Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Do You Believe In Fagic?

After my break-up with The Dean, I started seeing this LSU theatre major named Michael. I met Michael on the dance floor of Splash, the Mecca of gay bars to 19-year-old me. Although I frequently popped in on the staple gay bars of Downtown New Orleans, Splash in 2007 was different. It played better music and always had a better quality of patron. Nola's Oz had the volume, but Splash definitely had Louisiana gay bars corned when it came to packing the house with cute, ignorant, eager college guys. Geaux Tigers, I guess. But the best part about Splash was its fagic (fag magic). To this day, after several dozen visits, I've never had an uneventful night in the puddle. Either something horrifyingly traumatizing happens (walking in on your ex getting pressed up against a bathroom stall) or fantastic (hooking up in the same bathroom stall with a fully mohawked American Idol reject) happens to me every time I make the trip. Lose yourself in the occasional foam or shake your ass to Ida Corr on top of a block with seven strangers, none of whom are confined to ironic torso fabric. It's pure fagic.

But the most tangible fagic of Splash was its power to bring people together. I'm well aware of the nature of the teenage homo. He's not wasting a trip to an out-of-town gay bar without hooking up with something. And since Splash distracted you with sporadic blasts from ice-cold, overhead CO2 jets and alternating Britney/Madonna remixes, you had to scramble at the eleventh hour for available dong. But learning to embrace the distractions and trust in the fagic will likely result in dong finding you before the house lights ignite, which is how I met Michael.

It's a quarter 'til last call and I'm knocking on blackout's door. In my state, I'm allowing this guy wearing a pink flannel-pattern shirt and an Acutane-level pizza face to grind on me. After a few minutes of me doing my best Lil Mama impression ("Lipgloss" was the national anthem at the time), I decide to turn around and face him for a few circular hip thrusts. Choosing ignorance, I never look him directly in the face. Instead, I distract myself with lights and the guy dancing behind Medium Pepperoni (which is what I'm now calling the boy whose crotch is banging against mine). The guy behind MP catches me staring, saunters over, and begins dancing on MP from the back. Now I'm face-to-face-to-face with MP and this guy, who is a remarkable dead ringer for a live-action Jimmy Neutron. His "fuck me" eyes and smile are only amplified by his shimmying and tongue wagging when he dances. I'm a sucker for a guy who's willing to put himself out there, especially if he's not doing it right.

With MP between us, J.Neutron and I continue to graze one anothers' forearms and exchange expressions that say, "I'm the weird kind of horny right now. The kind that isn't concerned with how I'm getting home later."

The music tumbles to a dull pulse and the crowd is herded outside to the widely-known and never revered Meat Market. The Market is Splash's sprawling parking lot, and it serves as the last resort destination for hasty tricking. Guys mill around and make their final selections, then slink away to their respective Civics. Here, by the grace of Gaga, MP has augmented his focus to my best friend and choice wingman, Trey, and seems to be enjoying the returned interest. Meanwhile, J.Neutron is alternating glances between my crotch and the gravel. "I'm Ryan!" I yelp with a stiff, sideways hand extended. "Michael," he says, brandishing a goofy, confident smile and sqeezing his fingers around mine. I remind myself a week after we've been hanging out that this was the exact moment that I knew it was a sure thing.

The relationship never went anywhere that either of us would consider cumbersome, and seemed over before it started. But my takeaway was the simple affirmation that sometimes people can literally walk up to you and become instantly memorable. I didn't seek Michael out or work hard to get his attention. He just danced his way over and made a lasting impression. And that was proof enough for me that serendipity is half of what brings people together. The rest has something to do with motive, interest, and maybe a little fagic.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

My Single Is Dropping

Like most people, I have a list of things I want to do before I die. But for me, these things are mostly dudes. It's my fuck-it list. Stand-outs from the list include:
  • From New Zealand
  • Has a massive back tattoo 
  • Has an Irish accent
  • Has kids
  • Works in an art museum
  • Invented Facebook
  • Zac Efron
  • Dances ballet for a fancy company
  • New York Times best-selling author
  • Named Jessie (or Jesse)
  • Jesse McCartney
  • Blind
  • Bullfighter
And although most of my prospects are cruel and/or unusual, at no point have I ever expressed having any ambition to screw a rapper. But I did. And I'm not thrilled about it. And if you think the fact that he's white, nineteen, and has freckles helps how accomplished I don't feel about it, then you're on glue.

The short story: He added me on Facebook after seeing my "OH MY GOD I'M GINGER" cover and sending me a message saying that I seemed funny. Ok, Freckles, I'll bite. So turns out he's in a fraternity at a mostly black half-university. And he makes beats and raps under a pseudonym. Which intrigued and bewildered me.

After chatting me up for a few hours, he'd made a strong enough impression to get my number. And then for the next five days, he sent me voice memos of beats and verses that he was working on. So I decided that he was enough of a novelty to join the ranks of my fuck-it list. And soon after, I put a check mark next to the words, "white rapper."

For me to say that my only motive was sex would be a lie. He was a nice guy with many redeeming qualities  the greatest of which was his talent. He was pretty stellar at what he did. And frankly, after the way I avoided letting him down, he probably deserves to hold me down and shit on me and five things that I care about. But until then, I'm going to pretend like he didn't say that his hero is Drake and instead do what Juvenile would do. And if you don't know what Juvenile would do, then you need to go to back to school.

Which reminds me, I need to add college professor to the list. Lord knows I need the credits.

Friday, January 6, 2012

Amendment #1

In the interest of practicality, I've decided to only sleep with people more attractive than myself.