Cosmopolitan

"Ooh break me off a piece of dat," I think, watching the man in short shorts, talking into his cell phone; Motorola, I believe; wearing a tight black t-shirt. Mmm. Legs are a little thin, but there's a shadow that catches the line of his thigh muscle and wanders up his leg. He ducks his head slightly, walks into the train, then quickly scans the area for a seat. He looks at me strategically, then at the woman with shaggy blonde hair sitting in front of me, then at the Abercrombie and Fitch man slouched into his seat across from me. He chooses to sit next to him, fusses his Banana Republic bags on the floor, and sits down to continue his conversation.

I fluff myself up a little bit, sitting on the edge of the seat, and send a few glances his way. He doesn't see me yet. I listen instead to what Jonathan did to Matthew, and everyone's surprise at what Jeffery thought about that, and how Richard was totally caught off guard when they both told Adam what each had done, over brunch at The Wishbone. Jonathan's outfit that night was so outrageous, I discover; and Matthew thought Jeffery looked fat in those pants but fucked him anyway. Then Jonathan found out about it and got so pissed that he actually came to Richard crying about it. But, fortunately, y'know, they like made up by the time they had Sunday brunch with Adam. I am very relieved. His odyssey continues; I find out that he was so stressed about having dropped a bill at the hair dressers that it made him drop two bills at Banana Republic. I start to admire this man's courage. No, just his bulge.

"Doors open on the left. Standing passengers, please do not lean against the doors." I lean against the door. I wiggle my watch that states midnight, adjust my shoulder strap. I look over at Mr. Bulgy. He looks at me a second longer than Heterosexually Approved. I bite my lower lip and raise my eyebrow. He is still talking. Angela is *so* on the rocks with Rebecca and because of her drama she's thinking about sleeping with Jennifer, but whatever with them, because Jennifer can get discounts at the Gap. But he, bye sweetie, talk to you later, is getting off the train now. And he's going to get a drink because it's been *such* a Tuesday. He shuts the phone and puts it in his pocket without taking his eyes off me.

He gets off the train before I do. I look over and catch his eye again; he, flicks a look at me, and rushes down the stairs, calf muscles working on each step like some precursor to a sports drink commercial or conceivably some add for shaving cream. I saunter down the stairs, speed thinking through various ways to catch his attention. He's lingering at the bottom of the stairs. I quickly pull my shirt up a little bit, scratch my belly button, then tug at the button on my cutoffs. The cream of the Banana Republic bags hovers. I get down to the bottom, cast a glance over at him; he follows me out of the station. A few feet from the station, my mind full of wicked design, I turn back at him and ask, "There a place around here to get a drink?"

"Um, there's a straight bar called Poky's down the way." He giggles at me, then runs off in the opposite direction, back to the station, his Banana bags and butt buns bouncing rhythmically. "Gee, thanks."

Well, I'll just go to the Mallot, where Paull'll make me his Magnificent Mighty Mean Martini. Patent pending. On the way I stop by Anna's for a slice of pizza; don't want to get too drunk too quickly. Walking out, taking a bite of sausage, I see two guys crossing the street, holding hands, just having left Orgy. Love must be in the air, and I smile, amused. One, of them, the blonde, is much drunker than the other, and is walking playfully in front. While pulling a string of pizza from my face, I look at them, and think about my community's success. How awesome that two men can walk across the street holding hands. In this neighborhood! The string-of-cheese problem fixed, I'm about to smile at them, but the blonde looks at me and says, "YEAH keep looking, YEAH we're fags." My head sets back an inch in confusion; my eyebrows knit then furrow. They begin crossing the street in front of me. "YEAH" yells the blonde; "we're fags, we're going to give you AIDS." I'm now actively watching them, slack jawed and wide eyed. The brunette looks at me, sneers with delicious arrogance. The blonde, apparently not finished, looks at me and yells, "YEAH, you fucking JAP."

"Aww hayle no" I mutter. Casting my pizza into the gutter, I start walking down the street to them, pushing my chest up to intimidate. Tilting my head in my best "no you did-ent," I lock down the brunette. Walking backwards, he puts his hands out in apology and stammers "Sorry sir; I'm sorry-I don't even know this guy; I just met him. I'm sorry sir!" I look beyond him at the blonde. The blonde staggers along the sidewalk, unequivocally stating: "Whatever with him, I'm horny, take me home." Epiphany. I look at the brunette and say, "This is what you take home?" Baffled, he blinks at me; thinking baffles him even more and he shifts his eyes away from mine. "I hope you two are very happy together." I walk away, back toward the Mallot.

"Hey hon! What's up?" says Paul; I'm happy to see him. "The usual, baby?" "Yes please, thanks!" I sit down, cast a glance over the bar. At the end is the other bartender, Ron. I relish his not working. He looks at me meagerly; I return with a weak smile. I think of the time I got him to stop bothering me about whether I top or bottom. He shut up only after I told him, "Either way it's going to be a new experience, if you wanna fuck with me." Bitchiness and Cattiness cheaply substituting for wit and humor. Not my finest moment, but sometimes you gotta play the Game of Gay.

"There you go, hon. $8.50."
"Thank you baby!"
I dig around in my bag for some lip gloss. I find it, extract it, apply it looking in the mirror behind the bar. Bottom lip done, I catch a platinum blond glimmer behind me. I replace the cap, then feast my eyes on the woman now next to me. Her faux eyelashes hang precariously to the lid of her age-instilled boiled-egg Bette Davis eyes. A border of silver paint adheres these to her eyelids. They are haplessly crooked; I think she applied them without the assistance of thick reading glasses. These lopsided lashes lend an air of an unfinished-or finished-Picasso. She shifts her weight in a way that must have once been seductive. I looked at her seven inch black patent leather heel and imagine the bones grinding into themselves through the decades wasted cartilage. She hesitates on one foot, a gnarled ankle buttresses the upward and outward expansion of leg, a sausage cased in severe black nylons. Crowning this victory of physics are the flailing flanks of betraying man buttock, pushing their luck with the additional 20% high-heel provided perkiness.

To my left, a man in an Old Navy t-shirt, waxed eyebrows, frosted tips, and a thorough application of Aqua di Gio is leering at me. Adding or subtracting sun damage, smoking damage, and his jowls, I figure he could be 25 or 40. Terrific.
        "Hello." He looks at me questioningly. I'm ready for him to flirt. I tilt my head upwards to better catch the light.
        "Do you know you're in a gay bar?"
        "Yes, the thought had occurred to me." I smile and say, "Yes, I'm aware I'm where I am."
        He looks at his vodka cranberry, twirls the ice cubes with a red cocktail straw, then looks at me.
        "So, what are you doing here?"
        "Uh, having a drink. Paul makes great martinis, the best in the city."
        "I'm not blind, I can see that. What are you doing at a gay bar? You taking notes for some project?"
        "I don't understand."
        "Well, most straight people don't come to gay bars." This must be the third time in "third time's the charm."
        I'm about to answer but suddenly realize no need to justify myself-especially not for this particular pinnacle of civilization.
        "What, just shopping around?"
        "I'm sure you're meaning to be flattering, but it's not quite coming across that way." I turn back toward my drink.
        "Oh come on. You don't look gay. You look too intelligent to be gay."
I ponder his wisdom and stare into my glass. Into the vodka, as if Novocained, I bleed the images of Mr. Bulge, the blonde, the brunette, the Platinum drag queen, and myself in the mirror. I rupture this water colour by stabbing with my green cocktail stirrer. I stop; I pick up my bag.
        "Where you going?"
        "Mensa meeting. I'm obviously late."