States of these Unions

The man with the blond highlights sat, perched on a bar stool, collecting men as if they were stamps; sticky, cheap, and pretty. A flock of men stood around him, watching, breathing, listening, and supporting his conversation with automated oohs and ahhs.

The most recent addition to the club was a man with brown hair. He stared at the man with blond highlights from across the room. Under the spot lights, he was beautiful; the light above him illuminated him, but more important was the energy emanating from his immersion in himself, his own commotion. The man with brown hair thought of a line to use on him. He walked over.

“Hi. You seem to be very popular this evening.”
--Mersey! I mean, thank you. It’s so hard for me to keep things all in English!
“Are you French?”
--Well, my mother’s family has French blood in it, but I’ve just returned from Paris you see; it’s so hard for me to get back into speaking English!
“You were in Paris?”
--Yes! It was so utterly maggnifeek! Oh, I mean, magnificent. There I go again, I so don’t know how these boys put up with me!

The stamp collection of men giggled and fawned on the man with blond highlights. They insisted he persist. They asked him to tell the story about dropping two bills at the hairdressers on the Champs Élysées. He began, baiting every word with florid hand gestures, wildly darting eyes, and finalized the pantomime with an open-mouthed look of awe:

--And that’s when Christophe showed me what I looked like! I was so shocked; I never had less shuveuxe blonds before—sorry, I mean, blond hair before! I was so amazed at how I looked in that mirror. The mirror was so beautiful, it must have been Louis The Qwuatorze, I mean, Louis The Fourteenth.
“He did a great job; I really like your hair. It looks great.”
--Yes! Now, the French so know how to do hair, it’s the fashion capital day la monde, you know. But that guy over there…see him? Yeah, that’s so what happens when highlights go mal.

One of the stamps giggled gleefully, shrieked, “Highlights go Mal! That’s like Girls Gone Mal or Guys Gone Mal!” Another stamp launched into an in-depth analysis about the frat boys that would be appearing naked in the new video series, Guys Gone Wild. They fed off of the information hungrily, mentally deducting the cost of the DVD from their paychecks. More than one thought that buying Guys Gone Mal at the Mall was tremendously witty and funny.

--In France, everyone is just so sest la vie about nakedness, I mean, it’s considered so natural. It’s so not like here, so not like Chicago where everyone is always so covered up all the time, as if skin were a nasty disease that could be caught. When I was on the rivey gauchey, I mean, Left Bank, there were men walking along all over the place with their dicks so hanging out of their pants. Truly everyone was so casual about it. No one paid attention to it at all.
“No one paid any attention?”
--Well, I did, but I so didn’t say anything because I so didn’t want to be mistaken for a foreigner. They even said I looked French over there, that I had a very French look about me.
“Well, you do look really sophisticated; really worldly.”
--I know, but it’s so not like I do it deliberately, it’s just something natural, you know? I guess it must be from traveling all over the place. Have you been out of the country?
“No.”

Three of the stamps shot acid raised eyebrows, a sideways purse of the lips, and a floor to ceiling glare at the man with brown hair. Another made a very deliberate shift in his chair, bringing it closer to the bar. The man with brown hair pursued the man with blond highlights nonetheless.

“How long were you in Paris?”
--Two weeks, but it was a really full two weeks; it was as if I really lived there. I did so everything the way a native does it; I ordered real Kroy Sants every day, and real coffee, and sat leisurely at cafés. I went up the Eiffel Tower and went to the museums to soak up all the French culture. I just felt so at home there; I so know it’s the place for me; I am so going to move there.
“What did you miss most about Chicago?
--Nothing! Are you crazy? Did your brain go mal? I so want to go back as soon as I can; I loved it so much. I’ve done basically everything and seen everything here in the city. Including this bar—eugh, everyone is so tired and pretentious. I mean, look around; everyone tries to be something that they’re not, and they so haven’t been anywhere, they haven’t done anything, they so can’t back themselves up. What a bunch of poseurs.
“Have you been up in Roger’s Park?
--No, what’s up there?
“They have a really great art-deco bar that’s really French inspired. They have classical art on the walls, like stuff from the Louvers. Maybe you’d like to go there?

The man with blond highlights looked around the bar. His eyebrows furrowed in measured pain of the realization of the depressing decor, substandard lighting, and miserably American atmosphere.

--I have to pay the tab…
“I’ll take care of it. Let’s go. I’ll drive.