acknowledged me, not in the years of seeing him at The Saloon, not in the years of trying on jeans in the fitting room that I used to run. We once stood in line for two minutes together and I got not even a head nod or an affirmative smirk. I used to joke that if I was stranded on an elevator with him, he would not acknowledge me, and I pretended that I wasn't offended by it.

So, why then, did I put up a fight with Cordero, as he drunkenly dragged me by my dainty wrists to have an awkward meeting with this person? "JIM, YOU REMEMBER JAKEY," he grinned. "Yeshihowareyou," I said, and I slid away in embarrassment before Jim could even say anything. Jim Wilson does not want to talk to me, he wants to sit there looking flawless and I am not worthy of being in his presence. As I continued working the room and standing next to Jared as he danced so I was booty-popping by association, I started thinking more about Jim Wilson. I had always known who he was, and from the moment I did, I had decided, in my head, that I was not good enough to talk to him. It was nothing he had ever said or done to me. I flashbacked to the only night I did meet him, at the pimps and hoes party (I still remember buying a fedora at work and explaining to a late-thirties, mom of two who was our store admin that it was for a "theme party". "Pimps and hoes?" she asked without missing a beat), and when we had our official introduction, I said my name in lightning speed and then avoided him for the rest of the night. Out of my own insecurity, I never even gave him a chance to be nice, and then always wondered why he never went out of his way to acknowledge me.

I downed my last bit of Goose lemonade and walked up to him. "I'm sorry about earlier," I said. "I just felt so awkward with Cordero dragging me over here." "It's fine," he smiled, and he gave me a dudely side-hug. I reflected to myself that, while I will never play board games with him as I feel it would somehow excuse the way he treated me a few years ago, Cordero is part of my world for a reason. Without him, there would not have been a secret warehouse party. Without him, I would have never had a reason to walk up to someone who I was intimidated by for years. I didn't have a conversation with Jim Wilson after the side hug, but I was okay with that. All was well in Gay World.

Well, except for Joey's friend. I later found out he was on anti-depressants, and I am sympathetic. When I was 18 I was on anti-depressants and would throw up anytime I drank, but I was also doing my puking in a classmate's basement and not at the patio of The Saloon.

Next time: My car ride with a nationally touring comedian!

Loring Park: Week One

The following is an account of my first week of being a resident of Loring Park. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the innocent ... and the guilty.

5/13/12

It has been just over a week since I moved to Loring Park, or, as I affectionately call it, The Gayborhood. Every night has been an adventure, so hold onto your designer fedoras, boys.

Because my mother was on vacation in San Diego and I had already needed her assistance for when I moved back home for a month in April, I decided to hire movers this time. They were three and a half hours late, in part due to an improperly booked morning job and because of a torrential rainstorm that occurred in the morning. Nevertheless, when they finally arrived, the move took less than two hours. I decided to bring my twin bed instead of the queen bed so that my studio apartment looks bigger, similar to how most male porn stars are often rather short. I thought it would affect my sex life, but then I had to remind myself that this is me I was thinking about, and I have the sex life of a nun.

My first night was a Thursday, and my 20-year-old friend Joey came over. He is from small-town Wisconsin, looks like a Disney Channel star, and has effortlessly amazing hair. He tried and failed to put together my television. My friends Jared and Rachel came over as well, and we went to The Saloon, or, as I affectionately call it, Gay High School. I was hoping to run into old friends at The Saloon, but the only one I ran into was Cordero, a boy from my college days who insisted on playing ridiculous mind games with me when I was younger. I am forever relieved that I never played board games with him. He sloppily kissed me on the cheek, and then he dared to flirt with Joey, and while Joey and I are by no means a couple, I still chose to be silently livid. I got hammered, Joey slept over, and while nothing romantic happened (although I did wrap his arm around my torso at one point), I learned that two twinks can fit in a twin bed.

Last Saturday, however, was when I fully realized the reality of my new surroundings, and that the concept of "The A-List" was not just in my head.

"The A-List" is the cool gays, the ones who are always at The Saloon, the ones who are not overtly rude and snobby but will nonetheless never have a reason to speak to you. They know the bartenders by their first names, they are always dressed and groomed impeccably, and while they are at The Saloon on any day that ends in "y", they also manage to always look bored and distracted.

I went with Jared, the new bad influence in my life. Jared is my 21-year-old co-worker and lives in Bloomington, so he often takes the train to The Saloon. We are perfectly compatible wingmen for going out as we are not attracted to each other, but we appreciate the finer things in life, such as strong vodka and sex with other men. We met at my apartment, where I promptly took another half hour to decide on my outfit and pre-game. We stopped at the 19 Bar, which is like a divey sports bar that just happens to be a gay bar. It is cash only, you can go there wearing sweatpants, and the vibe is distinctly different from The Saloon. Hell, their website even says that it's for people who are "tired of the flamboyant club scene." We had two shots, then walked to The Saloon together, and I was tepid about having to work at eleven the next morning. I was also worried about running into Star Quarterback, a boy who I see as the ultimate A-lister that I totally drunk Facebooked last month.

We did not run into Star Quarterback, but I was most surprised that we ran into Anthony. I had met Anthony a few years ago at the '90s with my friend Sina. We had some late night chats on Facebook, and I planned on writing him a note of inspiration when he moved to Ft. Lauderdale, as I knew what it was like to move to a new city where you don't know anybody. Before I could write it, however, he had removed all of the tangential Minnesota gays from his Facebook, which was his complete right and prerogative. That being said, when he moved back to Minnesota last year, Sina re-introduced herself to him in the same room at the '90s in which we had initially met, and he had no fucking clue who I was. I was strangely sad about it, and now every time I see him, I do not acknowledge him. With that back story, it was rather surreal for him to approach me. Then someone made fun of his name. Then I asked him if he had ever gone to Boardwalk in Ft. Lauderdale, because I am Twitter and Facebook friends with a ridiculously interesting and attractive FIU grad named Izak Pratt who used to work there and even had his VIP birthday party there last summer.

"Um, I used to live right across from the Boardwalk," Anthony said, and his face was now full of terror. "I'm not quite sure how you know that ..."

In fear of looking like a stalker, I decided to vamoose and walk the bar with Jared. We ran into Cordero again. He was with an older friend in his forties who was not very attractive, but who was I to judge? I was ashamed that his looks were even the first thing on my mind. I should try to get to know him as a person.

Within three minutes of our conversation, he stared daggers at me. "If I had met you in my twenties, I wouldn't have even talked to you," he hissed. What the fuck, dude?! I was proud of myself in that I didn't cry or let it get to me like I would have just a few years ago. Instead, I realized that this man was full of his own insecurities and that's why he had to be so awful. Even Cordero felt bad about what his companion had said. Five minutes later, the gross man in his forties walks by me again. "I'm sorry if I offended you," he said. HE COULDN'T EVEN DO A REAL APOLOGY, he had to do the half-ass Sorry if you were offended. Like, How dare you be hurt when I said something awful and degrading to you. Clearly, it's YOUR problem you were hurt, but I will be the bigger person. I ordered a Three Olives, and before I knew it, Jared and I were dancing on the whorebox.

"Can I sleep over?" Jared asked. "I'm going to miss the train."

"Of course, that should be fine," I said, and I turned around to find myself face-to-face with a tall blonde with a swimmer's build and a tank top.

"Do you guys work at [redacted]?" he smiled.

"We do!" Jared and I cried in unison.

"I go all there the time," he smiled. Then he stared at me intensely. "Your name's Jakey, isn't it?"

"Huh?" I asked. Then he lifted me up off the ground as if I weighed three pounds, and before I knew it we were making out like rabid eighth-graders. Before we resumed Frenching, I tried to make small talk because I am a lady, dammit. This means that while I forgot his name, I do remember that he was from South Dakota, and that is what he is now named in my phone.

"Jared," I said when my mouth wasn't otherwise occupied. "Here's $60. Get a cab home."

"JAKEY!" Jared scoffed. "It's 2:30 and you're broke!"

Thank goodness for Cordero, who came back on the whorebox, and without his awful forty-year-old friend. "Jakey," he said. "Do you want to go to an afterparty?"

"Sure," I agreed. I didn't really want to have sex with South Dakota anyway -- don't get me wrong, I do, but at the end of the day I am still only a pretend slut -- and I decided taking Jared and South Dakota to an afterparty would be less douchey of a move then sending Jared out in the pouring rain so I could bring a boy home that I wouldn't even go all the way with.

"Okay," Cordero said. "Meet me outside."

Jared and South Dakota agreed that they would be down for the afterparty. I should also re-iterate now that it was pouring rain outside. Not a light drizzle or sprinkle, but a ridiculous, violent amount. Afterparty or not, there would be no way that Jared and I would be taking the mile-walk back to my new apartment.

A cab sat out front, and Jared, being the biggest of all of us, rode shotgun. There were two boys that I didn't know that were already in the back seat. South Dakota went in behind me (not like that, you perverts), and I sat on his lap. We were waiting for that hot mess Cordero, who stood by the door flirting with some dude.

"We have to go," the driver said in a thick Somali accent. "It is 3 in the morning. I cannot sit here with five people in the car."

"CORD!!!" Jared yelled out the window. "HURRY UP!!!!!!"

Cordero smiled and waved at us.

"God dammit, Cordero," I whispered, and then I had to swat South Dakota's hand away from my genital region.

Cordero finally slipped into the cab, saddling up next to South Dakota. He gave the driver an intersection.

In the back of my head, I wondered who would be hosting this party. Someone must have a large townhouse or condo to invite all these gays to an after-party. It was 3:15 in the morning and I had been awake since 8 A.M., but I strangely wasn't tired. It may have been the two 5-hour energy shots or the two Zyrtec-D's I had (what, allergies are a bitch), or the adrenaline of leaving The Saloon and not feeling like a loser.

The cab stopped at the intersection that Cord gave him. "Um, who's paying for this?!" Cord asked. Seriously, Cordero? POOR ETIQUETTE. Because it was the day after pay day, I gave Jared a $20 to give to the cabbie and told him to get ten back. We all got out of the cab, which drove away. And there we stood, at 3:20 A.M. in the pouring rain.

"Cord, where is the party?" I asked, and then I had a horrible flashback of the time when he and I drove around all of St. Anthony for two hours because he knew of a party that he swore existed but then couldn't recall the address.

"I swear, it's here, I'm texting somebody," he slurred.

"Cordero," I whispered. "We are six gay dudes standing outside at 3:30 in the morning, and it is raining. I do not want to get murdered." Jared is about 220, and the other two guys seemed like they could defend themselves, but South Dakota and I, despite his surprising upper body strength, would not survive a mugging in our intoxicated state.

"I got it," Cordero said after looking at his phone. "Follow me." He led us to an office building and rapped on the door.

"Who is it!?" a voice asked.

"It's Cord," he said. "I have six."

A wide door opened and we were in a foyer, in front of two gays who sat on folding chairs behind a makeshift table. "The Place. $5" read a sign written on loose leaf paper. I recognized one of the gays from the '90s. He has platinum blond hair and I have always had a crush on him, as I have long been jealous of his effortless blend of masculine and feminine, the way he could rock eyeliner while wearing a shirt and tie.

"Five dollars," he told us. "Cash only. Do not check in on Twitter or Facebook."

I looked around and, still bitter about the cab ride, realized I was not paying for all of us, not even South Dakota's ridiculously sexy ass.

"There's an ATM around the corner," the platinum blonde host said, reading our minds. "Please go to the third floor after paying."

"I'm just paying for me and Jared," I said, and I nudged him to put my $10 bill on the table.

"Third floor," the platinum blonde re-iterated. The other four left to the ATM, and Jared and I walked up three flights of stairs.

"What are we getting into?" I asked.

"I don't know, this is crazy!" Jared giggled. "So A-list."

"Shhh, Jared," I said. "Focus. We have to act normal. Like we belong here. Like we're not impressed by anything. Otherwise, everyone will know we're really D-listers."

We walked up to the third floor, where there was an undeveloped room that led to a working toilet.  Standing in line was Anthony, who looked at me with a strange look of surprise.

"Jakey," he smiled. "You're .... here?"

"Hello, Anthony," I said as Jared and I strolled by.

"Oh my god, it's Genevieve!" Jared howled. Genevieve is by far the best drag queen at the Gay '90s, and I was impressed that Jared recognized her out of drag. Genevieve is a black queen with muscles like granite who often does Nicki Minaj, Rihanna, and Beyonce, complete with cartwheels, backflips and booty-popping. Other than the queens who randomly do Mariah Carey, she is the only one that I make a conscious effort to tip well. She recognized Jared and me, as we are always there with Sina, who gets routinely invited to Genevieve's all-star make-up parties. Genevieve was incredibly gracious to us, and we proceeded to walk into the main room.

It was a bar. Like a genuine speak-easy. Cirque du Soleil dancers undulated in giant hula hoops. A DJ blared music. Bartenders dressed in their underwear served a fully stocked bar, cash only, please tip kindly. I had a vodka sprite. Cordero walked up to us and I thanked him for the invite. I did not see the Star Quarterback, but I saw all of the other familiar faces from The Saloon, the ones that let me realize that this ridiculous "A-List" concept wasn't just borne out of the insecurity from my head. It was real, and for that night, Jared and I were among them. There was the hot 29-year-old I met at Lush who graciously gave me workout advice (I didn't of course follow it, but it was nice of him to suggest what I should be doing). There were the gays who traveled in packs, and they finally stopped sneering. It was a wonderful occasion, and Jared and I danced until 5:00, when we realized that I had to work in six hours. We walked up to the roof, where it was still pouring rain, and gays that smoked were standing under a piece of cardboard they had found. I imagined what it would have been like if it wasn't raining, and what a delightfully romantic moment it would have made, and then I decided that when I went home, I was to listen to Mariah Carey's "The Roof" on repeat. Then I thought of the lyrics to that song and realized that I had to come back here on a November night and drink Moet if I was going to be completely faithful to its lyrics.

I said good-bye to Cordero, good-bye to South Dakota, even good-bye to Anthony, and Jared and I stood in the rain as I called a town car. Favian, my usual driver (I say that as if I am wealthy. Child, I have $20 in my checking account until Friday -- it's all for show), picked us up promptly, and we told him all about the Gay Speak-Easy, "The Place" as it is called, how we were A-listers for one evening. Straight people have it so hard.

I can't believe I was at work the next day, but I was on time, and I wasn't hung over, but rather sleep-deprived. I decided I would hibernate when I got home, but my friend Madison, who I knew from the play that I had rehearsed for seven months before shit got cancelled (that's show biz!), now lives a block away from me, and called me over to the 19 Bar. I decided the 19 Bar does not count as "going out", and we played darts with a mean ginger-haired boy and his boyfriend, who was as attractive as he was drunk. We later played pool with a thirtysomething choreographer and his ridiculously buff boyfriend. After I put "Say You'll Be There" in the jukebox, I realized that gay pool is just like regular pool, except that after every success, you must pause for a dance break. Then the buff boyfriend held me upside down by the ankles.

I have been there twice last week. I ran into a stand-up comedian I knew from the scene, that gave me hope for my fake career. I went home with an older Mexican man. We did not do anything, and he left after my alarm clock kept going off at 7 A.M. (and I learned that if you want to kick a one night stand out early, that's the best trick to make them leave -- sleep through your alarm and they will leave from the frustration). Friday night I went to Duluth to tell jokes at an Irish pub, and I promptly drunk Facebooked my college crush. The restraining order is in the mail.

Saturday, Jared and I went to The Saloon again, and South Dakota looked delicious in a red V-neck.

"Are you a swimmer?" I asked him. "You have a swimmer's build."

"No," he grinned. "I just work out."

Speaking of working out, I fell in love that night on the dance floor. His name was Kevin and he exemplified my ridiculous crush on frat-boy bro-ski types. He was wearing a pouka shell necklace, for God's sake, and I was obviously in love.

"Are you guys from here?" he asked me and Jared. "No one at my work knows I'm gay. It's crazy."

"Forgive me for being so forward," I said. "But what cologne are you wearing? You smell very good."

He said the name of it. I forgot. I do remember that every time he talked to me he insisted on touching my face. He was such a disgustingly appropriate reflection of what "my type" is that I wondered if I had been roofied, or that he was a hologram. I tried to find him again, but he was shirtlessly dancing with another jock-type, and I figured I did not want to be his creeper. Jared slept over and we managed to both fit in my twin bed.

Jared, Sina, and I went back to the '90s last Sunday, where Sina managed to make her Forever 21 dress look like a Versace. Anthony was there and straight guy hugged me, then spent most of his night talking to an older man.

I still have a crush on him, but I know he is not buying what I am selling, and that is fine. He says hello to me and gives me straight-guy hugs, and at the end of the day, that's truly all I wanted, even if his adam4adam profile says he is 170 and I did not know he was that muscular.

I walked back to The Saloon by myself. My friend Liam, the kindest A-lister you will ever meet, was there but he was too drunk to notice me, and Anthony was there, falling asleep at the bar, an older gentleman continually getting him water. I kept getting molested by older men, and finally I was rescued by an attractive biochemistry major. We went home together, and the next morning he asked me where the cap was for my vodka bottle.

"I don't know," I said. "It should be fine."

"No, it won't be," he said. "The ethanol in it will evaporate and then the vodka will lose its potency."

"WE MUST FIND IT!" I cried. We did, and then we took a shower together while I set my iPod to play Robyn, and that will likely be the pinnacle of my sexual experiences. I dropped him off at his house in Dinkytown (don't judge!), and on the way to his house there was a shirtless boy in his yard looking like an Abercrombie model. I did the only appropriate thing to do in that situation, which was to beep the horn.

"You did not just do that," Biochem said.

"I did," I said. "I have no shame." And I don't, but I do need to find a way to let my mother know I need to swap the twin bed for the queen bed in her house in as less of an awkward way as possible.