Dont Mince Words

In my next life, I want to come back as a gay addict.  The habit is TBD.  All I know is these 12-step meetings are one-part sobriety maintenance and three-parts hookup.  The gays in West Hollywood don’t need to online date.  When they have free time, they go to a “meeting.”

My Main Gay is constantly in and out of relationships.  I sit on the sidelines feeling tragically single and heterosexual as I hear about his exploits. Today we met for lunch and I got the ga-ga eyes and “oh, this one is for real” speech.

“This isn’t fair.  Is this another friends-of-bill hookup?” I whined.

“Yes, we met at a meeting.  We are so in love,” he proclaimed.  “He’s mine.”

I can’t even meet a straight man at the grocery store and Main Gay is seeking my advice on Valentine’s Day.  Fanfuckingtastic.   He’s thinking about a long, romantic weekend up in Santa Barbara.  I told him I wasn’t the girl to ask Valentine’s day advice from – it has probably been more than 15 years since a man planned more than a simple card and chocolates for me.

“Aw, my hag needs a real man,” he said.

Right.  We’ve seen how well that’s worked out for me in southern California.  I think it is easier to just plan on being gay in my next life – with a severe addiction to beer.

Ana and I were in the air, on our way to a photo shoot in Denver, when I told her I wanted to conduct an experiment. “I hear when you leave LA, guys pay attention to you. Let’s see if that’s true,” I said.

Little did I know I wouldn’t have the energy to get out after working 12-hour days. On our last night in Denver, we ventured two blocks from the hotel and hit a diner with the photographer and his assistant, Mike.

I sat on the outside edge of the booth which was a prime seat to view our waiter. He was very eager to serve us and had lots of flare and arm gestures. When Ana’s Mount Gay lime jumped out of her glass, the waiter promptly returned with two more and announced the new limes were asexual.

Everything the waiter did from here on out seemed really funny, but I finished a schooner of beer while waiting for my meal. My humor and body animation was ampted up and the whole table was roaring. The waiter continued to add to our good times.

By the time the check came, I was still sitting in the booth, but my head was on my pillow two blocks away. The waiter made one final comment as we got up. Mike, the youngest and gayest in the group, had his ‘dar tuned up and told me, “Girl, are you blind? Our waiter has been hitting on you.”

“Me?”

“Yes you. Didn’t you hear him mention that he was the MANAGER helping out. He wanted to make sure you didn’t see him as a middle-aged waiter,” Mike said.

“Crap. I didn’t notice. What do I do?” I asked, hopelessly clueless.

“Throw your business card down on the table. Maybe he’ll call,” Mike suggested.

I tossed my waterproof Don’t Mince Words card on the table and walked outside. Los Angeles to Denver makes for some geographically undesirable dating, but I realized I had just proved my inflight point – men are men outside of LA.

While walking back to the hotel, Mike and I doubled over laughing about the whole experience. I haven’t been with a real man in so long, it takes a gay man to point one out to me.

God help me and god bless my seeing eye queer.