My Name Is Chip Chance

When I first started going to the gay bars in New Orleans, I would never tell strange men my real name. This was during the MySpace administration, and kids (including me at age 15) still used aliases on their Internet profiles because child molesters could, and would, find you by your last name in the phone book. The term "social networking" hadn't been invented, yet. All we had was AOL Instant Messenger, MySpace, and a new feature on cellular phones that allowed you to send short, typed messages from one phone to another for only ten cents a message! 

On Saturday nights, I'd tell my parents I was going with Liam and JP to play Halo at Bobby's house, and then Liam would pick me up at home and drive us to Bourbon Street. We'd sneak into Bourbon Cowboy and The Frat House, and eventually, I'd break off on my own and head to Oz, telling the guys I'd meet them outside Cat's Meow at two o'clock. I wanted to remain anonymous among the elder gays, so I never outright offered my name to anyone. But if I was asked, I'd stick my hand out and say, "I'm Nick Ducote." This was the name of the first guy I'd ever fallen in love with, and after he stopped talking to me for reasons I'll never know, I assumed his identity and even gave his number to guys I didn't particularly want to have sex with. I imagined Nick getting phone calls and maybe even text messages on his Nokia cell phone from foreign numbers, and the exchange going something like this:

Unrecognized number: Hey Nick.
Nick: I don't have this number saved. Who's this?
Unrecognized number: This is Dylan. We met at Napoleon's Itch last night.
Nick: Huh? Ummmmm I was in bed last night.
Dylan: This is Nick Ducote, isn't it?
Nick: YES?!?!
Dylan: And now you're going to pretend you didn't kiss me by the cigarette machine?
Nick: WHO THE FUCK GAVE YOU MY NUMBER?!

I fantasized about this situation playing over and over again until Nick developed a very real suspension that he might, in fact, be suffering from waking blackouts, a là Ashton Kutcher's character in The Butterfly Effect, wherein he meets unattractive gay men and then forgets he did. I haven't had a reason to use that fucker's name in years, but I was reminded of him when I met a guy in New Orleans last February.

He said his name was Chip Chance, which might as well have been Flava Flav or McLovin. Upon seeing him on Grindr, I ambushed him with flattering pictures of myself until he agreed to meet up with me. I was staying with my parents that weekend and he was "temporarily staying with friends," so neither of us could host. So, remembering that my friend Karen was out of town for the weekend, I asked her for the code to her vacant apartment in the warehouse district. Chip said he "didn't have a car at the moment," so I would have to pick him up from his job in the French Quarter, which isn't terribly far from Karen's apartment, considering the size of New Orleans.

Now, I'm sitting in my Ford Fiesta in a rainstorm at the corner of Royal and St. Philip, waiting for someone with a fake name to walk up and have sex with me in my friend's apartment. Well mom, at least I'm not on drugs, right? From across the street, I see a tall man with a messenger bag jogging through the rain, towards my car. I unlock the door, he sits down next to me, and I immediately text my best friend John these words: "This guy I'm about to hook up with is so hot that it hurts. My boner is literally making me lightheaded."

Chip Chance looks like former a child star, and I mean this in the best way. He is very tall and muscular, with sculpted, classically handsome masculine features and deep-set sockets that hold sparkling, emerald eyes. The sleeves of his denim, pearl-snap shirt are rolled up to his elbows, revealing bright, colorful tattoos. Owls, and squid, and flowers, and skulls swoop around his forearms on waves until the break on shores of his wrists. His smile is not a smile; it's a smirk. The kind of smirk that only John Krasinski, Zac Efron, and Barack Obama have perfected. But the most striking thing about his appearance is, without question, his hair. Which is green. Somewhere between inset chlorine and mint sorbet, Chip's hair doesn't demand your attention, but instead, beckons you closer to have a conversation with it. He's been in my car for less than a minute and I'm having to restrain myself from running my fingers through it. He is the human equivalent of a kaleidoscope; the type of boy you'd see on the Urban Outfitters homepage and hate for hitting the genetic lottery.

In Karen's apartment, we drink her Abita Strawberry and trade basic information followed by canned responses.

You're the baby of the family? I bet you got away with everything, huh? 

You work in advertising? I bet you're like Don Draper around the office. 

Living in the Bywater must be really exciting. That neighborhood is just booming!

I've only been to Lafayette once, but it was a good time. So much culture, man.

I'm on autopilot, and want nothing more than for the talking to end and for Chip Chance to take his shirt off. And then it does, and then he does. When he kisses me, my right hand slides down to his forearm and my left into his hair. I can kiss cute guys anytime, but how many times will I have the opportunity to trace a squid tattoo with my fingers or tousle seafoam hair? This is worth it, already.

By the time I drop him off at his house in the Bywater, I like him. Not like him-like him, but I think he's interesting beyond his looks, and he's got a story. He climbs out of my little car, and I ask him to tell me his real name. I don't plan on looking him up on Facebook later, but I still have to add his name to my list, and I'd feel better if it wasn't made-up. He tells me his real name and I say goodbye, promising to text him later. On the ride home, I rub my belly, and even though it's gotten more robust in a few short months, I feel content. I've been meaning to lose weight, but if guys like Chip Chance keep banging me, I don't really see the point.

I wish I had the physical magnetism as Chip, but I don't. Still, I bet I can capture some of his magic. And maybe not tonight, but at some point in the near future, someone will ask me my name, and I'll extent my hand, smile with the confidence of a man with green hair, and say, "My name is Chip Chance."