The Bad Morning After

Posted on by The Bad Gay

It all started out as a pretty standard evening.  “Pretty standard evening” meaning that I was drinking bourbon at a bar and hating pretty much everyone.  It’s a lifestyle.

Somehow someone looked at me in my bourbon stupor and thought “Wow, this guy fisting a double bourbon and ginger ale in one hand, and chain smoking cigarettes in the other is an ideal mate that I must talk to”.  He was fairly attractive, a doctor, and most importantly from out of town, so he quickly became Dr. Tonight.

The unfortunate part about Dr. Tonight was everything to do with the next morning.  My weekend diet of 711 taquitos, American Spirit cigarettes, and well bourbon does not equip me for cheery mornings.  In all honesty, I’m probably best described as a fire breathing haggard troll with a mild learning disability on weekend mornings.  I am not the kind of person you want to “get to know” via pillow talk on the morning after drunken coitus.

Still, Dr. Tonight decided that he needed to learn more about the troll that he had picked up from under the bridge and taken to his hotel room.  Do you have any siblings?  When did you come out to your family?  What was it like growing up in the mountains?  How long have you had your dog?  How long have you OH MY GOD SHUT THE F*CK UP!!  The only thing keeping me in place to withstand the barrage of questions was a mild-to-crippling hangover that I’m pretty sure I can collect Social Security Disability for.

After tersely answering his questioning for about 15 minutes, I had finally had enough.  “Can you shut the fuck up so I can go back to sleep?”  He thought I was joking.  “Your voice is the sound of twinks and axes being thrown around in a cement mixer.”  What about this is funny to him?  He begins telling me about his rekindled familial relationships in a post-out world, and I can tell this is the kind of story that takes three therapy sessions to get out, so I reached over and scribbled a message on the notepad on the bedside table and handed it to him.

“PLEASE STOP FUCKING TALKING”.

Oddly, I was asked to leave after that.  Yes, I’m still surprised that I’m single.

The Bad Person

Posted on by The Bad Gay

I’m talking about myself.  I am a bad person.

While out at the bar, I kept noticing one fairly attractive man staring intently at me, but never approaching me.  What kind of monster must I be that he would stare at me from across the bar, but not approach me?!  What frightening, murderous vibes must I be giving off that I don’t even warrant a hello?!

Two bourbons later, I decided to approach.  He was either going to talk to me or explain why he wouldn’t.

I ordered a roadie for the journey across the bar, practiced smiling into the mirror, and then strutted over to this aloof mystery in a manner I thought resembled Leonardo DiCaprio making an entrance into one of his grand parties in The Great Gatsby, but probably looked more like Smeagol closing in on his precious.  I made eye contact and blurted out the most vanilla introduction possible:

Hey, how’s your night going?

He gave me a frightened look, looked over his shoulder and nudged his friend.  His friend approached me like a mafia bodyguard and said:

Hey man, he’s deaf.

I don’t know what came over me at this moment.  I don’t know if I felt so invested because of all the eye fuckery that took place earlier, or if I felt some sort of guilt and needed to prove to myself that a tiny little thing like being deaf wasn’t a deal breaker for me because I AM A GOOD PERSON.

I took out my phone, opened the Notes app, and typed the same missionary sex of pickup lines.  He took the phone out of my hands and typed his response.  Communication established.  We spent the next couple of hours passing my phone back and forth at the bar in silence.  I learned that he was a spokesperson (…) for the deaf community after appearing on The Amazing Race with his mother, and realized there was no way I was getting out of this situation now without looking like the vain piece of shit my friends know me to be.  So I took him home.

Now, before you go slut shaming me, you should know that taking someone home does not always mean sex for me.  And in this case it didn’t.  However, he did stay the night.

In the morning, we woke up and continued to text each other from the same bed until he asked if he could take a shower.  I told him of course, and signaled with my hand where the bathroom was (totes nailed the sign language thing after one night).  He walked to the bathroom and I laid back down.

A minute or two later, he came back out and started moving his arms like he was having a seizure.  Seeing no other sign of physical pain, I realized he was trying to communicate with me in the absence of a phone, but I was not picking up what he was throwing down, so he Hellen Keller’ed his best “Do you have a towel?” at me, and I pushed down the outward display of my awful self and directed him to their location.  He went and showered and I took out my phone to immediately text my friend amid muffled laughs:

I brought home a deaf dude last night.  He’s so pretty, but makes the ugliest noises.

I am a bad person.  I am The Bad Gay.

The Bad Bladder

Posted on by The Bad Gay

Sometimes you cope with a failed relationship with anger.  Sometimes you cope with a pint of ice cream and a jar of tears.  Sometimes you cope by pissing in their bed and insulting them.

I chose the latter.

Last year, I was casually seeing this guy Fancy Gay™ who seemed convinced that life’s central pillars were completely superficial (fashion, appearance, reputation, etc.), which was kind of surprising given his inherent wit and intellect.  Fancy Gay™ regularly chastised me for my casual presentation, but I give a slight nod to his banter and blowjob abilities, so things ensued.

Shortly after, it became perfectly apparent that things with him weren’t going anywhere but the bedroom, so I began casually pursuing other POIs (Penises of Interest) to put a ring on my finger and bring me pizza in bed.  I kept Fancy Gay™ around for a bit, but decided it best to cut that bitch off. #kcamp

Now, I’m pretty awkward to begin with.  I’m that guy that doesn’t know how to respond to a “hello”, so I dance a hoedown à la Ashlee Simpson.  Just imagine how I react to a compliment.  Or seeing someone in public that I used to be inside.

It’s uncomfortable.

After months of avoidance behavior, Fancy Gay™ and I found ourselves in the precarious situation of having newly overlapping social circles, so Fancy Gay™ suggested that we be friends.  I told him that didn’t interest me.  Still, we continually found ourselves in each other’s company until one drunken night when we went home together.

Honestly, I’m not even sure how it happened.  One minute I’m at the bar, and the next I’m laying next to him in his bed in the middle of the night.  As cognition kicked in, I took in the entirety of my surroundings: we were both naked, my hair was wet, and there were no sheets on his bed.  Instantly, I began ridiculing him for not having sheets on his bed and calling him trash.

However, as it turns out, the reason there were no sheets on his bed was because I pissed all over them.  ALL over them.  So badly he removed the layers of linens and tossed them to the bottom of the stairs before demanding a shower I don’t remember.

I am the bad hookup.

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Oops I Did It Again…

Posted on by The Bad Gay

…I chased another person away.  I’m batting a thousand over here.

I had met this guy recently, and after he willingly kissed me and expressed the slightest amount of interest, my crazy a$$ was picturing Saturday morning breakfasts in bed, accidental sunset strolls along the water, and vacations in Europe.  Then I was reminded of something I too often forget: they all run after 2 dates.  So after two great interactions, there was a weekend lull in conversation, followed by “bud” and “pal” qualifiers that immediately read “friend zone”.

I’ll admit, I was a little shocked and upset, but more than anything I was in need of a distraction to avoid the deluge of anxious and psychotic thoughts that were building up behind the cracking dam, so I went out, and I went out on a mission.  Now, I am not one to be “on the prowl”.  I find the whole thing uncomfortable and borderline creepy, but I was convinced that the fastest way to get over someone is to get behind someone else.  I ended up spotting this one particularly tall guy that I set as my target, and after numbing my anxious core, I approached.  Anyway, fast forward to him leaving in the morning and giving me his number only for me to realize it had already been programmed in my phone.  Where had I met this one before?  The mystery was intriguing.

That weekend, I decided I needed to solve this mystery in the style of a slutty Angela Lansbury, so I reached out and planned to meet up.  As soon as plans were made, my flesh started burning under my skin and I was sweating.  As alarming as that may sound, that is my normal reaction to anything that doesn’t involve shutting myself off from the world, so self-medication was in order.  Bourbon neat, PRN.  I ended up taking so much medication that my memory of meeting up with him, going to a few bars, going to a diner, and then going back to his place is all pretty hazy.

Anyway, after a brief fast forward, we finally arrive at the crowning moment.  I demanded cold Chinese food, so made him order me a combo dish and put it in his fridge while I went back to sleep.  Upon waking, we decided to eat our cold nomz and watch a movie, but it wasn’t until almost the end of the movie that I remembered why I don’t eat Chinese food around boys: I get gassy.  After a solid 20 minutes of holding in the flood gates, I couldn’t clench my sphincter tight enough to hold it in, so out came the sound of a baritone trumpet echoing off the walls.  I laughed uncomfortably, which, of course, released the gas kraken remaining and a series of notes forming an orchestral sound in his small apartment.  As the auditory beauty died, the olfactory tragedy took hold and singed my nose hairs.  I was marinating in an ass-idic nightmare.  As bad as it may have been for me, the resident of the gas chamber started gagging and ran to his bathroom and started dry heaving.  I took that as my cue to leave and started putting on my clothes.  As he exited the bathroom, I was just putting on my jacket and looked over to see a look of pain and fear on his face, so I said the only thing that could be said in this situation: 

I need to go home because your apartment smells like shit.

And still don’t know where we first met.

Annnd still single.

Thoughts While Swiping Tinder

Posted on by The Bad Gay

“Eat something.”

“Stop eating so much.”

“Where did all of your hair go?”

“Do you always smile like that?”

“What in the hell happened to your eyebrows?”

“Ugh.  Cargo shorts.”

“You’re cute, but you’re too much of a nugget for me.”

“Oh dear god.  Accidental like.  A match?!  Quick!  Unmatch!”

“You’ve reached your selfie limit, so you’re moving left.”

“That guy is in EVERY picture.  Are y’all just looking for a third or are you still crazy mode over your ex?”

“Your grammar is moving you left, sir.”

“What?  What even are you?”

“Oh cool.  Another female.  Another liberal f*ck who refuses to put their gender on Facebook.”

“Oh I like this one.  No match?  I’ll check back every hour for the next 2 weeks.”

  
 

The Bad Date

Posted on by The Bad Gay

If there’s one thing I’m really good at, it’s being bad at dating.  As if I’m not a completely anxious person to begin with, let’s add in non-verbal communication (read: mental f*ckery), test anxiety (and let’s be real, EVERY DATE IS A TEST), and my complete lack of know-how of what constitutes a date/when I pay for the date/how to act on a date/how to be a human.  It’s not pretty.

Take Saturday, for example.

I was scheduled to hang out with a guy that I’d gone on a previous date with.  He seemed funny, intelligent, and like he had most of his sh*t together, so a second date sounded like a good idea.  Weary of possible inclement weather that had caused us to reschedule a previous date, we decided to push off any actual planning of said date until the day of.  You know, because that’s always a great idea.

So Saturday came around and the weather was calling for a good chance of Thunderstorms throughout the afternoon, so we decided to see Trainwreck in University City, and planned on meeting at Rittenhouse Park at 3:30 to walk over together.  Then I discovered how ass-sweating hot it was, and I know how much of a disgusting sweat monster I am.  Still, I thought I might be able to hold it together long enough to seek refuge in an air conditioned movie theater.  That didn’t happen.  After meeting up with my date and walking 2-3 blocks, I looked like Gilbert Grape’s mom after she climbed upstairs at the end of the movie.  Upon crossing the river, I looked like I just competed in a wet t-shirt contest.  By the time we arrived at the movie theater, I looked like I went skinny dipping, but in the way in which you completely fail because you have all of your clothes on, so then you look like that fat kid at the pool that swims with his shirt on.

There was really no coming back from that.  I spent most of the movie trying to dry my clothes while still wearing them and fearing he would try to hold my hand or show some other physical expression of interest as I dripped sweat all around my seat. Luckily, he didn’t, and continued to avoid any physical contact with me throughout dinner, throughout post-dinner drinks, throughout dessert, and throughout post-dessert drinks.  I really can’t blame him.

Despite his complete disinterest in getting anywhere near me, we seemed to have great conversation and banter throughout the 9 hour date.  We spoke about previous employment experiences, sibling relationships, unexpected mutual friends, hobbies and interests, and peppered jokes and colorful quips throughout.  “Couldn’t possibly be going all that poorly”, I thought.  “Maybe he can see through my sweat and internal tears to the witty person I pretend to be.  Maybe there will be a third date.”

Having to get up fairly early in the morning, I walked him home shortly after midnight, and figured I’d go in for a kiss despite the physical image I’d fostered for myself from the beginning of our date.  The kiss felt weird.  Like I was attacking his face and he was politely obliging.  Shaken, but not quite stirred, I sent a brief text saying that I had a good time and such, and I even included an emoji to make him think that I may be capable of having feelings.

The response:

I’m just sensitive to a fault and can only handle so much sarcastic criticism…

I learned that during the course of our banter, he said “Whatever, I’m just like Miley Cyrus and I can’t be tamed.”  To which I responded “Well, judging by this date, you can’t be interesting, either.”

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#thisiswhyimsingle