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Red hot chili poppers
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^ xV—
And the dorks make three
Monday always follows Sunday
late summer sexy Sunday after
noon, and I’m sitting with a pitcher
of beer trading comments on the
passing scene with my longtime drinking
buddy. The slanted sunlight from the
window illuminates the hanging smoke,
giving the seedy bar an ecclesiastic
appearance.
I’m wearing my Gloria Vanderbilt polo
shirt. I always feel sexy and upbeat in that
shirt. I bought it at the gay thrift store in
San Francisco last Gay Pride Week, so it
has a certain aura for me.
About halfway through the pitcher, I
notice this lemon yellow shirt off to my
right. The lemon yellow shirt is the only
color in the gloom. My eyes periodically
seek out the brightness.
The man wearing the lemon yellow shirt
quickly becomes aware of the attention
he’s attracting. Before long he walks by,
his eyes flashing. I smile and nod.
Sometime later, the lemon yellow shirt
passed directly in front of me as its wearer
and his companion walked toward the exit.
I made some comment about his departure
to my drinking buddy. Before I was able to
explain to him what I was talking about,
the man in the lemon yellow shirt was at
my elbow.
“ What’s your telephone number?” he
demanded, as he slapped a trick pad and
pen on the table before me. I wrote a
number and name.
His abrupt reappearance had surprised
me. I was, as they say, “ nonplussed.” I
didn't have a chance to say a word before
he was gone, flinging, “ I’ll call you to
morrow,’ * over his shoulder.
It was a heady encounter. Just the thing
for a late summer sexy Sunday afternoon.
No fuss and no mess to clean up after,
either.
He called the next evening. It was a
disaster. I had to ask him to repeat his
name several times; he was being so sexy
that I couldn’t understand what he was
saying. We had nothing in common to talk
about. Not even his weird name lit a spark.
As the conversation flagged, my atten
tion drifted to the television screen flicker
ing at me. I quickly lost interest in the man
on the phone. He said he had to go check
on something in the kitchen.
‘ ‘That’s that,’’ I thought as I hung up the
phone. “ The cold reality of Monday night
is far from late summer sexy Sunday.”
There was a date, by the way. Several
months later, in sweater and coat weather,
he called again. It was obvious that he
couldn’t remember to whom the name and
number belonged. I let him talk me into a
date for the following evening.
We met at the same bar. We went to his
place. It was a disaster.
A
Æ/rf/z o f the Bruise
returned to Missoula, the college
town I had left three years before.
After rounds of drinks with friends in
one of the dodgiest bars in town, I spied
across the room the young man who had
been my dorm roommate for our very first
term at university. Basil was tall, blond,
Pennsylvanian, everything I wasn’t. I
hadn’t seen him since he dropped out after
that first term.
It turned out he had spent four years in
San Francisco. As we talked and drank
tequila, it became increasingly apparent
that we had traveled the same road
subsequent to our parting: He had his
hand on my thigh; I had mine down the
front of his pants.
Several drinks later (this was Montana,
after all), and after we each revealed that
we had known the other was gay from the
very beginning, we adjourned in my car to
his house, for what promised to be a long-
postponed romantic interlude.
He lived in a tacky house far out in the
suburbs. We arrived, and after the clamor
of making coffee, mixing drinks (I don’t
remember which it was), we were sitting
in the living room, about to tackle the
matter at hand. Out of a bedroom lunged a
muscular young man, clad in briefs, glar
ing at me. “ D’ya want to fight?” he
growled, clenching his hands. He
advanced upon me, blindly menacing me
with his fists. I, out of surprise as much as
cowardice, shrank back in alarm, but not
so much alarm that I didn’t notice Basil
gliding out the door. The Rambo figure
swooped down on me, swinging and yell
ing, breaking my glasses, bloodying my
nose, punching me to the floor. After a few
kicks, he strode back into his room, leav
ing me completely dazed and confused.
And alone. Basil had disappeared.
Without glasses, I was completely help
less to drive. I let myself out the door, my
clothes bloody and tom. I pulled myself
together, and began the long walk home.
Was I victim of a drunken, perhaps
jealous assault? Was my assailant a
somnambulant pugilist? Or was I victim of
an evil but effective bait-and-switch
maneuver? I never knew.
I
is name was Lance Blue. Honest.
My father back home had hand-
annointed Lance Blue, a young
investment banker, as the chosen for me,
his bachelorette daughter. That was fine
and well as long as Lance Blue remained in
Missouri and I remained in Portland. My
father is welcome to his delusions, at that
distance.
However, as luck would have it, Lance
Blue invented a business trip to the North
west. Before I knew it, my father had him
bunked at my apartment and was, for all I
knew, readying my trousseau. In a panic, I
arranged a “ date” with Bob. Bob, a nerd
of moderate proportions, had been clumsily
attempting to ask me out for years. Bob
was the consummate urban snob/wimp,
and his interest in me can only be under
stood as an indulgence in cultural miscege
nation. Bob would be a perfect foil for the
bumptious Mr. Blue: a Rick Moranis to the
other’s Rambo. I trusted Bob to help me
present a unified front in the face of certain
romantic aggression from my Missouri
visitor.
Lance Blue breezed in. He was not bad
looking, in a Middle American way, but
possessed a mind unclouded by serious
thought. The kind of cultural troglodyte
that one becomes accustomed to humoring
in Missouri. On his own, we would have
been fine. But with Lance Blue was a
friend who worked (of all places) at
Hanford Nuclear Reservation, and his sul
len, sulky wife. Bob is a member of Sierra
Club. Reads The New Republic. Knee jerk
liberal personified. We went to Chin Yen.
Within minutes, Bob and the Hanford em
ployee were at each others’ throats about
the comparative evils of nuclear weapons
and the defense department. Lance Blue
squirmed, his Missouri good-old-boy de
meanor not accustomed to being sullied
with Issues. The mad scientist’s wife
pursed her lips, and pursued her egg roll
around her plate. I had another TsingTao.
I invited everyone back home for a night
cap. There the discussion erupted into
hostilities with Bob and the Hanford
apologist taking on the entire national
agenda in shrieks. The sullen wife never
said a word. Lance Blue sank back in his
chair, his small unexercised mind baffled
that politics was interfering with his court
ship. Bob stormed out finally, angry that
his date had turned out so badly, and no
doubt equated me with the level of my
guests. Then Lance Blue and his friends
stood up and announced that they were
driving to Seattle. At 11:00 at night?
I didn’t argue. They gathered their
things and swept out the door. I never saw
Lance Blue again, and Bob thereafter
found my politics suspect. At professional
functions, we are coldly courteous.
Thanks to my father’s matchmaking. I
killed two nerds with one date.
H
t was cheap beer night at the Embers;
40tf a glass for some rot-gut. Still, the
price was right and the place was
packed, mostly with bubbleheads dancing
to bubblegum — nothing new. I was trying
to be inconspicuous while I waited for a
couple of friends to find me. Honest!
Before long a tall, dark and, yes, hand
some guy came my way. We cruised
briefly, chatted briefly and split hastily. 1
ran into one of my friends on the way out
and explained my situation. He approved
of my choice and wished me luck.
The guy was, by every definition, an
erotic dud. I have, of course, repressed
most memories of that night except for two
things — chili and poppers. These words
are forever etched on the walls of my
libido. Even now the mere mention of
either word causes my penis to go into near
remission.
Allow me to elaborate. We got back to
his place and immediately went at it. He
was cute, had a nice body; in fact every
thing was fine as long as he didn’t talk.
Soon he started going for this bottle of
poppers. At first I thought little of this
because (how can I put this delicately?),
anatomically, I was some distance from
his nose.
Well, we finished our sex by 2:30, and
chatted mindlessly until 3:15 (I was acutely
aware of every minute I was spending with
this joker). Just as I was dozing off into
what I hoped would be a psychically heal
ing slumber, my date got up, went to the
kitchen, and returned to bed with a bowl of
cold chili. I was, unfortunately, regaining
consciousness as he nudged me and asked
if I wanted a bowl. I grunted “ no.” I had
received enough oral gratification;
hadn't he?
8:30 a.m. came quickly, almost as
quickly as my date’s chili-induced flatu
lence. I awoke to an odor much worse than
any bottle of poppers. In fact, compared to
what I was smelling, poppers were as re
freshing as Glade. I knew I had to get up
and out of this apartment but, after only
five hours of mediocre rest it took a lot of
effort to simply open my eyelids. It ap
peared highly unlikely that I could move
any other body part. I was resigned to stay
in bed, at least until I regained partial use
of my limbs. That came soon enough,
when, at 9:15, my date awoke and farted
his way to the bathroom. Several minutes
later he returned and offered me his
toothbrush.
I refused it (he probably brushed with
poppers) and quickly put on the previous
night’s bar-smoked clothes. After
declining to join him for breakfast (I was
afraid to see what else came from his re
frigerator), I awkwardly, yet graciously,
thanked him for a nice time and gave him a
fake phone number. With that I left, a
self-proclaimed adult survivor of a bad
date.
Afterthoughtful consideration, I
decided to eat breakfast at the only place I
felt could truly complement all I’d been
through the night before: Newberry’s.
I
Just Out 13 February. 1987