Friday night: Leave work on time. Hit the gym. Head home to shower and shave things. Be at Sidetrack by 11 pm. Have sex with 37 oily bodybuilders before sunup.
At least that’s how it was scripted to play out in my turgid porn fantasies. In reality, I ended up working until 10 pm, gorging myself on some extremely mediocre takeout from PF Chang’s (ginger chicken my ASS—it was more like ginger ale chicken) and waddling home to sit through three hours of CSI on my TiVo. Woo-hoo! Par-tay!
Saturday: This time it was going to happen—only with thirty-NINE oily bodybuilders. (I figured the fates owed me a couple extras for what had happened on Friday.) I spent the day running last-minute vacation errands (I got everything done except finding one of those inflatable neck pillows that make it easier to sleep on transatlantic flights). Then I got the brilliant idea that Now! In February! In Chicago! Three days before I take a 10-day vacation in Europe! would be a great time to start my marathon training, so I headed out in Shorts! In the freezing cold! and got in a good mile and a half before I realized I was being a Moron!
CSI: Shameless addiction or all-too-convenient replacement for actual human contact? Next Oprah.
Sunday: I woke up well-rested. So at least there was THAT. Then I was off to a fabulous gay brunch with Jim and Jeff and Keith. Then a tour of Jim and Jeff’s house renovation, which is going to kick ass when it’s done.
Singing at a bar is a hard gig. Everyone there is, after all, in a bar—and people in bars aren’t usually inclined to shut up and listen. But there was a small group standing around watching me, and there was a camera blasting my face on every freakin’ screen in the place. And when you’re singing and you see your face everywhere you look, you tend to focus on gosh, my nose looks big and I really should work on my posture instead of I’m singing a song here, so I need to make sure I don’t fuck up the notes and/or the words. It’s kind of disconcerting.
Oh, whom am I kidding? I was singing a belty solo in a packed bar with a turbocharged sound system and my
And then Matthew—dear, sweet, kinda drunk Matthew—tried to play matchmaker between me and two totally hot muscledudes (key words: arms, pecs, glutes) who happened to wander in front of us at the wrong time. (For them, at least.) Three hours later, though, they were still standing with me, watching the Oscars and doing those accidentally-bumping-into-me things that guys do when they flirt. Which was giving me a total boner.
In between Chris Rock’s painful attempts at
Anyway, we had a great time chatting and flirting and bumping
Depending, of course, on your definition of “perfect gentlemen.”
Let’s just say the abovementioned fates still owe me a pile of oily bodybuilders. 37 of them.