The Repeating Trick
DC is a small town; village-like in a way. And when you are single, yet "different" in a small village, well, your circle of potential mates is, well, tiny. Although DC has a very large gay population, the community itself is extremely segmented. Now don't get me wrong, I love the fact that your best friend can be a lipstick lesbian, her girlfriend a butch bull dyke, your next door neighbor a twink-loving cub and your across the hall neighbor a Ted Baker-wearing realtor, but in general, each of these sub-segments of gay culture tend to flock and mate together. In the end though, if the statistic 1 in 10 is really true, then I only have about 60,000 mates to choose from in my circle here in the Village O'D.C. and half of them are looking for ladies. Bottom line, tricks in a village can sometimes be like red wine stains on white carpet: no matter how hard you try, you can never quite get the entire spot out. A faint hint of it will linger on, and on, and on....
Which leads me to this morning. I ran in to a trick whom I had not seen for months, and in all reality, had secretly prayed that I would never see again. He seems like a perfectly normal, nice guy on the surface. I actually met him out a local watering hole when he tried to pick up one of my straight friends. When he was quickly shot down by my wingman, he turned his sights to me as a worthy second prize. Long story short, in the 12 hours I knew this indivdual, I quickly learned that he had more baggage with him then the Hecht's luggage department during a one-day sale, drank more in one sitting than most social drinkers do in a week, kissed like a St. Bernard who has just gone on a five mile run in 100 degree heat and the cherry on his sundae: a raging case of crabs (quickly discovered and treated within 48 hours). Needless to say, when he departed after a night of amazingly lack-luster sex, I was sure that would be the end of him. Not quite.
D.C., while being a small village, has a wonderful transportation system with the Metro. Efficient, easy to get around on and A/C set at meat locker levels, WMATA is a highlight for many urban commuters. However, it can quickly turn in to a prison when suddenly confronted by any one of many unsavory characters: unshowered tourists, aspiring petty theives and oh yes, the trick you had hoped to never see again. No where to run, no place to hide, our eyes locked as soon as I stepped in to the metro car and the doors shut behind me like lock down at Attica. Maybe he doesn't recognize me; maybe he was so obliterated that night he doesn't remember the evening at all; maybe I was so obliterated that night I that I am the one who is mistaken with my total recall (especially underground with poor lighting)....and then, a knowing smile sweeps across his face and he bounds down the aisle of the car, like a bull in a china shop. No chance to react and the train is now stopped between two stations, so I am trapped.
Me: Hi
Him: Hhhhiiiiiii!
Me: Wow, how have you been? (My mind racing for a name....I have a 50/50 chance with Steve, but am unwilling to take the gamble)
Him: Soooooo gooooooddd. Although I am totally hating this icky weather. You look so tan....is that from the beach or a can? (Loud high pitched cackle follows)
Me (nerveously smiling): Funny. No, I was working outside a bit over the weekend and got some sun
Him (smiling): Mmmm. Very nice. So, _______ (insert my real name here [damn, he remembered]), how come I never heard from you again after that night? I thought we had a great time.
And that's where things go from bad to worse. I am a guy who likes guys. Although straight men are very sexual, I personally believe that gay men have more sex; the difference is we are just more discreet when it comes to letting anyone know how many times a month we get laid. Anyway, I met this still nameless guy one evening when I was feeling particularly frisky. We had a little fun (little being the opportune word) and that's all. For me at least. Apparently though, this guy is my red wine stain of life.
Lesson Number One: In the small village of D.C., one night of fun can easily turn in to a lifetime of mine-sweeping metro cars before one's morning commute.
Which leads me to this morning. I ran in to a trick whom I had not seen for months, and in all reality, had secretly prayed that I would never see again. He seems like a perfectly normal, nice guy on the surface. I actually met him out a local watering hole when he tried to pick up one of my straight friends. When he was quickly shot down by my wingman, he turned his sights to me as a worthy second prize. Long story short, in the 12 hours I knew this indivdual, I quickly learned that he had more baggage with him then the Hecht's luggage department during a one-day sale, drank more in one sitting than most social drinkers do in a week, kissed like a St. Bernard who has just gone on a five mile run in 100 degree heat and the cherry on his sundae: a raging case of crabs (quickly discovered and treated within 48 hours). Needless to say, when he departed after a night of amazingly lack-luster sex, I was sure that would be the end of him. Not quite.
D.C., while being a small village, has a wonderful transportation system with the Metro. Efficient, easy to get around on and A/C set at meat locker levels, WMATA is a highlight for many urban commuters. However, it can quickly turn in to a prison when suddenly confronted by any one of many unsavory characters: unshowered tourists, aspiring petty theives and oh yes, the trick you had hoped to never see again. No where to run, no place to hide, our eyes locked as soon as I stepped in to the metro car and the doors shut behind me like lock down at Attica. Maybe he doesn't recognize me; maybe he was so obliterated that night he doesn't remember the evening at all; maybe I was so obliterated that night I that I am the one who is mistaken with my total recall (especially underground with poor lighting)....and then, a knowing smile sweeps across his face and he bounds down the aisle of the car, like a bull in a china shop. No chance to react and the train is now stopped between two stations, so I am trapped.
Me: Hi
Him: Hhhhiiiiiii!
Me: Wow, how have you been? (My mind racing for a name....I have a 50/50 chance with Steve, but am unwilling to take the gamble)
Him: Soooooo gooooooddd. Although I am totally hating this icky weather. You look so tan....is that from the beach or a can? (Loud high pitched cackle follows)
Me (nerveously smiling): Funny. No, I was working outside a bit over the weekend and got some sun
Him (smiling): Mmmm. Very nice. So, _______ (insert my real name here [damn, he remembered]), how come I never heard from you again after that night? I thought we had a great time.
And that's where things go from bad to worse. I am a guy who likes guys. Although straight men are very sexual, I personally believe that gay men have more sex; the difference is we are just more discreet when it comes to letting anyone know how many times a month we get laid. Anyway, I met this still nameless guy one evening when I was feeling particularly frisky. We had a little fun (little being the opportune word) and that's all. For me at least. Apparently though, this guy is my red wine stain of life.
Lesson Number One: In the small village of D.C., one night of fun can easily turn in to a lifetime of mine-sweeping metro cars before one's morning commute.
posted by The Gay Caballero at
11:58 AM
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