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.